Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories
Page 19
Yes, someone was having fun at my expense. I knew this on some level, or wanted to know this. Except I couldn’t stop the fear coursing through me.
A horror movie, I thought. I’ve stepped into a horror movie. Scream 8, or whatever the hell number they’re on.
I had just enough sense left in me to reach for my cell phone. Who I was going to call, I didn’t know. The police. Rachel. An insane asylum. Anyone, anything.
And now, to my horror, I saw the thing on the other side of the window reaching for something. My window, I saw, was partially open. I had three choices: slam the window shut, call 911 or get the hell out of there.
I did none of those.
Instead, I wet myself.
I felt the urine flow down the inside of my leg, warming me as it went. Mostly I ignored it. Instead, I watched as four bony fingers reached inside my window, tapping lightly on the metal and glass. The hand paused there, then began opening my window, wider and wider, all while my urine flowed.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
I’m dreaming. I’m asleep on my desk. Or in my bed. Maybe I’m high. Maybe I dropped acid today. Granted, I don’t take acid, but maybe I did today.
I dropped my phone next.
I needed to sit. I was losing control of my body. First my bladder, my fingers and now my legs.
Jesus, this isn’t happening.
The window continued to open, now wide enough for a man to step through. And that’s exactly what happened.
Except it was no man.
It was a skeleton in a robe.
It stepped lithely through the window, smooth and effortlessly. Like a gymnast. Like something not of this world.
Now the robed figure was in my room and moving toward me and that’s when I saw the scythe. He was holding it in his right hand. His right bony hand.
It’s Death, I thought.
It’s Death, I tried to scream.
Except I couldn’t scream because Death’s other hand had now reached for my throat...and was closing slowly, slowly...I tried to scream.
I needed air.
Sweet Jesus, I needed air.
* * *
I sat up at my desk, gasping.
I leaped up, spinning, searching. My window was closed. There was no one in my room, especially not a robed figure reaching for my throat.
I looked at my pants. No pee, either.
Thank God.
I sat down again and ran my hand through my hair and looked at my trig books still in my backpack.
I had forgotten one other pre-study ritual.
My pre-study nap.
The End
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The Santa Call
“Kris, from ‘Up North,’ you’re on the air with Stephen Bright, the Love Doctor.”
“Um, hello?”
“Yes, hello, Kris. What can we do for you today?”
“Well, I guess I’m having a bit of a love problem.”
“Of course you are, Kris. That’s why you called the Love Doctor. But let’s keep this moving along, okay? There’re lots of unhappy folks during this holiday season, and the lines are full—”
“Well, it’s about my wife.”
“Ah, the wifey. Always a minefield, Kris. Always a minefield. How can I help you?”
“Well, it appears she left me.”
“Ouch! Okay, now we’re getting somewhere! Why did she leave you, Kris?”
“The note said something about me not giving her enough attention.”
“Is this true, Kris?”
“Yes, I suppose so—but you have to understand that I’m a very busy man.”
“Aren’t we all, Kris, aren’t we all. Now, how can I help you?”
“I’m not really sure. I just need someone to talk to.”
“Someone to talk to, I see. As in a friend?”
“Yes, a friend.”
“Then hang up and find a friend’s shoulder to cry on, Kris, instead of wasting my time! Okay, let’s move on to our next caller—someone who might actually have a question for the Love Doctor. I went to Cornell people. Cornell! I’m not your friend, people. Get that straight. I’m a licensed psychologist. I have answers. Real answers. Okay, okay. I’m calm. Rick in Pasadena, you’re on the air with Stephen Bright the Love—”
“It’s still me, Love Doctor. You know, Kris from Up North.”
“What? Vern! Vern! Where’s that blasted station manager when you need him. There he is! Vern, don’t hide from me, dammit. How the hell did Kris skip from line three to line twenty-five?”
“Leave Vern alone, Love Surgeon. You’ve always been a bully your whole life. Time to ease up. Time to relax. Hey, it’s Christmas after all. Mostly, it’s not nice to hang up on an old man.”
“I didn’t hang up on you, Kris old boy. Our conversation was over, just like it is now—Eddie, you’re on the air with Stephen Bright the Love Doctor....Eddie, you there?”
“Still me, Love Doctor.”
“Kris? Ugh! Vern, break to a commercial!”
“Sorry, Stephen. The switchboard and control panel have gone nuts. All phone lines are down except for this one call you’re on. I’m sorry to say that for the time being we’re not only stuck on the air but we’re stuck with this one call.”
“Good Lord, this isn’t happening.”
“Oh, but it is, Love Doctor. Now, can we talk about my problem?”
“Oh, God.”
“Don’t sound so distraught, Love Doctor. Yes, I’m still here, and I still have my problem, and now you have a problem, too. Maybe we both can help each other out in the end.”
“Fine. You win, Kris. This is your big chance. Spill your guts.”
“Where should I begin, Love Doctor?”
“From the beginning, Kris.”
“Yes, okay, from the beginning. Well, I was born in a magical forest far in the north, where I was raised by both animals and fairies alike. It would be many years before I would lay eyes on another human—”
“Kris, hold on a sec. Maybe not that far back. On second thought, what the hell were you just talking about?”
“That I’d grown up in a magical forest. Oh, I forgot to mention that my parents were killed in a ferocious winter storm—”
“Kris?”
“Yes, Love Doctor?”
“Please tell me you’re an old frat buddy pulling my leg.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Vern! Break to a commercial!”
“Sorry, Stephen, nothing’s working except your mic and this single phone line. We’re trying our best to fix—”
“See that you do, dammit! And, meanwhile, get Rachel Ocean in here for a weather update—”
“Haven’t you heard, Stephen?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s snowing in Los Angeles. Rachel Ocean and dozens of other meteorologists are on the scene.”
“Snow? In L.A.?”
“Afraid so.”
“This isn’t happening. Not to me. Is there any chance I’m dreaming or drunk?”
“Not this time, Stephen.”
“Lord, I can’t buy a break. Okay, Kris. It looks like it’s just you and me. Lord help me. Where are you calling from anyway?”
“Los Angeles, but I’m from a land called The Ice at the End of the World, or more commonly, the North Pole.”
“The North Pole?”
“Yes.”
“As in Santa Claus?”
“Yes, you got it.”
“As in Kris...Kringle?”
“You got it, Love Doctor, although my true name is, in fact, Sinterklaas.”
“Good God, help me.”
“Of course, I hadn’t planned on revealing myself on-air, as I prefer to keep a low profile, but I’m a desperate man. You’re my last hope, Love Doctor.”
“Someone shoot me now. Vern, what’s going on with these phone lines?”
“Still down, Stephen.�
��
“This is a bloody nightmare. Okay, Kris or Sinterklaas or whatever the hell your name is, you were saying something about me being your last hope.”
“Well, not to put too much pressure on you, Love Doctor, but you’re also Christmas’s last hope, too.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Mrs. Claus was the glue that held everything together, you see.”
“I don’t see. The glue? The glue to what? And did you just say Mrs. Claus?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t happening.”
“Oh, but it is. And, yes, she’s the glue to my whole operation. To all of Christmas, actually. Sure, I was the face of the company, so to speak, but Damme de Winter truly ran the show. Now, with her gone, the elves won’t listen to me and everything is behind schedule—and Christmas is just around the corner. Heck, there’s even talk of an elf revolt.”
“An elf revolt?”
“Yes. Total anarchy.”
“So what in God’s name do you want me to do, Kris?”
“Help me figure out how to win back the heart of my one true love.”
“You want my best advice, Kris?”
“Yes, Love Doctor. It’s why I called you. I’m proud to see that you developed into a truly a gifted counselor—that is, when you’re not being, pardon my Icelandic, an ass.”
“Icelandic? God help me. My advice to you, Kris is this: Hang up and get some serious psychological help.”
“As much as that might be the case, I don’t have time for that.”
“Let me guess: because Christmas hangs in the balance?”
“Yes, you got it, Love Surgeon.”
“I thought you’d say that. So why did Mrs. Claus leave you?”
“Because I’m a horrible husband, that’s why.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to ask this...but why are you a horrible husband?”
“I’m glad you asked, Love Surgeon. See? I knew you had it in you. You might be all blustery on the surface, but I know you have a heart of gold underneath.”
“Kris...”
“Right, right. Well, it all began two weeks ago when I attended the annual Immortality and Faerie Convention in Iceland. It’s a lot of fun and a great opportunity to catch up with old friends—and to get drunk off your gizzard.”
“Santa gets drunk?”
“Drunk on love.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, when I returned home from the convention, Mrs. Claus was quite gone.”
“Gone? Why did she leave you?”
“Apparently I had, well, forgotten to bring her, you see.”
“Holy cow, Kris. How could you forget to bring your wife?”
“My bad. I could’ve sworn she was with me. I swear this. Why, I even thought we’d had a pleasant conversation during the sleigh-ride over Greenland. But it wasn’t until late Sunday afternoon, with the convention nearly over and me suffering my usual hangover—an abundance of love always does that to me—that I realized she wasn’t with me. I dashed home only to discover she’d packed up and left—to where, I know not. However, knowing her penchant for California beaches, I came down here on a fool’s hunt for my beloved wife. Oh, I love Damme de Winter with all my heart, Love Surgeon, and I am lost without her. Christmas is lost without her! Please, Love Doctor, tell me what should I do!”
“Do you tell your wife you love her?”
“Every day, I swear this. Well, every day that I’m not in the workshops.”
“With the elves?”
“Yes, the elves.”
“And how often are you in the workshop?”
“Well, every day—oh, Lord, I’m a miserable husband!”
“No you’re not, Kris. You’re a typical husband. But that’s not good enough. You need to be a great husband. You need to let her know that she’s your top priority, Kris.”
“Good point, Love Surgeon! Yes, I’ll admit that I’ve been putting work first. It’s heck keeping up with all these new gizmos out there. Our Xbox division alone is working overtime.”
“We’re sticking with Santa charade, huh? Okay, fine. Kris, try putting her first, as often as you can. Treasure her and everything she brings to your relationship. And, for the love of God, don’t leave her behind next time.”
“You’re a good man, Love Doctor. I’m especially proud of—”
“What’s that, Vern? We’ve now got two lines working? Hell yeah! Goodbye, Kris, and good riddance—you flippin’ nutcase! Put her through, Vern.”
“She’s through now, Stephen.”
“Oh, thank God! You’re on the air with Stephen Bright the Love Doctor.”
“I’m on the air?”
“Yes, ma’am, you are.”
“Is this the Love Doctor?”
“Yes, ma’am, you’re talking to the one and only Love Doctor.”
“Good! How dare you speak to my husband that way, you ungrateful little man!”
“Let me guess...Mrs. Claus?”
“You bet your arse it’s Mrs. Claus. Never, never have I heard such disrespect for my dear husband. How dare you hang up on him, you mean little man! To think my loving, hard-working husband actually admired you—”
“Go easy on him, Damme. Believe it or not, he spoke words of wisdom. Words I needed to hear again.”
“Sinterklaas!”
“Yes, the one and only.”
“But I thought he hung up on you!”
“Oh, he could never hang up on me, my love. And I’m glad you found your way through their, ho-ho, downed phone lines.”
“Did you have something to do with that?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You sly devil.”
“Only sometimes, love. Damme?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I know you do, you stinker.”
“I promise to make it up to you.”
“Oh, I know you will.”
“I was a fool for taking you for granted. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course, my sugar bear.”
“That’s my girl! Ho-ho! Now, would you care to accompany me to dinner tonight?”
“Ooh, I would love that!”
“I know of a little restaurant deep in the Hollywood hills, by a magical oak tree. There’s an old elf there who makes the world’s greatest corn chowder.”
“Sounds delightful! But how will I find you, dear?”
“That’s easy, Damme. Just look to the left of the moon and wish with all your heart—”
“Or I could just call you on your cell.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Let’s hang up here, honey buns. I think we’ve given these people enough of a show. Besides, we have Christmas to save.”
“As always you are most correct. Oh, and Love Doctor, I want to thank you again for all your help.”
“You’re, um, welcome Kris.”
Click. Click.
“Are they gone, Vern?”
“Yes, Stephen.”
“Did she just call him honey buns?”
“Yes she did, Stephen.”
“I need alcohol, and lots of it. This is Stephen Bright the Love Doctor, and I’m out.”
* * *
The security guard’s eyes snapped open. He unlaced his fingers from behind his head and sat forward, momentarily disoriented.
He blinked once or twice until he remembered he was at work. He had dreamed, of all things, that Santa Claus had called his favorite radio show.
Chuckling quietly to himself, the old guard got up from his desk and began making his rounds. His first stop was at the office building’s front door. And there, as he gazed through the smoky glass, he saw something he would not soon forget.
He had lived in Los Angeles all his adult life, and never had he seen snow. Until now.
It was everywhere. Covering cars and sidewalks and streets.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The End
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Halloween Moon
I was watching Judge Judy.
I’ve always been drawn to strong women. I think most women are drawn to such women, too. In a world often dominated by men, it’s always nice to see one strong woman reduce a man to tears. Any man. Then again, I might have something against some men.
Not all men, I thought, as I idly stitched a hole in the armpit of Anthony’s new shirt. Just the cheaters.
Next to me was a pair of shorts with a hole in the crotch. The shorts might not be salvageable, but I would do my best. The problem was Anthony. The kid was growing fast—and he was damn hard on his clothes. Probably no harder than other boys on their clothes.
Then again, my boy also had a dash of vampire in him.
More than a dash.
The thought, once again, made me sick to my stomach, and I worried all over again about what I’d done.
Let it go, I thought, as I tied off the thread, and clipped the ends easily with my freakishly long fingernails.
Just as Judge Judy was reducing an eBay con artist into a sputtering idiot—and just as I was feeling good again—my doorbell rang.
This was curious for two reasons: one, my doorbell didn’t work and, two, there was no one standing at my door.
It was midday. I would soon be leaving to pick up my kids. The laundry was folded and the dishes were done and the carpet was vacuumed. The house was silent. The calm before the storm. The storm being, of course, my two kids.
And as I stood there looking out through my open door, as the sun angled in and touched my eternally cold skin, doing its best to warm it and failing miserably, something slowly, slowly began to materialize before my eyes.
Had I not been what I was, I might have panicked. Might have freaked, in fact. But these days, these very, very strange days, I had often seen such manifestations and knew them to be spirits.
Ghosts.
Lord, my life is weird.
The entity that was appearing in my doorway, shimmering in the golden light of the sun, was smallish. Perhaps it was only able to partially manifest...or perhaps it was something else.
A child, I thought.