Horror Stories: 51 Sleepless Nights

by Wade, Tobias

  I shouldn't have hit her. I know it was wrong. But I couldn't get her attention, and I was getting so mad at her being mad... shit, I don't know. It wasn't even hard - I just pushed her away from me and she fell over. I was so embarrassed that I just rushed straight out the door.

  Where was I supposed to go though? I didn't want to bring my mother in on this. She had to believe I was the perfect son - the perfect husband that my dad never was. The only person who seemed to understand what I was going through, the only one I wanted to talk to, was my dad.

  Tap tap tap. My knock lacked all of the certainty and power it had the first time around. And yeah, maybe he was just going to say something that pissed me off worse, but maybe he'd also remind me about how much worse of a father he was. Compared to him and everything he's done, I'd be able to look at myself and know I wasn't so bad.

  "Tell me everything," I said.

  "Well come on in."

  "I don't want to come in. I want to know what made you such a shitty father."

  We stood facing each other through the doorway. He looked worn out, but I must have too after last night. For a second I thought he was going to just close the door in my face, but then he sighed and said:

  "I hit your mother. Are you happy now?"

  "Yeah what else? I want to know everything." My breath was coming in shallow gasps. There had to be more. There had to be something that made this man worse than me.

  "Just leave it alone, will you? It's ancient history," he said. "Either come in or leave, because I don't want to just stand here like a couple of -"

  "I want you to tell me what else you did to us!" I shouted.

  "Yeah, well know what I want?" He said. "I hope when your son comes knocking on your door in twenty some years, you do something I couldn't and break the cycle. I hope you don't answer him."

  He started to close the door. I tried to push my way in, and the door slammed on my foot.

  "I'm not you! I'll never be you!"

  He tried to push me back so he could close the door, but I barreled into him and knocked him to the floor. He tried to crawl away, but I straddled him and pinned him to the ground.

  "Get the Hell off me -"

  "Not until you tell me what else made you leave."

  "It's none of your business -" He tried to sit up, but I forced his head down. Too hard. It slammed into the tile floor with a sickening crack, and a pool of blood began to spread out from the wound. He wasn't fighting back anymore. His body felt limp.

  "What did you do? What did you do?" I kept shaking him as though that would wake him up, but all I did was smear the blood around. But there! One of his eyes flickered open for a moment.

  "I swear to God," I said, "if you don't tell me I'll -"

  "I killed a man," he grunted. "After that, I couldn't look you or my wife in the eye, so I left."

  "Who?" I asked, but somehow I already knew the answer.

  "He had it coming. For leaving my mother. For leaving me." My grip went slack, but it didn't matter. He couldn't stand anymore. I let him slip to the ground and stared at my bloody hands.

  What son would want a father like this? Maybe he was right. Maybe they are better off without us.

  The Organ Harvesting Club

  Growing up, I was one of those kids who could be washed with a fire hose and still have dirt between my toes. Mud was the best toy in the world. I used it like Play-Doh to build entire forts, and my twin sister said she could always tell when I was coming before she saw me because of the squelching sound.

  Bugs? Bring it on. I’d eat one for a dollar. Painting? My whole body was both brush and canvas. Maybe you’d find me baking a cake with my sister. We looked almost identical, but you could easily tell us apart because she would be wearing disposable gloves up to her elbow, while my whole face was buried in the bowl to lick the batter.

  That’s what makes it so unfair that she got sick and I didn’t. It started with her feet and ankles swelling up. I thought she was just starting to gain weight, and I forced her to jog with me in the morning before school. She kept trying to push through, but she couldn’t keep up with me like she used to. I shouldn’t have made her feel bad for it, but I was only 17 then. I thought she just wasn’t trying. I didn’t understand that she was trying twice as hard as me, or that trying sometimes wasn’t enough.

  A month later, she could barely walk without throwing up. She was exhausted and dizzy all the time, and I felt so helpless watching her drift away from me. She was diagnosed with a polycystic kidney disease which was causing both of her kidneys to fail. She tried dialysis for awhile, but it quickly became clear that she was going to need a transplant.

  I didn’t even have to think about it. She was my other half. If her body was sick, my body was sick, and if there was something I could do to make her better, then I that was the end of the discussion. It was just bad luck for her to express the inherited condition while I didn’t, and it could have just as easily been me. It was going to be a routine enough operation though, and once she had one of my kidneys, there was no reason for the cysts to form anymore. We were both going to be okay. Yeah we’d have to be on medications for the rest of our life, but as long as she’d be taking it with me, it would be fair. Besides, what twin doesn’t want to have matching scars?

  We were prepared for the surgery together in the same room. We made a game out of drinking the nauseating laxatives which were necessary before the operation: first one to get through it gets to choose which kidney to have. It wasn’t even close to fair because she started out nauseous and I had always been the one who could stomach anything, so I made a big show of spitting it up and let her win. Her gloating about beating me was the happiest I had seen her in a long time.

  It was so embarrassing because she wouldn’t stop giggling while the male nurse shaved the little hairs on our abdomen. I started laughing too, and the nurse looked so uncomfortable that he had to excuse himself from the room to ‘check something’.

  “Come back!” she yelled after him. “We can do you next. It’ll be fun!”

  Her smile was glowing despite everything she had to go through. I want to always remember her like that.

  The surgery was terminated half-way through. There had been a complication, and her body had gone into shock the moment her first kidney was removed. They said she woke up for a moment and held my hand right before she went, but they might have just been saying that to try and make me feel better. It didn’t work.

  The doctor said I could see the body if I wanted, but what was the point? All I had to do was look in the mirror. All the pain and loss on my face – hers must have looked the same way. Then the doctor leaned in real close – like he didn’t want anyone else to hear – and he whispered something to me.

  “Since you’re all prepared for the surgery anyway, do you want to still go through with it?”

  “She’s gone. What’s the point?”

  “There’s someone else who is also a match. You could be saving their life instead.”

  What did he think this was, a charity? I wasn’t just giving organs away. I was only doing this because she was my sister, and I would have given anything for her. I wasn’t about to risk my life for –

  “The recipient is willing to compensate you with 250,000 dollars.”

  I choked on my reply. It’s amazing how quickly you’re able to justify something for that kind of money. I had already been prepared to give it up. Was there really anything wrong with selling it? I would be able to help my family with all the medical costs my sister had wracked up from her illness. Besides that, I would be able to help so many more people…

  I nodded. The anesthesia mask went back over my face, and I slipped back into oblivion.

  I didn’t tell anyone about the money which was discreetly wired into my bank account. There was an unwholesomeness about it somehow, but maybe that was just because the whole incident was so close to my sister’s death.

  I paid off all of my parents bills
and told them they were covered by an anonymous donor, which I guess was true. Over the next three years, I funneled the rest into a non-profit organization which helped people get their medical procedures.

  Three years. It went fast. I’d expected that kind of money to be able to help people for a lifetime, but people came from everywhere to make use of the fund.

  Co-pay for cancer medications, necessary operations which were denied by insurance, health screenings for those without insurance – three years, and the entire 250k was spent. But I received so many letters and gift baskets and people hugging me sobbing about how I saved their life. It was a rough estimation, but I figure in that time I saved the lives of at least 30 people.

  30 people for a kidney! I was a 20 year old college girl. There was nothing special about me at all. But knowing that such a small sacrifice had made such a huge impact – I couldn’t just stop now.

  I went back to the doctor who performed the operation, and he confided that there was a constant market for other organs. I asked about harvesting from cadavers or something, but he said only live donations or incredibly fresh harvests would bring that kind of money.

  Getting volunteers though? Next to impossible. And it was illegal to advertise buying that sort of thing. Even if I managed to raise awareness about it around campus without getting arrested, then people would probably keep the money for themselves instead of helping others. If I wanted my foundation to continue, I was going to need to get the organs myself.

  It made me angry to even think about how greedy people were. The potential for good each body contained was astronomical. It was selfish – almost criminal – to think that they valued their own life over the lives of dozens of others. I had several meetings with the doctor trying to brainstorm ideas to collect, and that’s when he told me a secret which he had sworn to keep for life.

  The man who had my kidney killed my sister. He’d paid the nurse 100,000 to do it so he could get my kidney instead. The doctor had found out too late to stop him – his own life was even at risk if he didn’t extend the offer to me.

  I finally found the first person to join my Organ Harvesting Club.

  I tracked him down with the doctor’s help and waited for him to come home. Getting in was easy – I just rang the doorbell and he opened it.

  My plan was just to get information on him and his house on my first visit, but I couldn’t hold myself back. His blood was flowing through my kidney. My sister’s blood was on his hands. I punched him square in the face and tackled him straight to the ground.

  He was twice my size, but he was fat and old, and I was an animal. If I had prepared better, I wouldn’t have gouged my fingers into his eyes (worth 750$ each). I wouldn’t have broken his teeth with my elbow (about 1,000$) or spilled so much blood when I slit his throat with my switchblade (337$ a pint).

  I didn’t even get his body to the doctor in time to get top dollar on the rest of the organs, but I’ll be more careful next time. I expect to get close to 600k for the nurse who killed her.

  Can you think of any other club which can potentially save hundreds of lives with each new member that’s added? I hope my sister is watching somewhere, and that she knows how much good has come from her death. She can stay pure and clean and perfect, but I was never afraid to get my hands dirty.

  The Face on my Bedroom Wall

  The line bordering the other side of sanity is only the width of a shadow. All you have to do is move to a different angle to watch it disappear.

  I am a man of particular taste. My alarm is set at 6:28 AM, because 6:30 doesn’t give me enough time to massage the salt into my morning egg. I carry with me a list of my favorite words and check them off throughout the day to avoid redundancies. And you will never catch me throwing my clothes in a pile at the day’s end, because I find it uncomfortable leaving undressed mannequins in my room. (I’d oblige you not to picture some tormented scene – it’s really quite a civilized way to store your outfits. I even made them plastic masks by boiling down some old toys and shaping them with a scalpel, so they look perfectly natural there.)

  Things must be just so. If they are not so, then I am not so. My wristwatch broke once, and I didn’t leave work until 3 in the morning. I physically hurt trying to tear myself away while it only read 4:52 PM. I am telling you this because I want you to understand how orderly my routine is, and how shocked I was to see something so egregiously (check off) out of place.

  Three weeks ago

  I walked into my apartment and placed my hat upon the garden gnome which stood sentry at my front door. I drank a glass of water which I had left on the kitchen counter that morning to re-hydrate me from my walk home (I trust the public transit as much as a toddler with a gun). Then to my bedroom, where I found them.

  Two faces were mounted on the wall astride my bed: that of the bus driver, and another of Elaine who lived next door. The bus driver displayed a crafty grin, while Elaine was transfixed with the most preposterous (check off) sneer I had ever seen in my life. She was an angel in an apron, benevolent to the bone – I’ve never seen her wear such a dreadful expression in all my time with her.

  “Bet you feel silly now,” the bus driver said.

  “I beg your pardon?” I was shocked, but not so shocked as to forget my manners.

  “Not trusting the bus. How does it feel knowing I got in safe and she didn’t?”

  “What happened to you, Elaine?”

  Her twisted sneer remained static, her dead plastic eyes completely devoid of life. I touched her face, and then the face of the bus driver – both were made of plastic, much like those on my mannequins. Peculiar to say the least, considering I never made faces to resemble either of those people. I must say I rather liked them there though. Now that they were pointed at the mannequins, the faces could keep each other company while I was gone.

  Two weeks ago

  Elaine is dead. I believe that’s the most important fact to address first. She struck her head on a concrete pillar after tumbling down nearly two flights of stairs. I never saw her, but the landlady was kind enough to show me pictures she snapped with her cell phone. She shows me all the strangest things – I suppose she doesn’t think I judge her because of my own eccentric tastes. She’s wrong, but I wouldn’t say it to her face.

  Elaine’s grotesque sneer was identical to the mask above my bed. I believe that to be the second most important fact. I didn’t volunteer this information to anyone at the time, but I am disclosing it to you because I find it easier to trust people when I am not looking them in the eye.

  There is another mask above my bed, although perhaps this is the most important fact of all. The smiling face of my landlady. I believe I understand why she is smiling, because the bus driver now looks absolutely terrified.

  “What are you so scared of?” I asked him, but now his expression was fixed.

  “You’ll see,” the landlady said, grinning from ear to ear.

  One week ago

  Her comment was germane (check off) to the news the following week. The bus was clipped by a drunk driver and sent rolling down a hillside. Two casualties, one of which was the driver himself. I can only imagine how horrendous it would be to roll down the hill amidst a blender of falling bodies and flailing limbs. Of course, I don’t have to imagine how they reacted to the situation, because I could see it plainly on the driver’s face.

  It is with deep trepidation that I must report my latest discovery. My own face has been added to the wall, and while the landlady’s mask doesn’t seem the least perturbed, my own expression surpasses the most ghastly countenance of dread your darkest imagination might conjure.

  I tried to shift my anguished face, but the expression was hard set and immovable. I tried heating it in the oven to make it malleable, but two hours at 500 degrees didn’t make the slightest indentation. All it did was make the landlady giggle from above my bed.

  “You can’t change it. You’re done for.”

  “You’ll see,
” I replied.

  I went to knock upon the landlady’s door. It seemed like a fairly straightforward fix. Once her real face matched the mask of terror I saw in my own, then my face would be able to smile again.

  She opened the door and invited me in. I let her serve me tea and introduce both of her cats in a sing-song voice as though they were the one talking. And they call me the crazy one.

  I considered waiting for her back to be turned, but I had to make sure the expression really captured her impending disaster. It wasn’t as easy or as pretty this way, but I knew the second I lay the knife upon the coffee table that it would pay for its trouble. I cut her in eight places – an even number so she could rest in peace – saving the killing blow until the moment her face was the perfect contortion of distress. It seemed like an awful mess to leave for the cats, but I heard they take care of that sort of thing in time.

  Last night

  Her face is still on my wall. And it’s still smiling. The police arrived faster than I thought they would. That’s the problem with apartments – thin walls. Always some nosy neighbor poking their nose into something that isn’t their business.

  I supposed I should have hid the body. It’s not a matter of legal repercussions – they questioned me, but didn’t have any evidence in my direction – it’s just that when they found the body it was doubtlessly sent to a funeral home. There they would modify the face into a more comfortable sight for her open casket (which I can’t imagine why a woman of her appearance would have requested before her demise).

  Her body was out of my hands now, and her face was still smiling. My mask, however, remained locked in its grizzly scream. I don’t know how long I have, but it seems like Elaine and the driver both terminated within a few days of their masks appearing. I had to act fast.