Spine Shivering Stories!

by Michelle E Lowe

  “This is insane,” she said, snatching the phone from its cradle and dialing. “I’m calling the police.”

  Then the intruder leaned toward her and said, “Who do you think killed that girl in the New York nightclub when you worked there as a bartender?”

  Eva froze in place, her finger pressing on the dial. Flashes of her past resurfaced. She remembered dancers on the floor, dancing to the loud beats from the DJ. And she remembered the annoying drunk girl who kept ordering drinks and never leaving a tip.

  “This is some sick joke,” Eva said, hanging up the phone. “You just somehow broke in my office to play a prank, right? Vic is in on it too, isn’t he?”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I didn’t murder anyone, and Vic made it seem like he was going to kill me. He pulled out a syringe and said “I cannot be stopped.”

  “No, you only imagined that happened.”

  “What?”

  “Hate to break it to you, hon, but you’re a little daffy. What he really said was, ‘I’ll call the cops’, and took out his cell phone, which you mistook for a syringe. You see, it was you who wanted to go up to the projection booth.”

  Eva shook her head in disbelief. “No, it wasn’t, Vic did.”

  “Wrong again, girly,” the intruder said, tapping her long fingernail against her temple. “Think about it again.”

  She thought back for a moment and suddenly began remembering the real conversation that took place between her and Vic inside the auditorium.

  “The killer must’ve done this at the last show,” Vic had said. “That means he was just here, man.”

  “He could still be in the building,” Eva had said. “Let’s go upstairs in the projection booth and call the police. But first, I want to hear more about this serial killer.”

  “See?” the intruder said with a sigh. “Now you’ve gone and done this. You’ve really thrown everything out of whack.”

  “I don’t murder people.”

  “Technically, you’re right about that. You see, killing is my game, not yours. Your job is finding us work and places to stay like normal people do, and once settled, that’s when I come out to play. When Paula had asked to leave early, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to pick my next victim. I put the Rohypnol in the customer’s drink while preparing it behind concessions. Then I moseyed into the auditorium to poison him.”

  “Wait, are you saying that . . . ”

  “We’re the same person.”

  Eva stumbled back and hit the wall, clutching her pounding chest. “No,” she gasped.

  “Yes,” the woman said. “And you can’t go around killing people like this. It’s sloppy, and sloppiness will get us both executed, got it?”

  Cold terror took hold of her soul when she imaged herself becoming the Top Story on the evening news. She could just hear an anchorperson saying, “At last, that sick and twisted freak, the Venom Killer, has been captured. Hear how her sloppiness landed her in police custody right after our weather forecast.”

  She could picture herself being paraded around in handcuffs while reporters questioned her about the horrors that she never remembered committing. Then after going through an agonizing trial, and hearing the merciless slam of the judge’s gavel, she’d be forced to listen to her victim’s loved ones curse her name and tell of the grief and misery she had caused them. And as a closure to her short life, she’d be strapped to a cold table and injected with sodium thiopental while family members of the departed pierced their hatful eyes through a Plexiglas wall. All the while, this other part of her—the real murderess—would cowardly hide in the shadows of her mind and dare not make an appearance, allowing the innocent side of Eva to take all the blame. The thought nearly caused her to break down into tears.

  “What are we going to do?” she finally asked.

  “Don’t soil yourself over this,” her other self groaned. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  She stabbed out her cigarette on the desk and then stood to approach her. Eva suddenly felt lightheaded and before she knew it, she blacked out.

  Eva smelled a combination of rotten food and dirty diapers before opening her eyes. As her vision cleared, she discovered that she was lying in a pile of garbage. She sat up and found a flashlight in her hand. She shined the light around, seeing nothing but a field of endless waste.

  The city dump.

  How the hell did I get here? She wondered, rubbing her aching head.

  Dazed and confused, Eva moved the beam around before a human hand caught her eye. It stuck out between some trash bags and loose debris. Eva pushed a trash bags over. A bloody face stared back at her. She shot to her feet upon discovering it was Vic.

  The series of events in which led her here were hazy, like visions in a snowstorm. An urgent voice inside her head advised that it was now time to get out of the city.

  TRANSITION

  Yesterday Mom and Dad came home with the new baby. I’d been standing in a sunspot in our kitchen when they entered the room. Dad placed the baby down on the breakfast table for me to see.

  “Introduce yourself to your little sister,” he said, waving me forward.

  Meeting her made me nervous, ’cause meeting something new doesn’t, like, come along every day, y’know. I approached the tank and leaned in close. “Hi, sis, sis,” I said, rapping my fingers on the glass.

  She twitched.

  “Don’t tap on the glass, Suzy,” Mom scolded. “For her the sound is twice as loud.”

  “Is she in freshwater or saltwater?” I asked.

  “Fresh,” Dad answered, going over to the hearth where a small fire burned under an iron pan. “No one can breathe under salt water yet, but it won’t be long before it’s possible.”

  He placed an oven mitt over his webbed hand, slid the pan out, and poured the tuna soup into a cup.

  Mom’s cold, damp hand gently stroked my smooth head as she said, “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  I returned my attention to the tank.

  She looked like a hairless albino monkey.

  My sister had reached what scientists called The Next Stage. Mom and Dad were so proud.

  She wasn’t the only one to come this far, in fact, she’s the third. The very first to cross the finish line over to the Next Stage was a boy born in Africa twenty-four years ago. His parents named him Chiratidzo, meaning ‘a sign’. The second like him was his son, born a few years back. I learned about them this year in school.

  Ever since we began changing hundreds of years ago, scientists predicted we’d reach this stage and would gradually continue transforming so long as we existed.

  Dad took large gulps of the tuna soup that I made for them before they came home. Tuna soup is easy to make, it’s just chopped up tuna in fish broth and served really hot. The hotter the better ’cause it, like, warms the blood, y’know.

  After draining his cup, Dad wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and moved over toward the sunspot where I’d been standing. He warmed himself in the bright light that shone through the glass kitchen door like a water turtle sunbathing on a stone.

  “We still need a name for her,” he said.

  “Would you like to give her one?” Mom asked me.

  I pointed to myself. “Me? Really?”

  “Sure,” said Dad with a shrug. “We can’t think of anything. Go for it.”

  For inspiration, I turned back to my sister, sleeping soundly in her plastic chair that bolted to the bottom of her small tank. Her tiny mouth opened and closed, sucking in water and breathing it out in tiny bubbles through the gills on either side of her neck. I slid my finger down my own neck. I have no gills. I still have a nose and my lungs need air, though I can stay underwater for, like, hours now.

  Mom got up from her granite chair and dunked her entire body under the three feet of water that covers our whole community. The area had been flooded for a while now. My teacher said the water reached the midlands some seven hundred years ago. As our bodies accept
ed the changes needed to survive, we had started building homes and furniture out of stone and cement since most other materials won’t last long in water. We’ve basically turned homes into what I call Stylish Caves. There’s still warm-blooded air breathing people out there, living on high mountain peaks, but not many, and with water levels constantly rising, they’ll be extinct soon. It’s funny, ’cause years ago we were considered the freaks, and like all outcasts we were shunned by the majority that feared us. Now we dominate the planet two to one!

  Dad was right, it won’t be long before we adapt to saltwater. When that happens, everything we have left that makes us human will be, like, y’know, gone. Funny, it took us millions of years to become humans; now it’s only taken hundreds to return to our basics.

  After a minute went by, Mom reappeared with a refreshed look on her pastel face.

  “Dehydrated, dear?” Dad asked, as she sat back on her chair.

  “Yeah. Having a baby takes the moisture right out of you.”

  Mom carried the baby in her womb and gave birth, but they say in time, females will lay eggs instead. YUCK! I don’t want eggs plopping outta me. I believe that once we reach a certain stage, many things will vanish, like friendships, material want, and just about anything that once separated us from animals. Eventually it’ll be every man and woman for themselves. One day, surviving on a day to day basis will be the high priority. And instead of focusing on jobs, relationships, school, homework, or whatever, the new agenda will be finding food, hiding from predators, and breeding. Everything we own will become useless to us, even our Stylish Caves. I mean, what will we need ’em for, shelter from the rain?

  That cold inevitability won’t happen in my lifetime, or my children’s, or my grandchildren’s, but we’re heading there, no doubt about it. As of now, we’re still holding on to our species’ traditions, like going to school, playing sports, and celebrating holidays. But many other things have disappeared like electricity, ’cause duh we’re, like, surrounded by water!

  My sister opened her eyes and looked at me; at least I think she did. Her eyeballs were like solid glass marbles in a variety of blues mixed with twirling lines of white. Mom and Dad’s lipless mouths were shining with smiles. I could tell they were so thrilled about her; if they were capable, they’d have shed tears.

  “The doctor said she’ll need to eat raw foods,” Dad said.

  “That’s disgusting!” I blurted.

  Dad chuckled.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But I guess it’ll be useful for her since it’s getting harder to find dry wood for fires nowadays.”

  Two thousand years ago the rising temperatures could’ve killed us off if our bodies hadn’t adapted. When dry land became scarce, most people were forced to settle in water. After awhile their skin couldn’t stay moist by itself anymore; they began depending on the wet conditions, like needing lotion for severe dry skin, I guess. In my first grade class last year, I learned about what’s happening to us. It’s called Transition. I think they’re half right about that. I mean, we’re changing, that’s for sure, just not evolving. In order to evolve a species has to move forward. In my opinion it’s more like we’re moving backwards, y’know, changing back into the very thing we started from billions of years ago before crawling out from the sea. Some of my friends have these fantasies that we’re all gonna turn into merpeople, but I know better. We’re heading back to the drawing board, and my sister is proof of it!

  We should’ve known better when the glaciers began melting. When time was still available, people often talked about improving the environment and preventing global warming from happening, but, like, not enough action was taken. Then the hole in the ozone grew larger and before anyone had a chance to inflate a raft, the seas rose over their backyards.

  I think the earth will be okay now. There are no more factories billowing poisonous fumes into the air, and almost all of the carbon dioxide stopped when people couldn’t, like, drive anymore. Maybe millions of years from now, if the sun still burns, the water might recede, and we humans can start all over again. If so, I hope we use a little more common sense next time around.

  “Have you decided on a name, yet?” Mom asked.

  “Aglaia,” I told her. “Her name is Aglaia.”

  CLARA’S PERFORMANCE

  We had a packed theater on the night of the accident. The audience was dressed to the nines. Even Charlie Chaplin sat in the front row. Everything went perfectly at first. My performers hit their marks flawlessly. Granted, their movements were stiff and jagged, and they couldn’t speak or sing, but that didn’t take away the magic from the show.

  My performers’ hold on the crowd was unbreakable.

  It was the deep sea scene. An underwater backdrop and wooden waves that were pulled back and forth by stagehands decorated the stage. The song, Sea Monster, played. Because the performers couldn’t sing or even have moveable mouths, the next best thing was hiring top-notch singers. They stood in the orchestra pit behind microphones.

  Two performers, Anne and Shirley, sat on swings suspended from wire wrapped in seaweed. Their pink Sea-Monkey customs sparkled in the lights. The singers’ voices were in sync with the performers’ jerky movements. The pair wooed the crowd, yet the real wait was for Clara—the star.

  On cue, the trapdoor opened and a large clamshell rose. The audience gasped as the shell stopped and opened. Clara rose to her full height, looking stunning in her mermaid costume. She stiffly lifted her arm as her singer’s voice rose whimsically. I beamed proudly at her. As her song continued, Anne unexpectedly stood on her swing.

  “What the hell is she doing?” I muttered.

  “Why is she standing, June?” the director, Wallace MaClay, asked me.

  I couldn’t answer him before a scream scratched up my throat. Anne fell headfirst off her swing. She hit the floor and broke into pieces. Gears and sprockets clanked against the floor and bounced off the wooden waves. Her brass and steel head had crashed through the floorboards. The audience hadn’t realized the plunge was unscripted. It took the singers and musicians to abruptly cease before they came to terms with the fall. A woman screamed, a horrible, unnecessary screech— that in my opinion—ought to be meant for a living person, not an automaton.

  Clara clicked her head over to where Anne landed. The spur gear installed in her neck made her head tick like a clock hand when she turned it. I’d expected her to mindlessly continue with her performance, but both she and Shirley set their stainless silver eyes on Anne’s mangled body. Wallace loudly ordered a stagehand to close the curtain. The moment the curtain panels touched, I darted out on stage. The sight of the damage made my throat close in.

  She was a mess. Her glittery costume had ripped when her sharp insides exploded out. Black oil drenched her like blood. It took both Wallace and I to hoist her heavy head out of the stage floor. In my head I could already hear the theater owner complaining about the damage.

  Hours later, I was studying Anne backstage where we placed her wrecked body on a table. Wallace was busy handling the enraged theater owner.

  Since my show had become a worldwide success, I had a substantial amount of funds, which came in handy when hiring workers to load the 500 pound automatons.

  “What went wrong, June?” asked Dolores Pell, our costume designer.

  “I don’t know. She just stood on her swing and fell off.”

  “She stood on the swing?” she pounced on the word. “Huh? Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked almost defensively. “Are you suggesting she jumped?”

  Dolores shrugged. “I dunno, hun. I wasn’t watching the show.”

  The bitch loved stirring up rumors even between her co-workers, so I didn’t give what Dolores said much thought.

  The following afternoon, we boarded our steam locomotive for Chicago. We were scheduled to depart in the morning, but we ran late on account of Wallace spending the entire night at a Speakeasy. Luckily for him, we own
ed the locomotive; otherwise he’d be riding on the next train the following day.

  I needed to get home and repair Anne. I was so anxious to get to work that I decided to go into the cargo cars and see what I could manage with the tools I had.

  In the cargo car, the frosty November air breezed in through the boards of the walls. The dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling, swayed back and forth with the train’s movements. To keep my automatons safe, they were stored in metal coffins with three inch thick glass lids. Before I went to Anne’s coffin, I stopped at Clara’s. Her solid silver eyes focused solely on the swaying blub directly above her, the dim light swooshed lightly over her shiny face.

  Clara was my masterpiece, the youngest in my collection. I’d spent years improving my automatons. Tinkering was in my blood, tracing back to my great, great, grandfather, Pierre Jaquet-Droz.

  I placed my hand on the glass lid, my fingers squeaked as I slid them down.

  “Thank God it didn’t happen to you,” I whispered.

  As I gazed lovingly at her, a wrenching metallic sound scraped against my eardrums. That’s when I noticed one of the coffin lids was open. I followed the sound behind a storage crate where my male automaton, Gerald, was prying out his internal gears with a crowbar.

  “Gerald!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  He clicked his head to me. Had he understood me? How could that be? He was a mere machine with no capability to either hear, or process anything. Then again, why did I call out to him?

  Gerald sat with legs spread, his mechanical parts scattered all around him. He’d opened his chest plate where hoses and sprockets hung. The crowbar was lodge inside, his hands wrapped around it. His emotionless face seemed to be yarning to communicate something. He couldn’t speak, yet he made his statement clear when he ripped out the crowbar, tearing out the most vital part—the heart.