Twisted 50 Volume 1

by Wessell, Stephanie

  Charles watched, the whites of his eyes bulging. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

  Edna silenced the blender. Picking up the funnel, she carried the heavy contents over to Charles.

  “Here we go.”

  Charles started to squirm as Edna ripped off the duct tape over his mouth.

  “No, no”, he muffled lethargically.

  Edna tilted her obese husband’s bloated, vomit-covered head back. Clutching his nose until he gasped, she rammed the tube down his throat. He gagged as she expertly slid it down to his stomach and taped it into place around his lips.

  Grabbing a spatula, she gradually scraped the contents of the blender into the funnel, milking the creamy sludge down the pipe. Charles half-heartedly strained at his restraints, his bare feet paddling over the stagnant piss-stained floor, his trousers squelching with excrement.

  GULP. GULP. GULP. He swallowed involuntarily.

  “I think this one’s my best yet, Charles. Don’t you?”

  Helper

  by Steven Quantick

  “I want to help you. Please let me help you.”

  How have we survived so long as a species when we refuse help so readily? I mean, the human race can’t move forwards unless we help each other.

  I saw a woman pushing twins in a pram. She was carrying her shopping for that week and somehow trying to manoeuvre herself into a lift.

  She was nice, she was polite, but when I asked if I could help she said, “No, thank you” and continued to struggle.

  If I pushed that pram and its precious occupants down a staircase she wouldn’t have any trouble asking for help, would she?

  I suppose it was this that led me to assisting the dead with their problems. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  I've always been very intuitive about what people need.

  The dead are attracted to how. . . alive we seem. Some of them don't know they're dead and when they look at us, they see something that doesn't quite add up. Some poltergeists are the equivalent of poking us with a stick to see if we're real. To see why we're different from them. They're trying to figure out if they're alive. Sometimes when they find out they're dead, they dissipate, to be at peace. Then there are the other times.

  I'm a health and safety inspector for the company I work for, so I spend a lot of time in condemned buildings. I was in a bell tower when I first sensed someone standing behind me who was not there.

  At first, I dismissed the feeling. Like when you’re alone at home, you walk into a room and start as you see out of the corner of your eye that someone is sitting there, waiting for you. And then you look properly and it’s a pile of clothes.

  But a pile of clothes doesn’t breathe down your neck.

  A pile of clothes doesn’t fill your head with screaming.

  And in that bell tower, everything I thought I knew about the universe changed. The tangible and the intangible, the spiritual and the physical. And I clutched at my head in pain as the screaming rose in volume, and I realised whatever this was, it didn’t care if I believed in ghosts.

  And by sheer instinct I cried out, “Stop!”

  And it did.

  And I took a breath. I let myself rest for a moment, tried to calm myself in spite of the frantic twitching of my heart.

  And I tried to consider what I would do if someone intruded in my home. I’d scream. I’d make a fuss. And if I was the intruder and I didn’t mean any harm, I’d assert myself as non-threatening.

  So I told it: “You want to know why I'm here. I'm here to condemn this building as unsafe.” And I don't know why I said it, but I added, “And I'm here to help you.”

  I could feel how angry it was. It swung the bell wildly back and forth until it cracked against the wall and fell hundreds of feet onto the floor of the church. I tried to stay calm, and in my mind I frantically cycled through everything I’d ever read or seen about ghosts.

  And I remembered something about unfinished business. I think I got that one from Casper. And I thought that it was worth a try.

  So when everything finally went quiet, I told it, as gently and kindly as I could, that it was dead. And I gave it permission to move on.

  Everything went quiet, and I heard a beautiful sound, like someone exhaling, like someone so relieved to finally be in bed after a long day. The longest possible day.

  I knew I needed to do this again. So whenever I was somewhere old I listened. And I started to learn how to hear them speak. This is how I know about the poltergeists.

  “There's something not right about you. . .” one of them said. I couldn't just bluntly tell him I was alive and he wasn’t, so we talked for a while, and he figured out what he wanted for himself. A sigh of relaxation and he was gone. At peace.

  I had a friend in the council, Timothy, and even outside of work hours I’d go to him and he’d search his files and look for condemned properties for me to carry out my good work. We’d wile away our evenings imagining the possibilities. Imagining emptying the world of restless spirits. Travelling to the ends of the Earth to meet their needs and resolve their lack of meaning.

  “Who else gets the opportunity to have every chapter of their life close in satisfaction?” he’d say, “And who would imagine that we could even find that in death?”

  And as the months and years went by, giving the living what they wanted seemed far less satisfying.

  It didn't mean I stopped trying to do good for my fellow man, but I must admit the dead began to prove themselves more worthy of my attention. At least they didn't have any issues with asking for help.

  Then there was that basement. Timothy gave me the address, citing some old news stories reporting intruders, scraping noises, screaming.

  As I descended the stairs, there was a heavy atmosphere, an unrelenting sense of need that had gone unfulfilled for a very long time.

  The presence I found there slid into my subconscious, and in a frantic, rattling whisper told me that the woman he loved had been taken away from him. In this case I knew that explaining to the poor unfortunate soul that he was dead would do little good.

  “I know I'm dead”, he said, “but I can't stop.”

  This happened from time to time; they needed closure with someone they cared about.

  I remember a number of occasions where their relatives were still living. So I’d arm myself with information only their dead relative would know, and I would persuade them to come and meet with their dearly departed. And when the dead had spoken their piece and the living had shed their tears, they gave a sigh of relaxation and they were gone.

  So I knew I needed to find this girl.

  He told me he'd died ten years ago, that this girl had only been a young girl of about fourteen when she was taken from him. I assumed it was because she was deemed too young for him. So I followed my usual course of action. I returned to Timothy and he looked over the archives.

  Aside from the news articles he’d cited in sending me there, there was nothing about the basement. Literally nothing. Any additional records had been misplaced or removed and not returned. Or destroyed. Which happens more often than you’d think, to be honest.

  My friend was able to turn up one tiny scrap of information: a home address. And sure enough, when I knocked on the door, there she was.

  I found the girl to be extremely open-minded, considering the circumstances, and within a week I was leading her into the basement. She took in her surroundings, and then she seemed to recognise them. Her eyes widened. Her breathing shallowed. She tried to keep her voice calm as she turned and spoke to me.

  “What are we doing in this place?”

  Sometimes the living become very unsettled when they sense the raw, untamed presence of the dead, so I explained to her the presence I had felt, and that it had asked me to bring her here.

  She began to cry. But it didn't seem to be out of gratitude. A cold feeling crept into my stomach.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

&n
bsp; And before I could answer, the voice echoed through my skull, its previous warmth replaced with malice and poison. “Kill her. Give her to me. She is mine.”

  Helping the dead was one thing, but this was a step too far.

  But as I turned to face the door, Timothy was standing there. His face looked different. He was smiling the most unusual smile. A satisfied grin with that same malice, that same poison. A smile shouldn’t make you feel like you want to crawl away into the corner. Something was wrong.

  Before I could say a word, he reached into the room and pulled the door shut. And with some finality I heard a bolt slide across, sealing me inside the room with the hysterical young lady and whatever foul thing Timothy was apparently in league with.

  The poor girl hurled herself against the door, drawing blood from her clenched fists as she pounded on it, begging to be released, but it was no good, and I remembered that Timothy had only told me the records were gone. He’d brought me this girl’s address. The only bit of evidence needed to lead us both here.

  This was a trap.

  I could barely understand her above her wails of despair, but it seemed that whoever this presence was had taken her to this very basement when she was a little girl. And it was in the process of her rescue that the presence had been killed.

  “You said you would help me.”

  He was right. I promised. And I had to keep my word. Because if I didn’t, we’d both die here. If I didn’t, I’d never be able to help the dead move on again. If I didn’t… I would die.

  And I didn’t want to die. Not like this.

  There were loose bricks scattered around the room. The girl was so busy trying to open the door, she didn't notice that I had taken one in my hand. I pictured all of those that I had helped to find rest, all of those that I would help to find rest in the future, and I let the thought of all the good I would do push me into action.

  I tried to push back my revulsion, I tried not to think about what I was doing as I raised my arm, and allowed the momentum of the brick to carry it into the back of her head.

  She screamed again, her delicate blonde hair quickly cascading into blood red. And I told her I was sorry.

  Another strike. This time the trauma to her skull took away her sight, and she feebly flailed at me, unable to find me.

  Another blow to her forehead. This time there was a crunch, like standing on a packet of crisps. And I told her that this was for the greater good. That I was special. That I needed to live on.

  But she couldn’t hear me.

  Her twitching leg was the only sign that she had once been alive.

  The brick was covered in shards of skull and brain tissue. I thought I was going to be sick. Or scream. Or both. I felt suddenly warm and I realised I’d pissed myself. Then a sigh of relaxation, and I expected the spirit to be gone.

  But he wasn't gone.

  “I can't stop,” he said. “I need another.”

  Timothy opened the door and, with the rationality with which one would explain that we need to pop to the shops for milk, explained that this was our chance to make a difference. He had come to idolise the dead. And I was their slave. He showed me where to dispose of the body, a place doubtlessly selected by our mutual friend in the basement. And as she slipped out of sight into the abyss, I was certain that I saw a hundred lifeless pairs of eyes staring up at us.

  Six months later I came to recognise his type, and he didn't have to tell me where to find the girls anymore. Blonde. Blue eyes. Innocent smile. They reminded him of the daughter he lost. I didn't want to ask how he lost her. I was just trying to help.

  And with every body that I hid, I hoped it would be enough; that he would finally pass on. But he couldn't stop. Not ever. And I promised I’d help. No. More than that. I wanted to live.

  The Left is Sinister

  by Thomas Cranham

  I would ask a favour of you, dear reader. It’s a simple task, one that anyone can accomplish, be they young or old, man or woman, of any religion or race. I want you to cast your mind back, though not far, only to the beginning of the day, when you yawned so wide you could have swallowed a whale and stretched your arms to the stars, to the first thoughts when sleep abandoned you and consciousness returned. I want, no, I need you to tell me which side you were lying on when you first awoke.

  See, I’m a good man; this isn’t some dreadful school examination. It is but one simple question with four simple answers. You were either lying on your back, front, right side or… or the left. Simple, isn’t it, not a difficult task at all. Some might say as hard as taking a breath, picking a flower or as hard as driving a knife along your thigh so that blood runs as thick as a river… just so you can still feel. Not difficult at all. Child’s play, if you will.

  The thing is, I’m worried, scared, terrified. So I’ve done my research; looked high and low for months and days, days and months. I investigated the academic world and internet, in dusty libraries, leafing through fiction, nonfiction and even children’s picture books. And the conclusions worry and scare me; they have put me on the edge of a blade where I can either fall to salvation or destruction.

  Putting the conclusions down on paper feels wrong. It could give them life, even make them final. But I must, for they are the truth, no two ways about it. Others, with more intelligent minds than I, have also found that knowing which side you’re lying when you awake decides who you are. Whether you’re a person of conscience or otherwise, a good fellow who would assist an old dear across the road or someone who would push her in front of an oncoming car, it’s all decided for you. That’s the truth. The evidence is everywhere and I can’t deny it.

  It starts with innocent infants, new to the world, full of possibilities, who often sleep on their backs, wake and play, run around, crap and eat and crap and then sleep on their front. They aren’t consistent. You might think it’s because they’re young, or are attempting to get comfortable. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! There’s an internal war between good and evil raging inside their tiny minds, one that will rage on for the rest of their lives with both sides winning short-lived advantages.

  You’re laughing at me, I know you are. Think of the nights you spent as an adult, unable to sleep, counting sheep for hours until sleep finally took you. And then, lo and behold, you wake up on a different side to normal. That’s the war intensifying, missiles flying; men, women and children of good and evil being blown to pieces, and the conflict will continue until a balance is found.

  Questions. Yes, you will have questions as I did. I asked myself, can good or evil take total control? Well, dear reader, we’re all different, all good and evil to varying degrees. Yes, you who think you’d never hurt a fly, that you’re good to the bone. You couldn’t be more wrong. Evil and its thoughts are there, biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike and urge you to lie to your closest friend, cheat on your girlfriend, slice and dice your dear, dear mother and cook her for tea even if she tastes like gone-off chicken. Even if it’s weak, evil is there; trust me, it’s there, ready to play some games, have a little fun.

  How can you tell who’s winning the war? I’ll answer your question with another. What does the Latin word ‘sinister’ translate to? The left. Always the left. If you wake on the left it’s bad news, terrible, not good, not good. Evil has thrown good to the floor, bloodied and broken. Evidence: Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, Hitler and countless others. Stalin, Himmler, Idi Amin and Pol Pot. The list is endless. And they all had two things in common. All evil to the core, and all awoke on their left side. Coincidence you say. Rubbish.

  Coincidence is a word used by those who do not wish to believe the truth; the truth that waking up lying on your left means evil has the reins for a while and will hurt, maim, strangle, or murder as it sees fit.

  I’ve been told I’m waking on my left. I can’t remember whether or not I have. My memories are hazy. They’re the sun momentarily glimpsed behind the clouds, but recalling them is as easy as catching rain
in a sieve. They’ll forever be out of my reach.

  Last night I had a bottle or two of gin to calm my nerves which had been shredded by Chloe’s words. Who’s Chloe? She’s a nobody, who unlike me is so very confused. One minute so supportive of my conundrum, the next doing everything possible to hinder my research. A clever, beautiful young girl I met last week in a local bar, who I’d been pursuing for what seemed aeons. I spied her from my dark corner, where I sat with only a glass of whisky for company. The whore was hardly dressed, her skirt no more than a belt, her top meant for a child. She showed copious amounts of smooth, pure skin that hit me like a gram of cocaine: she was an angel incarnate.

  I made my move, gliding past the scum of society as blood rushed to my loins, feeling so high my toes barely touched the dark floor. I bought her a drink, we chatted, she smiled and I suggested we find somewhere more private. Faces turned to watch us, the perfect couple, as we left the bar. A smile, the most beautiful smile, filled her face and her eyes sparkled with mischief. We went into an alley and in the darkness I took her.

  Chloe’s parents are searching for her; I saw them on TV, faces covered in tears and snot. But if only they knew, she has no intention of leaving. Girl’s doing good, assisting me, loving me. And sometimes I only wish to be free of her; there I am, pulling my hair out, cutting my arms and legs, eternally worried that evil will take hold, and she’s chained herself to the bed, naked, screaming at me, setting my head off rumbling like a volcano ready to blow its top and destroy everything in its shadow. It’s always the same; I end up hitting out to release the pressure, so my brain doesn’t explode. I don’t understand why Chloe brings it on herself – the games with fists and knives and blood and screams.

  My head’s everywhere. All I can think of is waking on my left, of evil winning the internal war. But then I contemplate, it can’t be, I’m moral, I feed my dog and take her for walks and love her every day. But just in case the worst happens, that I start waking up on my left side, I have my sweet, sweet compatriot Chloe to watch over me every morning. So it doesn’t really matter that I can’t remember. Through bloodied lips Chloe tells me I’m a saint, I’m safe and that I woke up lying on my back. She never lies: I look into her big black eyes and recognise the truth. Though, each day, I still ask her, only to be sure. I wish never to succumb to evil. Never, ever, ever.