Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  There were cuts all over me. My wrists, my stomach, my chest–all crossed with long ripped marks. Blood stained everywhere.

  More knocking. Someone calling hello–calling my name. Was it a man or woman? I couldn't tell.

  Splinterette. I called her name, but she seemed lost to me. The blue light seen in her eyes went out.

  Her body crumbled, its pieces crashing around me. Her head was the last to fall, and it did– directly on my chest.

  I couldn't believe it. She was gone, so quickly, and with such little fanfare. There were pieces of her around me. I held onto the two of her branches, one in each hand. The tips of the roots were pointed, sharp, and glistened with some sort of moisture. Her head, on my chest, looked just like any other piece of wood, broken or fallen from a tree. The once refined and exquisite features had turned rough and bumpy. Undistinguished.

  Footsteps. Someone came up my stairs. "Hello?"

  Was it my Sabrina?

  No. It was a man's voice. I saw him poke his head around the corner.

  I t couldn't have looked good. Not one bit. I held two sharp sticks, and bled heavily from several places around my body: my wrists, my stomach, and my chest.

  "You okay?" the man said. I saw frost in his beard. “There was so much blood outside.” He paused, looked me over, and said, “Oh my God.”

  * * *

  I did not wake in the hospital, or startle from a dream in an asylum, all with a hurried gasp like you see in the movies. Instead I woke slowly and realized I was stuck inside the prism of my own hell–created out of the home I’d shared with Sabrina. Memories were my keepers. So many memories? Gone. All that mattered was lost.

  * * *

  All is now empty. Sabrina’s gone. Splinterette is gone, too.

  My new friend Phil, a neighbor from two houses away, looks after me. He binds my wounds, cleans my bed, and makes sure my trying something so stupid is never going to cross my mind again. That's what he says, at least. I do my best to make him believe.

  Of course, I agree, because soon spring will come.

  New snow erased the trail of blood. Then the spring rain will wash away any final clues. Summer will bake the ground and new grass will grow. Leaves will once again turn, and the air will chill. Next winter, I will venture into the snowfield once again, calling, searching, and finding my Splinterette. When I do, I’ll hold her hand, and together we’ll walk into the pale of the Calistoga woods and disappear into the great white nothing.

  The End.

  The Monster

  by Joseph W. Miles

  Joe Miles was born on January 12, 1961 in Augusta, Georgia. Always fascinated with the unknown, he became a fan of horror movies and books early in life and even created a mini torture chamber out of Legos (R). At about the age of 13 he had a friend whose pet guinea pig had died, and she believed that cleaning the rodent's cage would coax the critter's spirit back during the night if only for an instant. That night, while his friend was sleeping, Joe messed the cage up in classic guinea pig fashion and then returned to bed. He was awakened the next day by an ecstatic friend standing over him yelling "G.P. came back!!" He never told her differently.

  Joe has written one novel, several poems, and many short stories, most of which are included in his collection, Machinations - 11 Tales of Death and Despair. Considering all things past, Joe has managed to raise two beautiful daughters and live a seemingly normal life with his equally beautiful wife Debra. There are no guinea pigs, but there is one Yorkie, a "Schneagle," and one cat named Minx that was rescued from the brink of death as a kitten.

  The thunder rumbled again.

  Only this time it rattled every piece of Franklin Mint that Joyce displayed in the curio that stood in the corner, illuminated and sparkling. Pewter dragons and wizards basked in the aesthetic light of a single incandescent bulb, which, like a summer afternoon in some distant fantasy world, blazed through shelf after glass shelf. It was a showcase, and the only thing of any value in the entire singlewide trailer that she and her husband Rick owned. Times had been very hard for them, financially, but they were working on that; the bills were caught up and their credit was finally on the mend after several years of struggling and doing without.

  Little Caleb sat on Joyce’s lap, tucking his face into his mother’s bosom as she sat and watched the Weather Channel. Unlike his parents, who were considered only average students in school (his dad had eventually dropped out after having been offered a job with his uncle’s construction company), Caleb showed great promise in his pre-K class. The teachers would flock about them during open house or any other function, bragging on his ability to add and subtract three-digit numbers as well as read with no hesitating or tripping over words. Many of the other children could barely get through their ABC’s.

  Caleb’s parents showered him with adoration and praise. They believed that positive reinforcement would encourage his continued good work. Which it did. There was seldom an evening that Caleb didn’t come running to them, brandishing a drawing of incredible detail or an A+ in one of those specialized tests that were given only to him. Some called him a prodigy. Joyce simply called him “her baby.”

  “Sweetheart,” she asked, rubbing his shoulder, “what’s that on the TV screen?” She pointed to the blue line with the triangles poking out on one side, hoping that by occupying his mind it would distract him from the storm that crept out of the west like a stray cat. The line sliced the country from north to south in one long, curving arc. The weatherman waved his arms ridiculously as he pointed out the areas where volatile air masses collided.

  Caleb slowly turned his head. “Cold front,” he said, his voice, soft and crystalline.

  “That’s right!” she said, rubbing him briskly. “That’s what’s causing all this noise, ain’t it, Ricky?” Joyce looked up at her husband and gave him a “work with me” kind of look.

  He stood at the window next to the curio, looking out at the approaching storm. “Um” was all he said.

  The flash was blinding and Ricky stepped back, flinching. Caleb screamed as he shrank against his mother, and the TV flickered as they braced themselves for the thunder. It came less than three seconds later, signaling the storm’s approaching fury by rolling down the length of the trailer and vibrating every window within it.

  Caleb screamed again.

  “Shush, it’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. It's just a little thunder,” she crooned to the terrified child as she rocked back and forth with him. “We’ve had these before, baby. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Joyce hoped she wasn’t lying to the boy; tornadoes were definitely something to worry about—especially when one lived in a hot-and-cold-running tin can.

  He looked up at her, his eyes wide with panic. “The monster’s coming,” he said.

  “What?” Joyce asked, half-smiling.

  “The monster’s coming.”

  She laughed nervously. “No, baby … there is no monster.”

  She looked up at Ricky, who had turned and was listening to his son. His face was worry-worn with concern. Normally, he would have sat and watched the television while he drank a few beers and made idle conversation, but tonight he only stood, staring out the window. It wasn’t the storm—Joyce knew that. There was something else…

  Earlier that evening, after dinner, the phone had rung and Ricky answered it. He withdrew from the family, taking the cordless and walking into the bedroom. Joyce didn’t follow—he would have gone nuts if she had. But she stood in the kitchen, pretending to do the dishes and listening to the one-sided conversation. She could only make out bits and pieces, but it seemed there was a heated exchange as several times Joyce thought she heard the name of someone she hoped she’d never hear again: Randall.

  The monster’s coming!

  Those years—the running around, drinking, hanging out with scum—had been hell for her and Caleb, and Joyce had come close to taking him and leaving. And with suitcase in one hand and tiny Caleb in the other
, she would have succeeded if Ricky hadn’t met her at the door after one of his evening revelries.

  She finally agreed to sit down and talk, and he had—quite unexpectedly—come around and agreed to shed the parasites that were his “friends.” Joyce, for the first time since their marriage, was able to see a brighter future. She could actually see the two of them growing old together and sitting on the back deck, rocking in the afternoon sun. The mental image sometimes brought tears to her eyes—tears of happiness.

  “You wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  Ricky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shook his head.

  “Please, Ricky … no more secrets. Okay?”

  He shook his head a second time and moved to the recliner and sat on its edge, leaning his forearms upon his knees. “That was Lisa,” he said. He motioned in the direction of the cordless. “She was calling to tell us that Randy would probably be coming over here tonight.”

  “Oh God--!”

  “It’ll be all right,” Ricky stressed. “I’ll just send him goin’.”

  Randy was nothing but trouble, and he and Ricky had had quite a few excursions in their younger days, escapades that landed them in jail on more than one occasion. The list of charges was endless and included: DUI, B&E, assault, and more recently, a case of rape on the part of Randy. If it hadn’t been for the woman telling the law that Ricky was the one who’d pulled Randy’s ass off her, Ricky would have done a year along with his buddy.

  A year … a laughable amount of time to serve for the crime committed. Or so a lot of people thought.

  It wasn’t until after Randy had done his time that Ricky told him that they were finished as far as socializing was concerned, and he’d acted flip and said that Ricky would get over it and that he’d be calling sooner or later. But he didn’t. Ricky no longer cavorted with his old running pal, and things seemed to go from bad to worse for ol’ Randy.

  The banging on the door shook the trailer almost as badly as the thunder had earlier, and Caleb whined and clung to his mother; his little fingers pressed deeply into her neck.

  Ricky stood. “I’ll get it,” he said, “stay here.”

  He stood at the door for a brief moment with his hand on the knob and took one last glance at the curio. He could hear the rantings of his former friend on the other side as his fist hit the door again, making it bounce inward under the fierce pounding.

  “What the hell do you want, Randy!”

  “Open the door, Rick … I need to talk to ya!”

  Against his better judgment, he threw back the door.

  He had not seen Randy since the accident, but he’d heard enough. The gossip was a complement compared to the reality, and he stepped back in sheer astonishment.

  Randy, wet and dripping, stepped heavily into the trailer; his weight made it sink on the side of the entrance door. The scent of perspiration, oil, and beer followed him into the living room.

  “Ricky!” Joyce jumped from the sofa, her knees nearly failing her as she tried to hold Caleb’s face over her shoulder so the boy wouldn’t see what came through the door. Never in her life had she wanted so badly to scream, but couldn’t.

  Not long after Ricky had severed ties with his old pal Randy, a horrible accident befell him.

  * * *

  It was probably six months prior, maybe less, when Randy had ventured out one rainy Saturday night and gone to the local watering hole where he proceeded to get highly inebriated. Travis, the bartender that night, eventually had to refuse serving Randy because of his rapidly increasing volume and idle threats he made to some of the more courteous male patrons. He also told him that if he ever came into the place and acted like he did, he was instructed to call the law. Travis apologized for having to do such a thing; he didn’t dislike Randy, but it was his orders from the owners.

  Angry, Randy left, cussing and screaming. He climbed into the cab of his ’75 Ford pickup and left the parking lot, showering loose gravel. He’d fishtailed once before he got to the road, clipping a brand new Expedition.

  On the Interstate, Randy was doing between 80 and 90 MPH, and in his drunken stupor missed his exit. He turned the wheel sharply, hoping to make it, when the truck lost grip of the road and slid sideways into the high shoulder. The truck was catapulted into the air, spun at least three times before it came down on its side against a stand of pines. Randy had been ejected through a hole the size of a basketball in the driver’s side window.

  The paramedics had finally arrived, fifteen minutes later, after a passing motorist saw the accident and called 911 on his cell phone. An EMT had taken one look at Randy and walked off, telling his partner that he and another EMT would have to handle it, that it was “just too much” for him (he knew Randy and his parents).

  Randy’s face had been sheared off and laid hanging beside his head in a single, meaty flap. From his forehead, across his left cheek, down to his chin and back under his right jaw, his bare skull stared up at the weeping sky. His right eye was saved, but the left one would never function. He also suffered broken ribs, a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder on the other arm, and contusions. He died twice en route to the hospital.

  After two weeks at Morrow County General, Randy decided it was time to go. The doctor had told him that it was going to require several operations to make his face even somewhat presentable, but when he found out how much it was going to cost, and him without insurance, he announced that it was “good enough for him.” Against the doctor’s advice, Randy signed himself out, and there was a quiet celebration on the third floor of Morrow County General that day.

  Randy had called a cab, and when it arrived he asked the cabbie to stop at the nearest package shop on the way home and bought a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “This is all the medicine I need right here,” he told the befuddle driver. He managed a smile.

  * * *

  “I want my money, now, Rick!” he yelled, dripping on Joyce’s new carpet. He reeked of beer and Ricky knew that that wasn’t all he’d been doing.

  “Ricky, what’s this all about?” Joyce screamed.

  He motioned at her. “Randy, I gave you that money nearly a year ago, don’t you remember?”

  Joyce and Rick had heard the rumors of Randy’s appearance. They had also heard that while he was standing in line at a local convenience store, a woman carrying a large bottle of grape juice had gotten in line behind him and was getting her money out when Randy made a bad joke to the cashier. The woman looked up just as Randy turned to face her, smiling. She screamed at the top of her lungs and dropped the glass bottle, shattering it to pieces. Grape juice went everywhere and the woman went hysterical, threw a ten on the counter, and ran out of the store.

  “No, you didn’t!” Randy yelled. Spit flew from the space that he used as a mouth. The good eye was void of reason and the other non-existent. The laceration had formed huge keloid growths on his cheek and chin, and his features seemed crooked and out-of-line. A large, gaping hole was in the side of his cheek, exposing what few teeth had survived the crash.

  “Joyce, take Caleb and go to the bedroom,” Ricky said, not taking his eyes off of Randy.

  “No! I’m not leaving you here!” she screamed.

  Caleb squirmed in her arms as he tried to get a look at the visitor. “Let me go, mommy! Let me go!”

  “Randy,” Ricky said as his back bumped the curio. The trinkets jingled softly. “I’m sorry about you losing your job and everything, but if you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

  “Fuck you!” he screamed. He lifted his wet shirt and withdrew an enormous boning knife. The light from the curio played across its surface.

  Joyce screamed and dropped Caleb to his feet, pushing him behind her legs. He screamed as Joyce reached into the kitchen for the cordless.

  The lightning strobed once again and the lights inside flickered, threatening to plunge them all into blackness.

  Ricky reached behind the curio and produced the old .5
0 caliber rifle his father had given him years ago to shoot wild hogs. He had loaded the weapon and discreetly placed it behind the cabinet after the phone call.

  Blood ran from Randy’s mouth; the scar tissue in the corner had reopened, sending thick ribbons of saliva, rain-water, and blood down his disfigured chin and onto his chest. “Don’t make me do this, Randy, please!”

  Randy turned and saw Joyce with the cordless to her ear. “NO!” he screamed. He ran at her with the knife held above his head, his knuckles scraping the texture off of the ceiling. The trailer rocked with his heavy footfalls.

  There was an explosion and then nothing, nothing except a horrendous, high-pitched ringing in everyone’s ears. Wet leaves, rain, and debris blew through the still open door that banged against the thin wall of the trailer.

  Caleb could only see what happened. The sheer pressure of the gun had threatened to blow the windows out. Perhaps it was the thunder that simultaneously went off that made the gun sound and feel like a cannon going off.

  Caleb screamed and couldn’t stop. He didn’t think he was ever going to be able to stop. The image was burned into his memory, burned like the plates onto which a printer makes to produce photographs and text over and over again. Caleb’s well-developed little mind would repeatedly play the scenario, blotting out all of the important things, things that he would need in order to become a well-adjusted, successful adult.

  The damage was done - his path had changed.

  Randy’s torso had dissolved in a pink and gray cloud, spraying the entire inside entrance of the trailer like the work of an inept painter. His face was twisted and bleeding as the top half of his body fell away and hit the floor. It bounced once, sending a thick mass of gore up and onto the carpet and wall.

  The room became dark and hazy from the blue smoke that hung in the air.

  Caleb wouldn’t have known he was screaming if it weren’t for the subtle, buzzing sensations he felt as the sound conducted the vibrations to his tiny skull.