Twisted Tales

by Brandon Massey

Elana opened the front door and ushered her son inside. Raheim shouldered me aside and went in.

  The place was even cozier inside. Warm colors, comfortable furniture, lots of green plants, and open space. I immediately felt at ease.

  Apparently, Raheim did, too. He went to the sofa in the living room, plopped on the cushions, stretched his legs in front of him, and crossed his arms behind his head.

  “What you got to drink?” he asked.

  Elana frowned. “Well, make yourself at home, why don’t you? I’ll be back in a few minutes to get your drinks. I have to get Johnny settled first.”

  As she took her son away down the dark hallway, I sat in an upholstered chair across from Raheim. I looked around, noting the numerous framed photographs that sat on end tables and hung on the walls. Photos of Elana with similarly beautiful people. They had to be her relatives; attractiveness must run in her family. Except for her son.

  “Her son isn’t in any of the pictures,” I said.

  Raheim shrugged. “Can you blame her? Who’d wanna take pictures of that weird-ass kid? He doesn’t look like he’s hers.”

  It was a crude comment, but I agreed with his last statement. Johnny didn’t look like her flesh-and-blood child at all. Maybe she had adopted him?

  “I’m gonna make a move on her,” Raheim said. He ran his fingers along the armrests, as if massaging Elana’s legs. “You can either stay in here and learn from the playa, or you can go back in the truck. Up to you.”

  “We have dates,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that might persuade Raheim to leave. “We’re already running late. Shonda and her friend will be mad at us.”

  “Then go. Tell them I was sick or something, and come scoop me up in the morning.”

  The thought of Raheim spending the night with Elana made me desperate.

  “I’ll hang around,” I said.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” Raheim said, cocking his head, “I’d think you wanted a piece of her, too. Wanna bust a nut for the first time in a dime piece like her?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Scottie. I know you’re a virgin.”

  “No, I’m not.” My palms had begun to sweat.

  “Liar.” Raheim chuckled. “Who’ve you fucked?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Because you ain’t never had none.” Raheim laughed. “What woman would want you? You and Elana’s kid are like peas in a pod, man.”

  I had grown up suffering Raheim’s merciless teasing and had developed an armor to fend off his insults—but at that moment, my defenses faltered and, I believed, deep in the core of my soul, that Raheim was right. I was a virgin, a few episodes of awkward, heavy petting being the extent of my sexual experience. I had never had a serious girlfriend. Virtually all of the women that I encountered designated me as “just a friend.”

  What woman would want you?

  Tears pushed at my eyes. I could not cry, would not cry, not in front of Raheim, not in Elana’s house. Giving in to tears would make my humiliation complete—and Raheim would never let me forget it. He still teased me about the time I’d wet the bed when I was six years old. He had a flawless memory for stuff like that.

  I sucked in a shaky breath.

  “I’m fine the way I am,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster. I didn’t know if I believed what I was saying, but I wanted to sound as if I did.

  “Whatever, man.” Unconvinced, Raheim waved his hand dismissively. “All I know is you better stay outta my way.”

  Elana strode into the living room. She had refreshed her red lipstick and brushed her hair. Fixed herself up. I wanted to believe that she’d done it for me.

  “Sorry that took so long, guys,” she said. “What would you like to drink? I have tea, coffee, Coke, water ...”

  “A Coke would be great,” I said.

  “Got any beer?” Raheim asked.

  Bunching her hands on her waist, Elana frowned. “Hmmm ... I think there might be a couple bottles leftover from a cookout I hosted a few months ago.”

  “Will you check, sweetheart?” Raheim asked, in a too-familiar tone that rankled me. “I’d like that.”

  “Be right back,” she said. She headed toward the kitchen, swinging her hips.

  Watching her, Raheim shook his head and rose. “I can’t wait any longer. Time to do the damn thing. She owes me more than a drink for all my help.”

  “Where are you going?” I stood, too.

  “Sit down and watch cartoons or something,” Raheim said. He hitched up his jeans and strolled toward the kitchen.

  Anxiety clutched me. My brother was going to be alone, in close quarters, with Elana. I could feel my chances with her—whatever slim chances I had—slipping away.

  But I sat down, like an obedient little brother.

  I heard their voices drift to me from the kitchen. Raheim was talking in his smooth, playa patter. Elana was laughing and responding to him, but there seemed to be an undercurrent of tension in her voice.

  She wasn’t interested in Raheim, I thought. She was interested in me. But I’d been too afraid to make a move.

  I cracked my knuckles. A remote control for the television sat within easy reach, but I didn’t turn on the TV, for fear of missing something that was said in the kitchen.

  When Elana clearly said, “Stop,” I rose again. My heart throbbed.

  There are some things that I’ve done of which the memories, years later, still shame me. One evening when Raheim and I were teenagers, we had the house to ourselves, our parents out for one of their “date nights.” Never one to waste an opportunity, Raheim invited over a girl that he knew, a cute cheerleader who’d had a crush on him for years. While I sat in my bedroom reading an X-Men comic, I heard Raheim in his room, tussling with the girl. At some point, she said, clearly and firmly, “No, Raheim. Stop.”

  I’d sat still, clutching the pages of the comic book, knowing that I should knock on Raheim’s door and intervene.

  But I did nothing.

  The girl cried out, repeatedly. Raheim’s headboard began to thump against the wall. The girl’s cries faded. When she left the house some time later, her eyes were red, and she didn’t hug Raheim good-bye.

  I knew what had happened. But I didn’t say anything to Raheim, or anyone else.

  I’d always regretted my behavior, my unspoken compliance with my big brother.

  Standing in the living room of this sweet woman’s house, listening to her tell my brother “stop,” I made a decision: This time, I wasn’t going to back down. I was going to help her.

  I swallowed. I marched across the living room, toward the kitchen.

  As I walked, I spotted Johnny in the hallway, swathed in darkness. He wore Spiderman pajamas; I had a pair like that when I was his age. He had a hungry look in his eyes—the same predatory glare I’d seen when he devoured the mosquito.

  “I’m going to stop him,” I said.

  Johnny didn’t say anything, and I wondered why I had spoken to him at all. I suppose I wanted to reassure him that his mother would be okay.

  Johnny clenched his small hands into fists. He no longer wore the gloves. His fingers were thin, his nails long and, oddly, quite sharp.

  Johnny was tense, but he made no move to follow me. He must have believed that I was going to save his mother.

  Now I couldn’t back down.

  I squeezed my hands into fists, too, and then I stalked into the kitchen.

  Raheim had wedged Elana into a corner, between the sink and the stovetop. He pawed her hips with one of his big hands, and roughly stroked her hair with his other. She was squirming, to no avail, to escape the circle of his arms. A bottle of Budweiser stood on the counter beside them, frothy suds oozing down the neck.

  Raheim didn’t hear me enter, but Elana saw me. Hope bloomed in her eyes. As I realized that she believed in me, thought I could help her, my resolve strengthened.

  “Get away from her, Raheim,”
I said. “She told you to stop.”

  Raheim turned. His face was full of surprise.

  “What are you doing in here, Scottie? Go back in the living room.”

  “No.” I stood my ground. “Leave her alone.”

  Raheim’s eyes sharpened like daggers.

  “I’m warning you, turn around and leave,” he said, in a low, dangerous tone that I recognized from the brotherly beatings he’d given me over the years. “This ain’t none of your business.”

  Physically, I was no match for Raheim. He was at least three inches taller than me and outweighed me by over sixty pounds—and every ounce in his favor was muscle. He could bench-press four hundred and fifty pounds with the ease of a hydraulic press. I struggled to do twenty push-ups.

  Nevertheless, I couldn’t back down. Elana needed me. And I needed her.

  “If you’ve got your hands on her, then this is my business,” I said.

  I hadn’t anticipated the punch. Raheim swung at me so fast that one moment, I was looking at him grope Elana, the next, his fist was crashing into my jaw.

  I fell backward and collided with the refrigerator like a drunk. Its magnets clattered to the tile floor. Dazed, I slid to the floor on wobbly knees.

  Raheim seized the front of my shirt. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You know better than to challenge me!”

  I tried to loosen Raheim’s hold on me, but his hands were like steel clamps. He hauled me to my feet and pinned me against the wall. His breath was hot, his nostrils flared. The last time I’d seen him this angry with me, he had broken my arm (our parents believed me when I told them I’d fallen off my bicycle).

  On the other side of the kitchen, Elana hugged herself. “Johnny!” she cried. “Now!”

  Even in the maelstrom of my fear, I had the clarity of mind to wonder why she was summoning her strange son.

  I received the answer to my question a moment later, when I saw Johnny on the threshold of the kitchen.

  Dressed in his pajamas, the kid might have appeared harmless in any other situation. But anger—or hunger—had transformed him into a fearsome spectacle. His dark eyes burned like coals. His hands flexed, his long nails curved, like claws.

  His mouth bristled with sharp teeth. Like fangs.

  Distracted by my terror, Raheim let me go and whirled to face the boy.

  “What the fuck ... ?” Raheim started.

  Johnny’s swift attack cut off the rest of Raheim’s sentence.

  The boy leapt across the kitchen like a jumping spider. He hooked his arms and legs around Raheim’s torso and plunged his teeth into Raheim’s neck. Raheim screamed as blood spurted, spraying the child’s face. Johnny devoured the blood, sucking. Raheim attempted to throw him off, tried to pry the boy away from him, but Johnny tightened his hold on him. And still he continued to suck.

  His eyes rolling up to expose the whites, Raheim sagged to the floor.

  I was sickened by what I was seeing. I could have done something, saved my brother.

  Instead, I ran.

  I dashed out of the kitchen and bolted out of the house. Elana called after me, but I didn’t stop. I ran to the Tahoe—and was at the door when I realized that I didn’t have the keys. Raheim had them. I’d have to go back in the house to get them.

  The prospect of going back in there to face that bloodsucking child was about as appealing as crawling through a snake pit.

  I would have to travel by foot. Maybe some kind soul would give me a lift, just as we’d helped Elana and her demon-boy.

  A revelation flitted at the edge of my thoughts.

  What if Elana had planned to bring us to her home? What if she’d intended, from the beginning, to feed us to her son?

  A gorgeous woman like her was sure to catch a man’s attention. No red-blooded man would be willing to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a tow truck when she lived only a few miles away. Any man would do as we had done: give her a ride home.

  Having her son along would elicit even more sympathy.

  As the truth settled over me, I decided that I had to get as far away as possible from this house. I started running across the driveway, toward the road.

  “Scottie, wait!”

  It was Elana. She rushed out of the house.

  Every logical molecule in my body urged me to keep running. But my blind, crazy love for her brought me to a halt.

  She ran to me.

  “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” she said. “Even after all these years, I haven’t gotten used to watching Johnny feed.”

  “You set us up!” I said. “You planned all this! You were going to feed both of us to that monster kid!”

  “No.” Elana took my hand in hers. She kissed my fingers, and in spite of my confusion and terror, I got a warm, tingly sensation. “Not you. You’re special to me, Scottie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked.

  My heart thundered in my chest.

  “I do,” she said. “I think you do, too. I felt it when I first touched your hand.”

  She loved me, too. Just as I’d yearned to believe.

  But years of rejection resisted the evidence in her eyes, in her touch, in her voice.

  “You mean it?” I asked.

  She stepped forward and kissed me. On the lips. Only in my wettest dreams had I ever been kissed like that. She tasted my tongue, twined her hands around my waist, and pulled me closer to her, rubbing against the bulge that had appeared at the front of my pants.

  “I mean it,” she said. “I want you to stay with us.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve been praying for a man like you.” She ran her hands along my arms. “Johnny ... he wants a father.”

  I saw, over her shoulder, her son step onto the porch. Blood stained the front of his pajama top. He watched us, silently.

  “What is he?” I asked.

  “He’s my son.”

  “But the blood-drinking ... the teeth ...”

  “It’s his condition,” she said. “He was born that way. He hates it. He hates everything about himself, Scottie. That’s why I don’t keep pictures of him around the house—I used to do that, but he’d smash the frames. His self-esteem is so low ... because everyone is scared of him.”

  Johnny’s head hung low. He shuffled back inside the house.

  Although Johnny was monstrous, I empathized with him. I knew how it felt to despise yourself.

  “But you’re killing people to feed him,” I said.

  “Only men who deserve it,” she said, with steel in her voice. “Only bad men, like your brother.”

  Someone else might have come to my brother’s defense. I couldn’t. She was speaking the truth.

  “Come back inside, Scottie,” she said. “Johnny needs you. I need you.”

  A woman had never needed me. Ever. And this glorious woman was telling me that she needed me, and I knew she meant it.

  “Okay,” I said.

  We went back inside the house together.

  At night, I hid in the shrubbery on the side of the road.

  Dressed to kill, Elana popped the hood of the Chevy Tahoe that had once belonged to my brother. She made a show of looking underneath the hood, and then leaned against the side of the SUV, as if distraught.

  Within minutes, a young man in a pickup truck pulled over. He got out of the truck and strutted to her, cocky and flirtatious.

  Gripping a stun gun, I watched my wife—yes, we had married—interact with the guy, waiting for her signal that he was the one for the night. She wore a smile as she spoke to the stranger, but I knew that her smile was meant for me. We had a special relationship, a family that others might have deemed weird, and even repulsive—but I didn’t care about that. It was ours.

  It felt so good to be wanted, needed.

  It felt so good to be loved.

  Predators

  Olivia Strong had been living in the neighborhood
for three weeks when she became aware that the man was watching her.

  Olivia was renting a three-bedroom, two-story contemporary house in Fairburn, a southwest suburb of Atlanta. It was located in one of those cookie-cutter subdivisions that had popped up all over metro Atlanta in recent years: a playground, swimming pool, and man-made lake were among the amenities, but the community was so new that none of the elm trees sprouting from the lawns were taller than eight feet. She lived alone with her dog, a perky Bichon named Mimi.

  It was when she was outdoors walking Mimi, early one May evening, that she realized he was watching her.

  She felt his attention on her before she actually saw him. He lived with his mother in a ranch-style home, halfway down the block from Olivia. As she walked by the house, she saw the gauzy curtains on a bay window stir, as if blown by a breeze. She fixed her eyes on the road ahead, following his movements with her peripheral vision. She detected a slight parting of the curtains, evidence of a spy within—but more acutely, she felt his gaze on her. It was a sensation like fingers pressing gently—and insistently—on the back of her neck.

  Of course, Olivia was used to catching the eye of the opposite sex (and here in diverse Atlanta, the same sex, too). She was a honey-brown sister, five-five, with the lithe body of a dancer, the result of rigorous exercise. She had soft brown eyes, shoulder-length auburn hair, and a megawatt smile. Men tended to look at her quite frequently, and the tank top and shorts that she wore encouraged an admiring glance.

  But this was different.

  This was the surreptitious stare of a voyeur. The leer of a man who was undressing her with his eyes, visualizing her participating in a depraved sexual fantasy. This was creepy.

  The man who lived at 1408 River view Drive was a convicted rapist. His name was Lonnie White.

  As Olivia strolled past, Mimi trotting alongside her, anxiety rippled through her stomach.

  “Keep walking,” she muttered under her breath. “Don’t let him know that I feel him watching me.”

  But it was difficult. She had to fight the compulsion to run screaming back to her house, lock all of the doors, and never venture outside again. She gritted her teeth. She had to do this.