Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  “That makes me feel loved.”

  “Forget love. This is business, and like it or not, it’s the nature of the game. I just want to help you get back on track here, ok?”

  “You think I don’t?” she barked, cheeks flushed with anger. She instantly regretted her outburst. If he was offended, Bob didn’t show it.

  “Hey look, I’m on your side here. I told them you would turn the book in and that there’s nothing to worry about, but they kept pressuring me for a deadline.”

  She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. She sensed she was about to hear something she wouldn’t like.

  “I know my damn deadline, Bob. You told me. Three weeks.”

  There was an awkward silence whilst Bob carefully chose his words.

  “That was the old deadline. I had to act, Terri—and believe me, I did my best for you.”

  “Spit it out, Bob.”

  “You have until Monday to turn it in; otherwise they are terminating your contract and will start legal proceedings against you for loss of earnings.”

  Fear and anger erupted within her. She was squeezing the handset so hard her knuckles had turned white.

  “How the hell could you let this happen? I thought you were on my side!”

  “If you had any idea what I had to go through to delay this then you would be a little more grateful.”

  “Grateful? Grateful? You don’t get it, do you Bob? It’s not that I won’t write, I can’t write right now! My fucking head is in pieces!”

  There was silence apart from the steady sound of Bob’s breathing on the other end of the phone. He spoke calmly, trying to reassure her.

  “I understand that, but it’s not just your ass on the line anymore here, Terri. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to sacrifice for you? It’s not for the pay check, let me make that clear. And it certainly isn’t for the stress it puts me under.

  “Then why do it, Bob? Why not cut me loose like everyone says you should?” She was desperately trying to keep her voice from wavering.

  “I do it because I have faith in you. I’m doing the best I can for you, and that’s regardless of my twenty percent fee.”

  Her anger dispersed, and she realised that it wasn’t Bob’s fault. The blame lay at the feet of that sham of a woman in the mirror, the twenty-nine year old, red-haired, green-eyed girl from upstate New York. Unable to write, on the verge of being dropped by her publisher, and completely alone in the world. She closed her eyes.

  What a mess.

  “Are you going to be ok?” Bob asked calmly.

  She was crying now, unable to control herself

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just... a lot to take in right now.”

  “I understand, believe me I do. I’d come over and see you in person, but I’m out of town right now meeting with another client.”

  “That’s ok, Bob. I understand... I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

  “Look, I’ve told you before, you are a great writer. You just need to get your head in the game. Now, bullshit aside, how much do you have left to write?”

  “The last three chapters,” she said with a sigh.

  “Ok, that’s doable. You have until Monday. Today is Tuesday. You have plenty of time.”

  “It’s not the time that I’m worried about, it’s the writing itself. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Look, let’s just get it done. Wing it, re-hash it, make it up. Hell, plagiarise it if you have to. Just hand something in on Monday and we can get this one behind us. After that, take a break and recharge your batteries. Maybe take a vacation.”

  “I can’t do that, it wouldn’t be right.”

  Bob laughed then, a hearty sound that made her smile despite her woes.

  “I was only half serious anyway. Look I have to go. I have a meeting in twenty minutes and traffic will be hell. Seriously, though, do yourself a favour. Lock the door, take the phone off the hook, sit in front of the computer and write. I know you have it in you.”

  “I’ll do my best, Bob. You have my word... Thanks for calling, and sorry for being such a bitch.”

  He chuckled again and already she felt better.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drop by on Monday to pick up the pages, ok?”

  “I can just as easily email them to you. It’s not the dark ages.”

  “I know that, but I’m passing through anyway and want to check in on you. We agents aren’t all the devil’s spawn you know.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh, and it felt good.

  “Ok, point taken. I’ll see you Monday when you pick up your rehashed, plagiarised pages.”

  “I look forward to it. Take care, Terri.”

  She smiled again as he hung up the phone, and thought about how she was going to finish her book. One thing was for sure, she would have to cancel her meeting with Jane. She had to get started straight away. She grabbed her phone and sent another text to Jane while mulling over the details of her conversation with Bob. Then she switched off the phone, walked to her computer and powered it up, watching as the screen illuminated.

  “Now then, my old friend. It’s time you and I did some work.”

  Despite the drama of the morning, she felt strangely optimistic. Perhaps this was exactly what she needed to kick-start her life. She forgot all about the red velvet box on the table, and dove into her work.

  2.

  Steve Reynolds had worked as a delivery driver for CASHCO for over seventeen years. He was considered by his colleagues to be one of the most experienced men in the fleet, and although he didn’t make much of a fuss about it, he secretly liked the attention. He drove the huge, snarling cherry red eighteen-wheeler down Grove Street, one tattooed arm dangling casually out the window. He turned left and changed gears, heading up the steep hill at Grove Lane, remembering the previous winter when the hill was covered in sheet ice and said to be impossible to climb. He had made it though, coaxing his truck up and over the crest, and on to his destination. As the truck ascended in low gear, the engine briefly protested with a throaty growl. He stifled back a yawn and began to fiddle with the radio tuner, searching for something other than the stream of modern pop music that seemed to fill the airwaves these days. He missed the days of real music: rockabilly or country, something with a real groove. He glanced into his rearview mirror, wincing at his reflection. The young twenty-something-year-old who first sat in this cab was long gone, and a grizzled, grey-haired man with heavily lined skin had snuck in at some point to replace him.

  Finally he settled on KWLM East. Johnny Cash was on now, crooning about spending time in Folsom Prison. Steve thought that many of today’s modern musicians could learn a lot from the man in black. As he crested the hill, the road was straight for a few yards, and then rolled steeply down and to the right.

  He set off down the hill, allowing the vehicle to coast as he always did, saving a little fuel in the process. This was one of his regular runs, at least twice a month he would drive the same route, and he was somewhat on autopilot when the accident happened. Later, there was speculation that he simply lost control, but the fault had been with the truck itself. The brake line had sheered loose as Steve had tried to slow his descent in order to make the turn onto Cabal Lane.

  With no means to slow down, the eighteen-wheeler was a thirty-five ton missile. In the end, Steve’s skill behind the wheel had saved many lives, even though his own and that of Jane Steen would be lost. He had wrestled with the truck, narrowly missing a class full of school children out on a day trip, and somehow avoided the customers eating lunch outside Sam’s, one of his favourite burger joints. The truck ploughed into the brick wall between the Good Cup Coffee house and the town library at over sixty miles an hour. Not wearing a seatbelt, an old habit that quite literally died hard, Steve was thrown through the windscreen and later had to be identified by his fingerprints. The unfortunate pedestrian just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having just received a text message
from her friend Terri—cancelling their planned meeting for coffee—she was on her way home. She might have heard it coming had she not been listening to her iPod. Killed instantly, Jane would never hear about the mystery box left on Terri’s doorstep. Nor would she see ever see her daughter Mia again. By a bizarre twist of fate brought on by the arrival of a strange, hand delivered box, Terri’s best friend of twenty-two years was dead.

  3.

  For the last six hours, Terri had been sitting at her computer, and for the first time in weeks was writing. On a roll, she had reached that magical place where the story was writing itself, and she was no more than a passenger, hurriedly trying to keep up with the ideas as they formed in her head. This was the feeling she loved—the joy of pure creation. She had breezed through two chapters, and was well into the third, when there was a loud nock at the door.

  Blinking away the tiredness, she checked her watch, and was shocked to see that it was just after five. Now, with the spell of writing broken, she was aware of her body. She was hungry and needed to pee. She wasn’t expecting any visitors and was crossing to the door, when a muffled voice shouted through the letterbox.

  “Terri, it’s me. Are you there?”

  It was Mark.

  She couldn’t face him, not now when she had finally been able to get some work done. She debated staying silent and hoping he would go away, but she knew him. He was persistent and although the last thing she needed right now was to deal with him, she decided she would rather get it over with. She opened the door with a sigh of resignation, hating herself for the way her heart raced when she saw him.

  Mark Fife was obviously coping with the separation better than she was. He looked to have come straight from the office, dressed in the grey suit she had bought him for Christmas. He was tan, and she noticed he had cut his hair, his previous long fringed style replaced by a buzz cut, which only emphasised his chiselled features. His eyes were blue, and he flashed her his winning smile.

  “I hoped you would be home. Can I come in?”

  “Now isn’t a good time, Mark.”

  “Look, I have something that I need to discuss with you, and I’d rather not do it out here in the hallway.” He motioned to his left with his eyes, and as Terri looked out the door, she could see Mrs. Molde, watching them with a prune-sucking look of disapproval etched onto her old face.

  “You have two minutes,” she said coldly before heading back inside. Mark followed, closing the door behind him to Mrs. Molde’s disappointment.

  Terri stood by the window, arms folded defensively as Mark looked about the room as if he were seeing it for the first time.

  “The place looks… barren,” he said as he flicked his gaze towards her and sat down on the couch, putting his foot on the coffee table.

  “I like the minimalist look. What do you want?”

  “How have you been?”

  She felt anger rising, but held it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “I’m fine. I was actually working when you disturbed me.”

  “Good, I’m happy for you.”

  Here it comes she thought to herself as he looked at her intently. She broke eye contact, trying to ignore the flutter caused by his stare.

  “I want to come back, Terri. We were good together.”

  “Jesus, Mark, not this again.”

  “Look, I know what I did was stupid, and you know I’m sorry. We both know that you need me.”

  “I don’t need you, Mark. And I don’t want you. If this is all you wanted to talk about, then you have wasted your time.”

  He stood and approached her, trying to grab her by the shoulders.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!” Terri spat, shoving him away from her.

  “Hey, take it easy,” he said, flashing his best puppy dog eyes.

  “Just get out of here, Mark. This is my place. My life. It doesn’t involve you anymore, not since you fucked that whore!”

  “Hey, come on. I already told you I’m sorry! Alicia meant nothing to me. I was confused! How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Just get out of here. I don’t have time for this.”

  He grinned, sitting back down on the couch.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “I mean no. This is my apartment, Terri. I gave you time to get over what happened, but if you won’t take me back then you’re the one who’s going to have to leave.”

  “I can’t believe you. This all happened because of you,” she said, trying to hold back her tears.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick here, Terri. You know that you need me, and it doesn’t make sense for us to live apart like this.”

  She strode across to the door, opening it so forcefully that its handle dented the plaster as it slammed into the wall.

  “Just go. Get out of here!”

  He stood slowly, brushing the creases out of his suit.

  “You had your chance, Terri. I did my best to make you see sense.”

  “Out!” she raged.

  “Relax. I’m going,” Mark replied, holding his hands up as he sidestepped her.

  “Don’t forget your box of crap either. I don’t want you coming here again.”

  She kicked the box by her feet, watching as he picked it up slowly and backed out the door.

  “This isn’t over, Terri. I want you out of my place. Don’t make me take things further. You know what I can do.”

  She did know. A lawyer by trade, Mark had many slimy friends in the legal profession. He even knew a few less than straight judges who would ensure he didn’t lose if he decided to take things further.

  “That’s right, kick me when I’m down, you son of a bitch. You know I have nowhere to go.”

  “Then take me back and we can put this behind us. You know it makes sense.”

  “I wouldn’t have you back if you were the last man on earth. Even if it means I have to sleep on the damn streets. I hate you.”

  He flashed that winning grin again and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your loss, Terri. I want you out by the end of the month.”

  She wanted to scream, but restrained herself. Instead, she slammed the door closed, not caring if Mrs. Molde heard. She leaned on the door, and was doing all she could to hold back the flood of tears when she saw the box on the table. Fuelled by a fresh wave of anger, she stormed across the room, snatched the box off the table and returned to the door, barging out into the hallway. Mark was still there, waiting for the elevator.

  “And you can stop sending me this shit!” she raged, and was about to throw it, when she saw the bemused look on his face.

  “I didn’t send you anything. That’s not from me.”

  Feeling foolish, she held onto the box and watched as the elevator chimed its arrival. Mark stepped in, then poked his head out the door.

  “I meant what I said, Terri. End of the month.”

  The elevator chimed once more and the doors closed, leaving Terri standing alone in the hallway.

  4.

  Back inside the apartment, her anger and sadness were replaced by curiosity at the red velvet covered box. She sat on the couch and set the box on the coffee table. She didn’t like the way the velvet felt on her fingertips; it felt fleshy and slick and somehow alive. It had an ominous aura about it in general, and gave the strange sensation that it was watching her just as she was watching it. It was ridiculous of course. Nothing more than her over-active imagination. She reached out, lifted off the velvet lid, and looked inside.

  Inside was another box. This one made of wood with a hinged lid. She removed it carefully, reminded of those Russian Matryoshka stacking dolls.

  Box in a box in a box.

  She set this new smaller box down, eying it carefully. It looked to be made of birch or pine and the faint odour of old wood polish reached her nostrils. Other than the hinged lid, it had no other significant features or markings. She realised then that she had been holding her breath
, and as she let it out slowly, wondered why her heart was beating so fast. Chewing her lip, she reached out to the box and opened it, half expecting something to leap out and grab her. It took a moment for her brain to process what she saw.

  The box contained a button.

  It was surrounded in the same red velvet as the outer box, and was circular with a red top. Below, printed in red on a white background was an instruction of sorts. It was comprised of two simple words.

  Erase All.

  She leaned forward to take a closer look, and saw a small folded piece of paper tucked into the underside of the lid. She fished it out carefully, anxious not to touch the button itself. The note had been hand typed, and she could see imperfections where the ink hadn’t fully printed onto the paper. She read the four lines, then read them again.

  Terri.

  This button does exactly as it says.

  When you feel like you have had enough,

  Simply press it and everything will go away.

  She turned the box carefully on the table. There were no wires, no battery compartments, no visible means of powering it. She shook her head, wondering if she was the victim of an elaborate practical joke. She tried to guess which one of her friends would do something like this, but the more she considered it, the more unrealistic the thought became. None of her friends would have done this. She decided to call Jane about it, and to apologize for standing her up earlier.

  Why not just press it?

  She paused as the thought popped into her head and hovered there, waiting for a response. It was a good question. She didn’t believe anything would happen of course, but there was still the great what if factor that she, with her writers mind, was particularly vulnerable to. Without taking her eyes from the box, she took her phone out of her pocket. She had switched it off earlier in the day as per Bob’s suggestion, and now as she turned it back on, she saw the twelve missed calls and six voicemails that had been left. She looked at the box, and the box looked back.