Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror)

by Saul, Jonas

  Mr. Walsh’s hand came away from her mouth and nose. Breathing was even more difficult than before. It seemed like the one bulb in the basement went out for Kramer.

  Kramer regained consciousness as she was being loaded onto a stretcher. An officer was standing over her.

  Bruce.

  “What happened?” she managed to ask.

  “We got ‘em, thanks to you. You’re going to make it. You’ll be okay.”

  “Got who?” she asked, her own voice sounding miles away. “You mean, Mr. Walsh?”

  Bruce nodded. “You didn’t show for dinner. The great Kramer would never stand me up. I figured you’d come to the Walsh house, so I thought I’d do a drive-by tonight. I found your car parked a block down. The engine was cold when I touched the hood. It set off my internal radar. When I came to the door, Mrs. Walsh was acting weird. Then I heard someone screaming from the basement. I asked to check it out but Mrs. Walsh said no. I called for backup and explained that I had probable cause and entered the house anyway. I cuffed Mrs. Walsh and then got startled and fired my weapon by mistake. I found you in the basement.”

  A paramedic stepped forward and tried to push Bruce away. “Sir, we have to get her to the hospital.”

  Kramer lifted her good hand and touched Bruce’s arm. He turned back.

  She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  “What? What are you trying to tell me?” Bruce asked.

  “The …” she waited, breathed in, cringed with the pain, and said, “wall.”

  “The wall? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Kramer nodded.

  “What about the wall? Is there something in the wall?”

  Kramer nodded.

  Bruce went to ask something and then stopped. He stared down the street, then looked back at her.

  “Is Kelly in the wall?”

  Kramer nodded.

  “Okay.” He looked at the paramedic. “Take her away and bring her back in one piece. Nothing happens to this one, you hear?”

  Kramer was lifted into the back of the waiting ambulance, where Kelly sat beside her all the way to the hospital, smiling and mouthing the words, Thank you.

  The Painting

  Matt kept his hands below the table so his wife wouldn’t see how much they shook. In order to eat, he brought them up, sliced another piece of meat, dipped it in the steak sauce, and then dropped them out of sight again.

  It would be too uncomfortable to be questioned about the source of his anxiety.

  After empty conversation, Matt left his salad on the plate, stood, and placed his dishes on the counter—to his relief, without dropping or breaking anything. He told Fran that he’d do the dishes while she was out on her evening run. Then he retired to his office.

  After twenty minutes, he heard Fran getting ready to take her evening jog along the nature trails in the woods behind their house. It had never occurred to him before why she would run right after dinner each night.

  Maybe she’s not running. Maybe it’s just a fast walk.

  A buzz of energy passed through him when he entered his den. He looked up at the picture hanging on the wall.

  That damned picture.

  He willed the painting to move like it did yesterday. He was sure he’d seen it actually move. The water in the creek had been running, the trees billowing softly in the imaginary breeze that traveled through the painted landscape. He tried to convince himself that what he’d seen the previous night had to be an illusion. Pictures that hung on the walls of people’s homes didn’t have moving parts or double as a TV screen. At least this one didn’t … until last night.

  He had bought it for five dollars at a garage sale two years ago. What impressed him about it was the deer sipping the creek’s water, and the trail behind the deer. It looked like the trail behind his house. It was so close a replica in fact, that guests over the years had commented on it, wondering if it was a landscape painting of out back. Many times Matt had wanted to tell them it was, just to mess with them.

  He turned away from it and crossed the small room where he sat in his leather armchair, which was still close enough to be able to watch the painting for any sign of movement.

  The previous evening while sipping his scotch, he’d felt the same buzz of energy in the air. When he looked around to see what had changed, the painting was moving. The creek ran through the center of the canvas, flowing into the frame. Upon closer inspection, the leaves lolled slowly, and after a few moments of staring, Matt felt himself being physically pulled into the landscape.

  He’d rubbed his eyes, checked how much scotch he’d had, and looked again. The painting was a still image once more.

  The telephone had rung, forcefully yanking him back to the here and now. The call went unanswered as he’d needed a few moments to collect himself. For reasons unknown, the painting that hung in his den for years had transfixed him hypnotically.

  Now, sitting before the canvas with his wife out jogging, just as last night, Matt stared at the picture from his reading chair. A part of him wasn’t just nervous. He felt fear, too. Would it repeat itself? What was its purpose? Was the house haunted or just the picture? Could a picture actually be haunted?

  After ten minutes of intense scrutiny, Matt looked away, assuring himself that nothing as ridiculous as a moving picture was going to happen tonight. A feeling of foolishness made him frown.

  What the hell am I doing? Sitting in my chair, waiting for a painting to move?

  He looked around for something to read. The new Koontz novel sat on his desk. He grabbed it, flipped to the bookmark’s location and stared at the words.

  A noise startled him. It sounded like someone was yelling his wife’s name. Goosebumps covered his arms as he sat still, trying to hear the voice again.

  He edged forward and then stood from his chair.

  The silence around him was absolute, the house empty. The proverbial pin could drop in another room and he’d hear it.

  Then the picture moved.

  The deer that had sat idle for years lifted its head, and looked to the right. Startled by something, it turned the other way, and bounded out of the picture.

  Matt felt his heart rate spike as his eyes widened.

  Am I going crazy?

  A man shouted Fran’s name again. This time Matt could tell it came from the picture. It was like he was viewing a widescreen TV that he’d hooked up on the wall. Only, it wasn’t a TV. It was a five-dollar picture from a garage sale.

  A man stepped into the scene and walked to the edge of the creek. The man stopped about a dozen feet from where the deer had been.

  Matt recognized him. It was Charlie Houghton, his ex-business partner. Their small pizza business had gone under in the last year as a large corporate pizza company moved into the neighborhood. Two months ago they’d severed ties. Matt hadn’t seen Charlie in at least six weeks, but he easily recognized the walk, the way he swaggered like a 70s car salesman with too much jewelry around his neck.

  What the hell am I watching? Better yet, why am I seeing this?

  Charlie called out Fran’s name again.

  His wife slowly entered the picture by the right side of the frame. She walked up to Charlie, they embraced and kissed a long, deep, sensuous kiss.

  She wore her normal jogging suit.

  Without realizing what he was doing, Matt shouted her name. He watched as they yanked away from each other.

  “What was that?” Fran asked.

  Charlie shook his head and scanned the area. “I have no idea. It sounded like Matt.” He turned to look Fran in the eye. “Could he have followed you?”

  “No way. I jogged here. He can’t run, the fat fuck.”

  They shared a laugh. Then they were kissing again.

  Matt watched, stunned into silence now. After a long moment, they pulled away from each other.

  The creek water entered the painting on the right and oozed through the landscape, exiting on the left.

  M
att was past disbelieving. He had lost all doubt. Whatever he was witnessing had some psychic quality to it.

  “Are you going to be able to do it this time?” Charlie asked.

  Fran pulled away and looked down at the ground. She kicked at a pebble and then glanced back at Charlie.

  “Yes,” she said. “I told you I would.”

  “But this is your sixth time. You’ve told me six different times that you would do it. You have to understand that this erodes my sense of trust and commitment.”

  Fran nodded. “I understand. But you can count on me. I love you. I will not let you down.” She stepped back to Charlie and grabbed his lapel. Staring him in the eyes, she said, “I will do it tomorrow night. When we meet out here again, Matt will be already dying and soon after, dead.”

  Matt gasped and covered his open mouth.

  “Good, because getting my hands on ricin is seriously hard. We had to find something that the body metabolizes so no toxicology reports will ever detect what killed him. Also, it’s so uncommon that when he gets to the hospital, the doctors will identify it too late, if at all, and won’t have a clue how to treat him.”

  “I promise,” Fran said, and then kissed Charlie again. “Tomorrow night. I’ll make lasagna, his favorite dish. He can’t resist eating extra when it’s lasagna.”

  Charlie stepped away from her and crossed his arms like a scorned little boy. Matt watched as he dipped his head and raised his right eyebrow.

  “Are you serious this time? This is it? No more excuses?”

  Fran nodded.

  “I need to hear it.”

  “I will murder my husband tomorrow night. You have my word.” She held up her hand as if swearing on a Bible.

  Matt clenched his hands into fists and rested them firmly on the filing cabinet under the painting.

  “Until then,” Charlie said.

  They embraced and kissed, long and sensuously. After separating, Fran and Charlie walked backwards, staring at each other as if they were about to duel.

  Then Charlie said something that caused Fran to pause and Matt to punch the metal cabinet his fists rested on.

  “Do this, Fran. Do it right. For us. After tomorrow, there will be no going back. You prove to me your love in this action. Don’t do it, and I’ll know who you really are. Understand?”

  Fran lingered near the edge of the frame. She nodded at Charlie.

  Charlie turned and walked away. Fran stood a moment longer and then disappeared past the frame of the painting.

  Exhausted, angry, and scared, Matt turned away from the picture and sat back in his chair. He blew out a long breath and tried to think.

  He dropped his face into his hands and wept as his emotions overcame him. His partner had deceived him. His wife had cheated on him. Everything he knew was a lie. And now she planned on killing him—tomorrow night.

  He rubbed his eyes and tried to stop crying. When Fran came home he couldn’t have bloodshot eyes. He wiped harder to clear the wet, salty proof. When he had looked up, the deer was back in the picture. The creek had stopped moving. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

  He poured himself a double scotch, sat down in his armchair, and stared up at the ceiling to think. He needed to do something.

  Slowly a plan came together.

  Matt smiled to himself.

  He would show them.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  For the last hour, Fran had been in the kitchen making their dinner. She had told him that not only was she making lasagna, but that she was adding a new Italian cheese called ricotta instead of cottage cheese. Because it was a new recipe, he had been banned from the kitchen for the last hour.

  But now it was ready.

  Dead man walking, he said to himself as he started for the kitchen.

  The smell was incredible. He was going to miss this. When everything was said and done, he would probably have to learn how to cook lasagna for himself.

  He entered the kitchen and took a long, deep breath.

  “Wow, that smells amazing.”

  Fran turned to him and smiled. “It is. I think you’re really going to love the ricotta.”

  He was elated to see she had used the glass casserole dish. Without it, his plan would be more difficult to execute.

  “Bring your plate over so I can serve you,” Fran said.

  “Nope. Not tonight.”

  Matt stepped over and grabbed a hot plate. He tossed it on the table without looking at Fran’s reaction.

  How dare you try to kill me? You’re nothing now. I don’t care if you stare. I don’t care if you wonder what I’m doing. Fuck you, if you think you have the upper hand.

  He grabbed the oven mitts and picked up the lasagna pan.

  “We’ll put this baby right on the table so I can easily grab seconds and thirds without having to leave my chair.”

  Fran nodded and moved out of his way, no doubt happy that he would be a willing victim.

  Matt stepped toward the table, fumbled the dish, and tripped, tossing the lasagna in the air. Fran shouted behind him. He hit the ground and rolled away from the flying glass as the lasagna pan erupted on impact with the marble kitchen floor. Meat and pasta were pierced with chunks of Pyrex.

  Food ruined. Mission accomplished.

  Matt got to his feet and feigned regret. He hugged Fran and thanked her for the effort involved in making such a dish, even though it repulsed him greatly to touch her knowing what her plan had been.

  “We’ll order Chinese or pizza. I’m so sorry.”

  An hour and a half later, the pizza finished, Fran said she was heading out for her evening run.

  Matt only nodded. He didn’t want to talk to her anymore.

  She got changed, put on her running shoes, and slammed the door when she left.

  He got up and ran to his den. To steady his hands and calm his nerves, he poured a scotch and sat in his armchair. The picture was as it should be. Everything remained intact. Nothing moved.

  He waited. He drank more scotch and stared. Still nothing.

  Matt finished his beverage and got out of the chair. With each step forward he waited to see the picture animate, but it didn’t. He stood one foot from the landscape and waited, both hands placed open palmed on the top of the metal filing cabinet.

  The river started first. Then the deer got spooked and bolted off. Charlie entered the painting from the left, Fran from the right.

  “You didn’t do it, did you?” Charlie asked.

  Even from his vantage point in the den, Matt saw the look of failure on Fran’s face.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she pleaded. “He was carrying the lasagna to the table and tripped. The Pyrex shattered on the floor, ruining the dish.” She looked down at her shoes. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Her head snapped up. “What did you say?”

  “You’re lying. This was your seventh attempt. If you really wanted to kill your husband to be with me, you’d have done it by now. I’ve waited too long for this charade to play out. Goodbye.”

  Charlie turned away from her and started to walk off the landscape.

  Fran ran after him. She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket and spun him around.

  “How dare you!” Fran screamed.

  It sounded as if she was in the same room.

  “You said you loved me,” Fran said. “I was willing to kill my husband for you and you have the audacity to just walk away. How dare you?”

  “You weren’t killing your husband for me. Let’s be clear on that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fran asked, her voice rising to a shriek, one Matt had heard numerous times. “What was I doing it for then?” She stepped back and crossed her arms.

  “You were doing it because you are a stupid bitch. I have manipulated you from day one.”

  Fran shook her head and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “With your husband dead, not only do I get
to fuck his wife for a while, I also get his half of our little business venture as agreed upon when we started up, in the advent of a death. After a month I would explain to the authorities what you had done and that you’d just told me all about it out of guilt. You’d be arrested and I wouldn’t have to deal with you anymore. See what I mean, you’re a stupid bitch.”