Masters of Horror

by Lee Pletzers

  My muscles twitch uncontrollably, attempting to tap out a rhythm with the muted rock song playing on the sound system…I think it’s “No Pain No Gain” by Raven…

  Ghostly apparitions appear from behind the racks and come over to me; ten in all. Some laugh, pointing at me with that I told you so gesture; some have sad looks on their faces as if they understand; and some just stare, non-committal, so pious that it’s unnerving.

  One of the sad ones extends his hand.

  Come with us.

  What? This makes no sense. Sure, I’m wrung out from my bout with the iron, but these delusional beings: they don’t belong here. It’s like they’ve come to take me to heaven or hell or Valhalla. Whoah...

  I shake my head; time to clear out the cobwebs. Maybe I did overdo it.

  They’re still here.

  I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.

  After opening my eyes, I discover they still haven’t gone. Shit! They’re all reaching out for me now!

  You must come with us.

  This isn’t real; it can’t be. All this work for this; to succumb to death. Bullshit! I refuse to accept it. I’m not going. ”NO, you transparent little bastards! Find somebody else. I conquered death. I’m not coming!”

  Closer…and closer…the hands come to me. The ethereal beings become more substantive before my eyes. And their faces...their faces become hardened, more sinister looking, their resolve becoming obvious. Their bodies are those of who’ve succumbed to a physical obsession: anorexics, steroid-bloated hulks, insanely obese overeaters. A visually abhorrent circus sideshow has come to take me to some specialized hell.

  Although I’m still weakened and don’t wish to move yet, I force myself to sit up, and then to stand. If I’m to fight off these beings—illusionary or not—I can’t do it laying flat on my back. I fought for my life moments ago and if I have to do it again, I will…but I need to do it from a position of strength. I’m outnumbered, but that’s of small concern to me. My physical and mental powers will do the job. To give in to them and accept their dominance would be a show of weakness. I’m not weak.

  Nietzsche once said, “That which does not kill you only makes you stronger.” I’ll do just that very thing. Strength: more of it; greater talents; an ever expanding grasp of knowledge; life experience. All of these, coming to the front of my soul, pushing me to uncharted heights.

  They are substantive now; flesh and blood—or so it seems. They grapple with me, but I shove them back. Their strength increases. It’s of no consequence: within the well of my strength, I shove a larger bucket down to grab more of what I need to become stronger. I drink long and deep: I beat them back, laughing at their puny efforts, knowing I will conquer them. The physical attributes they had just moments ago start disappearing. Ghosts. They become what they were and can cause me no harm now, but still, they try. Now, they are entities of defeat.

  The one who first reached his hand out to me smiles broadly.

  You have won. Your battle was great.

  Indeed: the battle is over. They are gone now, and I am alone once more. Yet, I am not alone, for it is as if I have become two people: the man of iron and the man of discipline. And now, I sense another presence beside me…

  You could have killed yourself, man.

  I look through dazed eyes, trying to see who’s in the gym. Damn! I’m so out of it: I never heard anyone come in. The eyeballs still aren’t working.

  It looks like A.J. That’s not too easy to believe, considering he died a couple months back. I am in sad shape.

  Don’t wrack your brain, buddy. It’s me.

  Shit! This isn’t very cool. Some dead guy is talking to me. The only thing worse would be if I was to answer back.

  Fucking cat got your tongue?

  “No, I’m just trying to sort this shit out—I just fought off Hell’s Welcome Wagon, and now you show up…” I tell him, completely forgetting I wasn’t going to talk to him. “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but you’re dead. You died right here in the gym. In fact, you died on this bench. Does...oh, shit! Does that mean that I’m...?”

  A little sardonic laughter. No, you’re not dead. You came awfully fucking close, but you’re alive.

  “Why are you here, man?”

  I love this place: I always have.

  Things are getting more focused. A. J. still looks a bit fuzzy, but since he’s dead, that shouldn’t come as a surprise. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I haven’t felt really alone in this gym for some time now. Some sort of presence...no, this is too crazy.

  He pulls up a bench—somehow—and sits down next to me. You look like shit. I honestly thought I was going to have you join me in this new world of mine. Of all the crazy stunts.

  “But that’s the exercise you were doing when the bar came down on your neck and cracked it like a pencil.” I gasped to his ghost. He’s radiating sub-zero cold, I can see my breath misting around him…

  And you didn’t learn from my mistake? How did you even get the smarts to buy this place? You must have inherited the money.

  In death, as in life, the same A.J. He never was one much for manners and definitely failed the subtlety test.

  “Hard work, A.J. Nothing was ever handed to me.”

  A.J. was the only gym member who even approached my intensity in the gym. He was a fucking animal, always going outside the box. The only difference between him and me was: he took drugs. He was careful about it, as careful as you can be when you stick that shit in your veins.

  His brother was a doctor and monitored his intake. Some brother. I always thought he was on the edge with the drugs. Maybe it affected his mind: made him think he was invincible. He found out better.

  Usually, I worked out with A. J. We pushed each other. With the crazy shit we did, it was hard to lift alone. We covered each other’s backs.

  The night he bought it, I wasn’t in the gym. I was out of town on business. The way the story was told, A.J.’s spotter let the bar slip from his grasp. A.J. was on his max set, much like I was tonight. The result was like a guillotine, only with a thick, round bar instead of a razor-sharp blade…

  George, his spotter, was devastated. He couldn’t handle the feeling of guilt and one night he overdosed on sleeping pills. Two good men gone.

  What are you doing here alone, Bob?

  “I need the solitude, man. Besides, too many people are pussies. They don’t have what it takes. I’d rather lift alone.”

  Don’t.

  “Hell, man! What am I supposed to do?”

  Living would be good.

  I look at A.J., thinking that having a spotter didn’t do him much good. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. Shit, how do you tell a dead man he fucked up? He’s already gone. Too late for advice now.

  Enough of this lying on the bench shit. Time to sit up, look at A.J. face to face.

  Another person joins us and sits next to A.J.

  Hi, Bob.

  “Hi, George.”

  I’m not actually surprised. The two of them aren’t finished yet. They can’t leave this plane of existence until they’re at peace.

  A.J.? I don’t think he’ll ever reach peace. This gym, the weights: they’re his life. Even in death.

  George wants to escape the horrors of that night by working out with me. His guilt...it’s too much for him. I told him it’s okay, but he won’t listen.

  “You work out now? How is that possible?”

  Believe me, it is. It’s easier to harness the power of the mind now. That fuels the lifts. We feed off the energy in here.

  I still don’t know what to believe; freaky shit.

  My eyes go a little wonky on me. I rub the pain around a bit and look at the bench. My friends are gone. But, then again it is now 4:00 A.M. Members are arriving.

  The early morning crowd: those who wish to do their pumping before work. Most of these are the serious ones. They have drive, focus and determination. Yes, these are the achievers. Their l
ives are in balance; their priorities are on the right path.

  I pick up my shirt and put it back on. There are witnesses who could say I broke my rule.

  The weights call to me. My workout is not done.

  Back to TOC

  This tale by Nomar Knight reminded me of the SAW films, and brought to mind one of the other evils of addiction: when some people have their vice taken away, they’ll do anything to get it back.

  ANYTHING.

  Sins of the Flesh

  By Nomar Knight

  A loud screeching sound woke me. At first, I thought my dreams still held my consciousness…

  Until a tightening pain around my wrists heightened. I moved my arms and chains rattled.

  My heart pounded when I saw a man’s button eyes peering at me through a curtain of hair. His crooked smile did nothing to reassure me of my safety. With his hands restrained behind his back, I recognized the contraption that held him in place. I blinked in disbelief. His neck was trapped in a guillotine.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.” His familiar, nasal voice irked me.

  I scanned the well lit chamber, noting our captor’s taste for ancient torture toys. A wooden table used for stretching body limbs lay empty to my right.

  “Tell me, lady. Can you see what’s above me?”

  “I’m not sure, but it looks like a blade.” I broke out in a cold sweat. Then I realized I hadn’t gotten high in a couple of days. “What is this place?”

  A scream overtook the rattling of chains. The terrible shrill seemed to originate beyond a closed bronze door. I fought to move my limbs. Metal bracelets latched my thin wrists in place. Another pair of shackles held my ankles at bay as I hung on a cinder block wall.

  Helpless prey.

  Caught in an alien spider’s metal webbing.

  The man said, “We’re in hell.”

  Again, someone screamed. The wail of agony jolted my eardrums like the sudden crack of thunder. I shut my eyes, hoping that when I reopened them the dreaded nightmare would be over. But when I did, the burden brought forth by reality heightened my hunger for crack. Shaking my head I said, “I need to get out of here, now!”

  The trapped man struggled to move his head until enough hair brushed out of his eyes. From my vantage point, I noticed he had a pot belly and unusually long arms. “I know you.” He sounded as if we were at the supermarket and he was pleased to see me. “Christine?”

  “You sound familiar, but I can’t place the face,” I said, probably because his hair kept falling on it.

  “I’m Hadley. We went to high school together.”

  I recalled the long arms almost reaching the ground as he walked. The kids teased him. They called him ‘Magilla Gorilla’, after a cartoon character.

  “You do remember me. You’re smiling.”

  I wiped the grin off my face and jumped when the unseen man screamed again. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Potts. Mr. Riverton is doing…God knows what to him…in the other room.”

  My stomach churned upon hearing the name of our captor. There was no way the town’s most prominent citizen would stoop to torture tactics. “No…you’re wrong. Mr. Riverton would never hurt anyone.”

  Hadley mocked me with his laugh. “Think about it, Christine. What was the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

  I recalled visiting the Riverton Estate unannounced. I was surprised when the butler let me in. He guided me to the study where I saw my last source of income and my only chance to get a fix: Peter Riverton.

  I had lost everything. I’d sold everything I owned to buy crack, then robbed whatever I could from my husband, until he’d thrown me out. Then I robbed whatever I could from my parents, until they’d thrown me out. I’d been the Prom Queen of 2002, and I was a scrape away from turning tricks out of the back seat of my beat-to-hell station wagon.

  The scream reached a new decibel. A rancid odor permeated our prison. I said, “I was in Mr. Riverton’s study.”

  Hadley grinned, “What a coincidence! I was in his office at the casino. You’d think to a man like him two thousand dollars would be a drop in the bucket.”

  Mr. Riverton owned the only casino in town as well as most of its ‘legitimate’ businesses. Everything I knew about Peter Riverton made my current reality impossible to grasp. Hadley was right. Our incarceration didn’t make sense.

  Hadley sighed, “How much are you in for?” He grimaced while trying to remove his shackles.

  I didn’t want to divulge my dealings with the eccentric millionaire. It seemed a distraction was in order. “Why is—” I paused, trying to recall the name—“Potts here?”

  Before Hadley could answer, Potts let out another scream, but not as powerful as the last one. I took it as an ominous sign that the poor man was wearing down, or worse.

  “I’ve never seen Potts at the casino.” Hadley lowered his head. “I wonder why he’s being tortured by that devil.”

  “You’re wrong! Peter—uhh—Mr. Riverton would never harm a person.”

  “I don’t know what your relationship is with that monster, but who do you think escorted Potts to the other room?”

  Hadley’s words stung. I couldn’t believe how fast my world came crumbling down. My desire to be rid of the restraints added to my need of a hit. Somewhere amidst the smell of rotted meat was the delicious odor of smoke. I swore I smelled crack cocaine’s tantalizing fragrance. “Get me out of this fucking hellhole!”

  “What happened to you?” Disappointment rang in Hadley’s voice. “You look like shit.”

  Beads of sweat clung to my skin as if I had been locked in a sauna. “Fuck you!” I hated being trapped, hated not having my drug, and I couldn’t stand how Hadley scoffed at me.

  “For heaven’s sake, you were the prom queen! In the old days the guys bragged about banging your blond ass. I didn’t particularly care for your type… although you did have a nice rack, back in the day.”

  “Shut up, Hadley!” The smell drove me nuts. I tried writhing free, but the steel bracelets cut into my skin. “Shit!”

  Hadley laughed. “You look like a stringed puppet that’s being electrocuted.” Then he fell silent, maintaining his uncovered right eye on me. “You have sad eyes, Christine. I’ll admit, though, your sunken eye sockets are a turn on.”

  “I swear, Hadley, if I get out of here; I’ll make sure that blade chops your fucking head off!”

  “Shush!” He turned his head slightly to his left, toward the door. “Do you hear that?”

  I hung loose, too exhausted to move. “Hear what?”

  “Nothing.” When he glanced back I was able to see both orbs. For the first time since I regained consciousness, I saw fear in those eyes. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I smelled urine.

  The lights flickered until they went out. A silent darkness draped over us as if an evil entity entered the room, ready to witness our demise. I pulled my left arm up as far as it could stretch. The metal bracelet slid further on my hand. I almost laughed when I realized sweat could be the catalyst to my escape.

  Footsteps echoed throughout the darkness. Hadley became a silhouette crouched in the ultimate position of inferiority. I wondered how much longer his knees would support his weight. The smell that promised to cure my pain lingered closer, gaining my attention. A low murmur escaped my chapped lips. “Please, give it to me.”

  I couldn’t make out any particular shapes, but something akin to despair pressed its weight against my chest. Again I pulled my arm up and the steel bracelet dug deeper into my hand. I cried out as the adrenaline rushed forward. Liquid trickled down my hand and up my arm. It smelled acrid, like blood. I yelled, “Let me out of here!”

  Footsteps echoed away from me. The lights went on. Hadley’s hair draped over his face. He shivered and wept. As I watched the chubby man lose hope, remorse washed over me, forcing me to take account of my past transgressions. I believed Peter when he said he’d divorce his wife. “I’m so stupid.”


  The door opened. The need for crack stirred in my gut, but my heart ached, invigorating a renewed anger inside me. Standing before both of us in a black lab coat was the man I was forced to share. His penetrating stare sprayed shame on me. I didn’t understand how I went from loving mistress to disgusting insect.

  “Which do you miss more?” Peter waved a smoking glass pipe under my nostrils. Some of the dealers had called that kind of pipe the Devil’s Dick. The familiar scent fueled my lust for a fix. At that moment I wished for superhuman strength so I could break the chains and yank the pipe out of his hands. He continued, “Me, or crack?”