by C. E. Wilson
Make death less gruesome. This is the beginning of the story for Christ’s sake. Don’t scare off potential readers.
My pen lowered and I turned over my shoulder towards the closed door. Kevin had finally fallen silent. All I could hear in the background was the opening melody to Rosemary’s Baby. The lullaby was haunting as it pounded through the surround sound speakers Kevin set up a few years ago. It was loud. Louder than he usually liked it and so, standing up and tugging a pair of sneakers on, I hunched over in the hallway to tie them. I avoided a thin stream of blood from the nearby wall. These hallucinations were getting more lifelike.
“Hey, you mind turning that down?” I called. “Last thing I need is more neighbors filing complaints about me.”
He didn’t answer.
I started tying the other shoe.
“Hey? You hear me?” Silence returned, except for the whispering of the walls. “Come on, Kevin. I thought you said you were going to lighten up a bit.” There was no sound other than the cooing la-la-la from the speakers. Grimacing with annoyance, I stood up and put my hands on my hips. “Fuck, Kevin. Come on. I said we could have a drink. Don’t be a piss, especially since you chose the movie. It’s a little loud for my taste, but hey, it’s your night.”
With careful steps to avoid the puddles of rainbow colored oil at my feet, I walked into the living room. Kevin sat on the couch facing the television, but he still hadn’t answered me.
“Start it up if we’re gonna watch that,” I said, suddenly craving the sound of his voice. I rubbed my fingers through his coarse hair and stepped around the couch. There was a puddle of red on my seat, and I checked the back of my jeans to make sure I wasn’t having my period.
All clear.
So why... my throat contracted when my eyes drifted over to Kevin. He was sitting on the couch, but he was starting to slump at an unnatural angle. My eyes landed on his hands, already knowing what I would see, but no less shocked when I realized they were mangled. Fingernails gone. Bloody stubs dripping into the upholstery.
Shaking and barely able to catch my breath, I trailed up his body, finding his chest an empty, bloody cave.
But the worst were his bulging eyes. He wore a mask of shock. Horror. Disbelief.
Chapter Eight
I stood there for some time. Eventually my body acted on its own and I turned away. Mechanically, I checked the door.
Shut and locked. All the windows closed and locked.
No one had come in, and therefore no one had gone out. But someone had killed my husband. It wasn’t a matter of him being injured. He was dead. But it was how it was done. It was done in the same way I had... I clasped my hands to my mouth, frightened that I would scream and alert the neighbors. I needed to figure this out.
There was a gutted dead body on my couch with no one other than me standing before it.
The opening music from Rosemary’s Baby provided a horrifying ambiance to the scene. As though Kevin was being lulled to sleep, without his internal organs. I lowered my hands and tried to reason this away.
“It’s another dream,” I said. “Of course! It’s only another dream.” Laughing, I reached over for a fuzzy black throw and tossed it over Kevin’s body. “It’s only another dream! Jessen Blake is messing with me again! How odd! How utterly strange! Wait till Kevin comes into the bedroom and sees what I have done!” Staggering back a few steps, I pinched my arm, ready to wake up from the disgusting scene before me. His scent filled my nostrils, but blood did not go well with freshly mowed grass. Kevin’s gutted body was too much – even for me. “I’d like to wake up now, please!” I said jovially, pinching my arm.
I pinched it again.
And again.
And again and again.
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la...
Still there. Kevin still rested under the fuzzy blanket. Blood was darkening the blanket. It looked damp as though someone had spilled wine on his stomach. That damn stroller on the hill with Mia Farrow’s face watched with a judgmental expression. I grabbed another throw and tossed it over the TV. The music blared on. The remote was under the blanket with Kevin. I couldn’t bring myself to pull it out. I turned around and clutched my head, joining in the soft, easy lyrics of the song and barely found my footing near the kitchen counter. I grabbed the mug of vodka and ice and stared at the contents. I couldn’t even tell there was anything inside.
“He’s not dead,” I said to the cup. “It’s all a dream! Just a dream, I say.” I sounded like an idiot, but I didn’t care. “Here! You want me to drink this? I will, Kevin! I’ll do it for you!” I chugged the entire cup of vodka with gusto and slammed it down so hard on the counter that the handle snapped off. “Not enough?” I called to the eyes watching me and the ears listening. Mia Farrow turned to get a better look. “Here! Why don’t I take them all!”
I pulled the bag of pills closer to me and dumped all eighteen into my palm and swallowed them dry and whole. I choked and gagged as they each went down like painful little pebbles and smacked my lips.
The rainbows were coming back!
“See!” I squealed. “It’s a dream! Just all a dream! He’s not dead! Of course, he’s not dead. I didn’t publish the book. The rules haven’t changed! I didn’t publish the goddamn book, so of course, he’s not dead! Who would kill their husband in a book just because he wanted her to take her medication? That’s nuts!” I turned to the man sitting next to me at the counter. He smiled, but all his teeth fell out when he did so, clanking on the counter with the sound of little falling marbles. He slowly started to gather them up. “That’s nuts, isn’t it? That would make me a murderer! A maniac!” The man faded.
The lullaby played.
“This isn’t real,” I said, standing up from the counter and swaying heavily into the wall. “Nope. Not real. You’re not real,” I said, pointing at the unicorn that was peeing in the corner. Rainbow splattered all over the wall as I shuffled past. “When you’re finished be sure to clean up! And Kevin, don’t you let that unicorn steal my vodka. I know unicorns like to drink!”
Still staggering, I somehow managed to make it all the way back to my bedroom and slammed the door shut. My bed looked too inviting. There was a man on the bed with a child’s body. He looked to be ninety in the face, but no more than ten in the body. He waved and patted the spot next to him. His hands were large. His fingers were cracked and encrusted with dirt. But his smile was warm enough, and no teeth fell.
“Come to bed, sweetie. You’re tired. Let Mommy help you rest.”
“You just wait a moment, Mr. Old Man,” I slurred at him. “I gotta wake up first.”
“You are awake, sweetie. Now come to bed.”
“No!” I barked, crashing in front of the laptop. “This is justa dream. Justa dream. Dream, dream, dream, drrrrreeeeeeam!” I wanted to wake up. I pinched myself harder this time, breaking through the thick skin near my wrist. “Wake up, dummy! Dumbby! Dumbytrotter! Come on! We gotta wake up and write another best seller! We gotta fix this. Fix Kevin. Kevin’s dead, you know. Thank God it’s only a dream.” I yanked open a drawer and reached for a pair of scissors. If pinching wasn’t going to wake me up, I supposed I would have to find another way.
The man-child giggled. “He warned you, didn’t he? You were warned.”
“You be quiet,” I snapped, slicing across my wrist.
“Lengthwise, sweetie,” man-child said.
“You be quiet!” I shouted back, throwing the scissors towards him. He only continued to laugh. A warm, childish, eerie sound that made me want to stab the scissors into my ears instead.
“Just come to bed,” he cooed, sounding further away. “It’ll all be better if you just lay down with me.”
“I just... I wanna write...” I felt my words getting lost. I felt lost. The walls bled black now. “I can fix this... I can fix it. If words make me dead, words make him alive.”
“You’re not making any sense, sweetie.”
I didn’t answer the man
-child. He was no help anyway. What needed to be done, only I could do it. I opened up a new screen on my laptop and started to type.
“Zee author who fixed things,” I said proudly. “Now zat’s a title zat sells!” My fingers danced. They flew. An arrogant author came to her senses and decided that the only way to fix things was to start over. She found a magical device in her desk that blasted out memories with a paralyzing ray of colors. There would be darkness, yes. But there would be a beginning because there was no end.
“The arrogant author held the magical memory remover up to her temple,” I said, reading out loud as I typed. The man-child giggled like a kid at the playground going down the slide for the first time. He said I would be sorry. Shows what he knows. “Her slightly fat finger knew how to work the device, like she had used it before. Her daddy and momma loved her. She knew how to work a gun. She felt the cool touch against her temple and the weight of the memory wiper. It would take it all away. It would take all this away. Her finger shifted. It was like slow motion. And then—”
Epilogue
“And you said she was a happy girl, yes? Happy childhood and everything?” The officer stood before a sobbing woman and cocked her hip to the side with impatience. The lies were too not making her job any easier, but she supposed losing a child and a husband in a few weeks would do that to a person. But she still needed answers. “Mrs. Ross, I know this is difficult, but if you would only respond to the questions, I can leave you to grieve.”
“She was happy,” the older woman said, dabbing at her eyes. “When she was young. She was so happy. I don’t know when it all changed. It wasn’t her that did this. It was the disease.”
“Of course,” the officer said, jotting something down. “Once again, ma’am, let me say sincerely that I truly am sorry for your loss – err – losses. Your daughter was an incredible talent. I’ve read plenty of her books. You must have been so proud of her.”
She sniffed hard. “I never believed in all this hack writing nonsense. Not a respectable career. And now look where it’s gotten her.”
The officer’s eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “You can’t mean that, Mrs. Ross. Your daughter wasn’t some hack writer. She was the number one selling author in the country.”
“She never mentioned that to me,” the woman muttered. “Of course she never told me anything. After she started getting sick, she looked at me as though I was the devil. She stopped answering her phone and disappeared off the face of the earth. If she’d have gotten a regular job, I’m sure none of this would have ever happened.”
“You said it was the disease which drove her mad,” the officer said. “Wouldn’t it have been an issue no matter what?”
“Yes, but... I’m still sure her mind wouldn’t have been as dark. I’m sure she wouldn’t have killed anyone.”
“Mrs. Ross, I must remind you, we’re not sure that it was your daughter who murdered Mr. Akers.”
The older woman scoffed. “Of course she did it. You said she shot herself in the head, didn’t you?”
“I said that she was killed by a gunshot to her head.”
“And this took place after Kevin was already dead? His body hidden under a blanket?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?” Mrs. Ross snapped through her tears. “What is it now?”
“We found no weapons in the house except for some grimy kitchen knives that were buried under weeks of old dishes. They weren’t used on Mr. Akers. And all the windows and doors were locked and undisturbed. Two sets of keys in the house, everything locked from the inside. And your daughter had traces of gunpowder on her hand. It’s very strange, worthy of one of her stories.”
She sniffed. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying... that if your daughter somehow did manage to – ahem – dismember Mr. Akers in the way we saw, she would have needed knives and saws and all sorts of stuff. But we’ve found nothing that could have down that. We’ve searched every searchable place. And if your daughter did – ahem – shoot herself then there would be a gun somewhere. And there isn’t. There isn’t a single weapon in the house that could have aided in either crime.”
She sniffed again, sucking a sigh between her teeth. The officer already hated the sound. “So you’re trying to tell me...”
“I’m saying that we don’t know who killed either of these two yet or how they did it. We’re still investigating.”
“You should stop wasting your time,” Mrs. Ross said, glaring at the townhouse behind her that was covered in yellow tape. She could imagine the headlines now. She could imagine what people would think of her when they realized that she had lost her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all in the course of a few weeks, all under suspicious circumstances. The thought made her sick. “May I go now, officer? Or do you have other questions you’d like me to answer?”
She looked surprised. “Well, err... no. No, actually. You’re free to go if you’d like. Your alibi checks out and unless you’d like to share more information with us—”
“I wouldn’t like,” she sniffed. “My husband is dead. My daughter – who I loved dearly – is also dead. She was not right, in the head. But she was also smart. I wouldn’t be shocked if you found her weapons hidden very cleverly. She was always a clever girl.”
The officer glanced over her shoulder as though weighing the possibility. She cracked her gum and turned back to the woman with almost a forlorn look. “That’s highly unlikely, ma’am—”
“She always loved horror,” Mrs. Ross said, already turning back towards her car.
The officer noticed that the woman’s shoulders shook. Her steps were not steady. And when she reached for her keys, her hands were shaking so violently that for a brief moment the officer considered consoling her. But she did not go.
She must have wanted to cry.
She must have.
Surely no one could be so cold, the officer thought to herself.
But she didn’t see a single tear fall.
And not another word was spoken as the woman got into her car and drove away. The officer – and everyone else for that matter – never found out what exactly happened, but she never made it back home.
Table of Contents
Don’t Write it Down
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
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A Death’s Awakening
Chapter One
I know Death wants me.
I just didn’t think I’d want him too.
I know death follows me.
It’s one of those things which makes being a high school student a little less than optimal. I can’t remember the last time I participated in gym class without needing my inhaler or ending up passed out on the floor. It doesn’t take much since I have chronic Bronchiectasis, but I try to make it as fashionable as possible.
Yeah, that’s about as lame as it sounds.
I always carry around handkerchiefs in my pockets like an old man and crave my inhaler the same way a few of my friends crave cigarettes. My skin always has a bluish tint to it like I’m a vampire from the first Twilight movie, and not in the sexy way. I always try to tell myself things could be worse. School keeps me busy, but that doesn’t mean that my illness isn’t always a few thoughts away.
Which leads to death.
I always feel it lurking somewhere. Watching me. Following me.
I’m not even sure why I think this. Surely death has something better to do than follow me around. But my senses always tell me differently. I’ve felt him breathing on my neck when I think I’m alone. I’ve felt him massaging my shoulders and patting my back when I’m having a
coughing fit. I’ve heard his laughter in the nurse’s office when the useless woman offers me a cough drop so I won’t annoy my classmates.
All of these things are true, but they don’t prepare me for the man I see sitting in a tree at the edge of the park. He isn’t tall. Or intimidating. Or foreboding. In fact, he’s maybe three feet tall and unassuming. He reminds me of a child and when I first notice him, he’s struggling, possibly caught in the branches. I know in my heart that I’m looking at Death, but I’m confused to find Death struggling in a tree. If he’s having such a difficult time, why doesn’t he remove that gaudy bright white hoodie?
I take a deep pull from my inhaler as I observe him. It’s almost completely dark now and I’m sure my parents are beginning to worry about me. They hate when I want to walk home from school after meetings. They want to pick me up, but the walk is only ten minutes and most of it’s through the neighborhood and park. I always need to lay a guilt trip on them about being an adult. Also, there are lots of benches, which help a lot.
Tonight, I was already running late. But I couldn’t ignore Death in that tree. Despite his small size, his grunts sound like they’re coming from an old man, so without thinking of the consequences, I approach the tree and look up at him with wide and curious blue eyes.
“You having a hard time up there?” I call up.
He grunts in response and continues to struggle. “Does it look like I’m having a party?” he snaps back. His voice startles me.
“I don’t know... I suppose that’s why I asked.” I narrow my eyes and try to get a better look at him. He certainly didn’t look like Death. He was the size of a child, but obviously wasn’t one. In fact, with his floppy black hair and black eyes, he doesn’t look much older than me. I suppose it wouldn’t be right to ask if he was a ‘little person’ at the time, so I continue to watch him struggle. “Are you caught on something?”
He shoots me a severe glare. His high cheeks flush with crimson and he makes an obvious show of tugging at his white hoodie.