by Brett McBean
Sherry looked up at Simon, tears in her eyes. “Oh my God. How did he know I wasn’t going to be wearing any clothes?”
Simon was bewildered. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Think we should call the cops?”
Sherry shook her head. “No. I mean, he warned us not to. Besides, if he knows I’m not wearing any clothes…” Sherry threw down the note and picked up the phone receiver. She placed it to her ear and heard nothing. No static; just dead air. “He’s cut the phone.”
“Shit!” Simon spat. “What are we going to do?”
“Go into the kitchen,” Sherry said.
They both hurried down the hall and entered the dark kitchen. Sherry turned on the lights and they both scanned the room. There was no sign of any intruders.
“How did he get in?” Simon whispered.
Sherry shook her head. She began walking towards the fridge.
“No, hey!” Simon called. “I’ll look.”
Sherry turned around. “And bang your head again? You stay there.” She approached the large fridge. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle.
“Be careful, darling,” Simon said, his voice quivering.
Grinding her teeth together, Sherry flung open the door. Resting on the top shelf was a large, bloody machete.
“What is it?”
“It’s a machete,” Sherry said.
Simon hurried over and peered inside. He reached in and took the large machete out. The blade was grimy with both wet and dry blood and there was another note attached to its handle.
Sherry grabbed the note off the machete. She opened it and, again, read it aloud.
“It’s me again. You get the idea how this works. This was the weapon used to kill the poor person.
Now, my love, take off your bra and go into your bedroom. Look in the closet.
If you both don’t do what I say, well, you don’t wanna know. Believe me.
Ciao.”
Sherry scrunched up the note and threw it down to the kitchen floor. “I don’t believe this. I’m not going to take off my goddamn bra for some sick weirdo.”
Simon was still holding the machete. “I think you’d better,” he said. “Who knows what kind of psycho we’re dealing with.”
“He’s not watching,” Sherry said.
“How do we know?” Simon asked.
Sherry looked at him hard, as if this were all his fault. She quickly unfastened the bra and let it fall to the ground.
Simon gazed at the perfect curves of her small breasts. Her nipples were hard and they were covered in goose bumps. His penis began to stiffen.
“Oh God,” Sherry groaned. “You’re sick.”
Simon’s face went hot, and he could tell he was blushing. He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.
“Come on,” Sherry said sharply. “What are you going to do with that?” She nodded towards the machete.
“Take it with us. You never know,” he said.
Sherry turned around and hurried out of the kitchen, Simon following close behind. They arrived at their bedroom, and Sherry went over to the closet.
“Wait!” Simon said. “This time I’ll look. I’m the one with the machete. Okay?”
Sherry nodded. Simon strode up to the closet and took a hold of the knob. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.
“Just hurry up and do it,” Sherry told him.
Holding the machete firmly in his left hand, Simon flung the closet door open. He was ready to strike, but frowned and lowered the machete when he saw nothing in there. “Can’t see anything,” Simon said.
Sherry joined Simon and studied the dim closet. She squatted down and saw blood on the carpet. “Simon! There’s blood.”
“What?” Simon crouched down and saw a small pool of blood seeping into the carpet.
They both flinched when a drop of blood fell from the bunch of clothes and landed on the floor.
They both stood up. Before Sherry had a chance to do it, Simon flung the hanging clothes to the side and gasped.
When Sherry saw the headless body hanging by a thick hook, she jumped back and began crying.
Simon stepped closer and studied the corpse. He guessed the head in the sink belonged to this body. It was a woman, and judging by the flat stomach and long slender legs, she used to be young, perhaps around the same age as Sherry. Blood sheathed the lifeless body like a can of paint had been poured over it.
“Is there a note?” Sherry asked from behind.
“Jesus, do I have to look?”
Sherry huffed. “Fuck! I’ll do…”
“No,” Simon said. “You wait there.” There wasn’t much of a stink, so the body couldn’t have been dead for long. Still, Simon held his breath and stepped into the closet. He wrapped his arm around the body and searched for the note. The skin felt icy cold and sticky from blood. He could feel himself wanting to gag, but he swallowed and continued the grotesque hunt. “I can’t feel anything,” he called back. “Maybe it’s…” He stopped. He closed his eyes and tried hard not to puke.
“What? What is it? You find the note?”
Simon nodded slowly. “Sure did. It’s up her…bottom.”
Sherry couldn’t help but snigger when Simon said that word. It sounded strange for a gown man to call it a bottom.
“You wanna take the note?” Simon barked.
“No, no, I’m sorry, Simon.”
Simon took a deep breath and gripped the note with the tip of his fingers. He pulled it out with care, he wasn’t sure why, and let his breath out when he had fished it from between her cheeks. He jumped back from the body and threw the note down. It fluttered to the floor. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Simon panted.
Sherry bent down and picked up the note.
“Don’t touch…” Simon began.
Sherry straightened up and looked at him. “We have to, Simon.” She unfolded the bloodstained note.
“Greetings and salutations! If you are reading this it means you have found the lovely lass. And yes, to answer your question, her head is currently sitting in your laundry sink. Now, take off your panties, dear.
And sir, can you please…”
Sherry stopped reading and looked up. Simon’s mouth was gaping, and he was panting hard. “What is it?”
Without uttering a word, Sherry continued to read.
“…can you please close your mouth. You look like a goddamn fish.”
“It doesn’t say that. Give me the note.” He snatched the note off Sherry and scanned down the page. His face drained of colour. “This isn’t right. How can he know that!”
“I don’t know,” Sherry muttered. She started to take off her silk panties.
“What are you doing?”
“Have to do what he says.” She tossed them onto the bed.
Simon gazed at her nakedness. “Why? Why the fuck do we have to play his fucking game?”
“Do I need to answer that for you?” Sherry said. “I’m not sure what kind of freaky nut we’re dealing with, but I’m sure as hell not going to take any chances. We might just get out of this alive if we obey what the note says.”
Simon didn’t know what to say. He simply held up the note and continued to read.
“Good. Now, both of you go back into the lounge. Behind the T.V. is another surprise. I know it’s hard, sir, but don’t fuck her just yet.
But she does look good, doesn’t she?
Remember, don’t call the cops. Or else I’ll gut you both.
P.S. I want sir to read the next note.
Ciao.”
Simon threw the paper down. “What do we do?”
Sherry shrugged. “Let’s fuck. He might enjoy it.”
Simon blinked. “What? Are you kidding? You wanna have sex?”
Sherry strolled up to Simon and draped her arms around him. Her breath still smelled faintly of sweet bourbon. “So do you want to?”
Simon could sense the body strung up behind him in the closet. But, des
pite that and what was happening, he still felt a stir of arousal. Sherry looked and smelled so damn good.
He cupped his hands on her buttocks and squeezed. “Let’s do it,” he said, not really believing he had just said that.
“You would want to,” she sighed. “You sick pervert.”
She pushed him with a generous amount of force.
He almost toppled over into the closet. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” he said.
She was heading out the bedroom door. She turned around and said, “I was just testing you. I wanted to see what you’d do. I guessed right.” She shook her head and marched out the door.
“Hey!” Simon called. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He jogged out the bedroom, muttering, “Shit.”
He joined Sherry and grabbed her and spun her around. “I’m really sorry, Sherry. It’s just, all this shit. It all seems so surreal. I lost my head.”
Sherry gave him a scowl. “Fine. Let’s just get into the lounge and see what the sick fuck wants next, okay?”
Simon nodded and let go. He felt rotten.
They headed into the lounge without speaking. Sherry was already at the television set by the time Simon entered the lounge. He saw Sherry bending over the set, searching for whatever grotesque object was hidden there.
He couldn’t help but stare at her. The way she was bent over, her smooth round buttocks…
“Holy shit,” Sherry gasped and straightened up.
Simon managed to avert his eyes just as Sherry turned around. He couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d caught him.
But what she might’ve done completely left his brain the moment he saw the large handgun Sherry was holding. “He gave us a gun?” Simon said. He just about laughed.
“And a fucking big one at that. I don’t know much about guns, but this one looks pretty damn powerful to me.”
Simon stepped forward. “Here, let me have a look at it.”
Sherry threw a piece of paper at him. It bounced off his chest and landed on the floor. “You’d better read that first.”
Nodding, Simon snatched the note off the floor and opened it. This note was typed, just like the rest of them. Simon began;
“I cannot keep this lie going any longer. If Sherry ever found out about her and I, it would break her heart. I love Sherry but I cannot do this to her any more. I hate myself and what I have become. Please let the Lord forgive me.
I bid the world farewell…
Simon Gerty.”
He looked up at Sherry. “What’s this?” he whispered.
“Your suicide note,” Sherry said with little emotion.
Simon found he couldn’t swallow. Tears fell from his widened eyes. Sherry stepped up to him, a ghastly grin on her usually exquisite face.
“You think I didn’t know about her,” Sherry told him. “I’ve followed you two around for months. Watched you two kiss, hold hands…hell, I even watched you two fuck behind that bush in the park last week. That really pissed me off. That’s when I got the idea.”
The sudden urge to urinate overwhelmed Simon again. He tried desperately to control his bladder, but the need was too strong.
“Oh my God,” Sherry said when she noticed the spreading wet patch on Simon’s pants. She shook her head and smirked.
Soon hot urine dribbled down his legs and onto the carpet. Simon wanted to move his hands, to try and fight with her. But his arms wouldn’t comply with his brain. Instead, he whimpered.
“I hoped you wouldn’t recognise her face,” Sherry continued. “But I really messed her face good, so I didn’t think there was any chance of that. Same with her body…Lord knows you got to know that well.”
“W…why?” he breathed. He wanted to say more, but didn’t have the air in his lungs.
Still, she knew what he had meant.
“I just wanted to have fun. Play a game with you. Some might call it sick. I call it genius. I can’t believe you fell for the notes. I mean, who the fuck would know what I was going to wear before I was going to do it?” She chuckled. “Me! That’s who.”
Sherry looked him deep in the eyes. “Plus I wanted you to see just what sort of woman you cheated on. Tease you with my body, which you so willingly gave up, all for that…that whore. And the best part is, it looks like it was all you. Your fingerprints and yours only are on the murder weapon. Your fingerprints are all over the dead woman’s body. And your fingerprints are all over the suicide note.”
In a flash of movement so sudden that Simon didn’t see before it was too late, Sherry stuffed the barrel into his mouth.
“Not to mention you have reason to kill yourself.” She then blew his brains out through his head.
As the machete fell to the floor and Simon was sent flying backwards, Sherry laughed. “Didn’t I tell you to close your fucking mouth?”
She watched as Simon crashed to the lounge room floor, then hurried into the bedroom. She had to act quickly.
The first thing she did was to slip on the black gloves she had hidden inside the bedside drawer. Then she had the freedom to get dressed and gather up her bag. She picked up the rumpled note and stuffed it into her bag. Then she closed the closet door, grinning as she did, and dashed out of the room. Running through the kitchen, Sherry stopped to collect the second note, then hurried into the lounge.
She rubbed the gun thoroughly before wrapping Simon’s right hand around the handle then placed it where she guessed the gun would’ve dropped if Simon had been holding it. The last thing she did was place the suicide note on the coffee table. She wandered over to Simon and crouched down.
“Rot in hell, you pervert.”
She stood up, took off the gloves and shoved them into her bag, along with the first note. She threw the bag to the couch then rushed to the phone.
She plugged the cord back into the socket, then picked up the receiver and called the police.
NOTES:
My first ever published story.
This first appeared on the Horrorfind website, back in 2000. I had just started writing, this was about my third or fourth attempt at a short story. I knew about the site from the various message boards that were around at the time (the old Masters of Terror, I think, and others I can’t remember the names of now and are probably long gone or morphed into some other site). I had heard of the name Brian Keene, the fiction editor at the time (this was before he was the Brian Keene). I decided to submit the story, see what happens. To my great surprise, I got the email back from Brian saying how much he loved the story, that it reminded him a lot of the great Richard Laymon. I was stoked; more than stoked. I was delirious. To not only get an acceptance of a story I had written, but then to be told it reminded the editor of my all-time favourite writer (and whose writing was a big influence in this story, as well as my writing in general)! Boy, that was a great day! Pity we haven’t heard from Brian since…
HEARING THE OCEAN IN A SEASHELL
(Your weakness will be your downfall…)
“Back late.”
Jackson nodded to the night watchman behind the desk – an elderly yet still strong looking black man – then headed towards the elevator.
“Been awfully quiet tonight,” the old man said, now smiling. “How about you – have a good night?”
Jackson didn’t answer as he hurried past. He heard the night watchman mutter “Asshole,” but Jackson didn’t care.
He arrived at the elevator (commonly referred to as ‘the deathtrap’ by the tenants), hit the ‘up’ button and waited.
When Jackson heard the rustle of a newspaper and then the watchman sigh, he figured either the old man was saying, Well fuck you, or he was so apathetic towards his work he just didn’t care what was going on in the building.
Still, Jackson glanced over his shoulder and wondered if the night watchman suspected anything.
Why would he? He’s an old man who sits on his ass all night.
Jackson squinted, trying to
read the headlines splashed across the front of the newspaper, but he couldn’t quite read them from where he was standing.
The elevator chimed, signalling its arrival. Jackson turned around and stepped inside. The compartment was bathed in a light the colour of pale urine and the stale vomit and cigarette smell never failed to sicken him.
(I can’t believe you. You sicken me. I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong…)
He jabbed the number 6 button with his index finger, saw the old man tip one corner of the newspaper and eye him, then the elevator doors closed.
Thank God I’ve got a better life than that.
When the elevator jolted to life and started its rickety ascent to the top floor, Jackson took a long, relaxing breath then leaned back against the grubby brown panelled walls of the elevator. He was safe.
Nobody had followed him.
Unless there are a group of policeman waiting for me in my apartment.
He thought it hardly likely; after all, the old man had said it had been a quiet night. But what if he had been lying? What if he had been covering for the rotten pigs?
What is the correct term for a group of cops? he wondered. A gaggle? A herd? A flock?
Jackson was mulling it over, when the elevator stopped at the first floor.
The doors opened.
Jackson waited.
When nobody entered, he straightened, walked to the open doors and looked out. There wasn’t a soul around.
“Damn eleva…” He stopped when he spotted the baby.
It was sitting with its legs crossed and was gazing right at him. Jackson smiled. The baby didn’t smile back. “Hey there, fella. What are you doing out here?”
The baby – he couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy – didn’t make a sound. It didn’t laugh or cry or gurgle. Just sat there in the middle of the hallway, rocking back and forth. Staring. Looking sad.
The doors began to close.
Jackson stepped back and let them shut.