Simple Things

by Press, Lycan Valley

  “You wretched little girl,” I growled, holding my hand to my chest.

  “She’s the one picking up the box you know. She’s my only relative left. And once she’s gone, I’ll move onto other families, just like you.” Julie said, her head twitching to the side for a split second.

  I watch her follow the guard carrying the two boxes, leaving the caged area and out past a row of filing cabinets. She continues to look at me, smiling a twisted smile, until she’s out of sight. I see the door open and the light go off, leaving Mark and I in the dim lighting of the cage, a dim and dusty bulb hanging above us granting us our only slice of safety. Mark walks up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder, but I roll it off as I turn to stare at him.

  “You knew,” I accuse him, watching as his eyes widen. “You knew I was like her!”

  He looks ashamed but nods. “Yes Linda, I knew. I read the files from time to time, just to stave off the boredom. The files always get here before the actual evidence. Did you know that the knife you used has been in five other killings, including a suicide?”

  “Suicide?” I repeat, looking at him slightly aghast.

  He nods. “Think about it Linda, just… think about it.”

  I stand there and stare at him, my mind reeling. I think back on what Julie had to say, about killing her mother, and how it struck a chord with me. How I thought it was the most vicious thing I’d ever heard… but that wasn’t true. The most vicious thing I’d ever heard was about the Great War. I look around the room and gaze at the numerous objects sitting around me. For the first time, I think of all the devices in the house that I just ignore.

  Finally, I think of how I’m just ignored by my, no, not my family. Closing my eyes, I think hard, trying to dig up the old memories. I remember being at a yard sale, enjoying the summer day. A man with his pregnant wife bought my old knife set from my daughter, who seemed glad to get rid of it. Then I was in a house, and then a different one. I remember blood, lots of blood. Lots of stabbing, and slicing. I drop down to my knees as the memories come flooding back to me.

  I remember, so long ago, receiving the folded up flag and the visit from an army chaplain. I remember going out into the backyard on a warm summer day, drinking lemonade and crying my eyes out. Then I remember the knife. I remember how painful it was at first, and how I thought of my husband and loved ones I would soon see.

  Then I remember the yard sale.

  Flashes of memory attack me, blindsiding me left and right. A young man stabbed to death for sneaking into the house to see the daughter. A husband who beat his wife, dead on the sofa from the stab wounds inflicted after he got drunk listening to the radio. A young woman who was arguing with her mother and sealed herself off in her bedroom to cry, never to leave it… I remember it all.

  I look up from the floor at Mark, who is looking down at me with sorrowful eyes. “Remember what I said, you’re not one of the crazy ones.”

  I crack a tearful smile at his sick joke. “So I’m dead.”

  He nods. “One suicide.”

  “And I’ve killed four people with my knife?” I ask, looking up at him for confirmation.

  “So far.” He succinctly replies.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask, looking at him.

  He shrugs. “I’ve been in here at least thirty years, a .45 pistol sitting in a box that’s just been gathering dust. My family refuses to believe I committed suicide and so they pay for an ongoing investigation, my son being the police chief leading the crusade.”

  “Oh my god…” I say, thinking of how horrible it must be to catch glimpses of your own son as he grows older and older.

  “I know,” Mark says holding up a hand. “I was a cop before him, and I’ve learned a thing or two watching them as I’ve been here. And one thing I’ve learned is a serial killer never stops killing. And you, my dear, are a serial killer.”

  “What?” I exclaim, looking at him aghast. “I am not!”

  “You are Linda,” he said, moving to help me up off the floor. “You’ve killed four people in times when deadly force wasn’t necessary and you hold no regret over doing it. Tell me, with this last one why did you kill him? Think back on what you thought before actually doing the deed.”

  “I thought about how I was going to protect my family!” I cry, looking at Mark and shaking him slightly.

  “But they weren’t even there Linda. You killed a burglar while he was robbing an empty house.” Mark says, knocking my hands off of him. “You thought of that family as yours, and you weren’t going to let anyone hurt them. So you killed a teenage boy who was robbing an empty house.”

  “I didn’t know!” I cry, holding my hands over my ears.

  Mark paces around me. “Of course you knew, deep down you knew that something was off. You must have remembered using the knife before, in some dark depth of your soul. I bet you smiled while you did it, getting a cheap thrill out of how you stabbed him to death, then cut out his throat.”

  I stare at the ground, the shelves going a little hazy as I wobble on my feet. I look up at Mark who just stares at me, his eyes judging me. Then they go wide and he takes a step back. “Oh no,” he mutters.

  Then I go to sleep.

  I blink, looking around the kitchen. It’s dark, and the reflective oven and countertops make me shake my head. So easy to make a mess. I hear the couple sleeping upstairs in bed, my perfect little family. But something is off… there’s someone else in the house. I can hear the glass near the front door falling to the ground, as someone jiggles the doorknob, trying to unlock it.

  As the intruder slowly makes his way inside, I look over to the counter where the knife block sits, my iron steak knife sitting where it always sits. Reaching out, I can almost hear music as I pull it free from the wooden holster. I look at my reflection in the long, sharp knife. This feels… familiar. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. I hear the door finally open and a heavyset man enters the house, closing the door slowly behind him.

  “No one is going to hurt my family,” I mutter as I stalk out of the kitchen and head towards the intruder, knife at my side, ready in case things get… dicey.

  This is a real beauty. An antique quill pen and inkwell from the early 1900s that would make a welcome addition to any writer’s desk.

  This last sat on the desk of American horror author Terry M. West in the California home he shares with his wife, Regina and their son Terrence. He shipped it out here with a note saying he didn’t have room for it anymore.

  THE GIVING OF THE COLD AND CURSED

  Terry M. West

  THE black room was empty.

  Baker Johnson could see it clearly from his position at the doorstep of the apartment. He entered the dwelling and moved quickly. He swerved around his many trunks and boxes which sat roughly piled among the antiquated furnishings of his dead uncle’s home. Baker’s things had arrived a week before him and with no guidance to go by, the callous delivery men had congested the formal greeting room with his belongings.

  Dread crept into him when he came closer to the black room and saw the unpainted outline of a bolt on its opened door. The room had always been guarded with a lock. Antiques and other expensive items sat undisturbed in the formal room. The value of the items outside of the black room far exceeded the rather pedestrian keepsakes that the bastard space usually housed. Everywhere else seemed full and accounted for – purposefully occupied.

  But the black room was cleaned out. Pale outlines gave the position of absent display shelves on the filthy, brown walls. The cold room glowed with a low yellow light, though the space was situated in the center of the building with no windows or exterior walls neighboring it.

  Baker Johnson looked back to Sherman Drummond, the building super who stood with a master key set in his hand. The man twirled the metal key loop absently and whistled cheerfully in the hallway.

  “Mr. Drummond,” Baker called. “Could you join me for a moment?”

  Sherman Drummond
gave as friendly a grimace as he could, and then he crossed the threshold. Baker could tell that the building supervisor did not like being called on to do more than he felt was required of him.

  Baker appraised Sherman as the man came closer. Baker’s expensive education had been in the study of psychology, and he had a keen interest in the behavior of others. He didn’t engage with people often. Not living ones, anyway. Baker was a people watcher. He studied them, as he himself felt coldly removed from the race. He was smarter, much smarter than most. But this gave him more patience than arrogance.

  Sherman Drummond was still fairly young. Mid-thirties, Baker wagered. The building supervisor was also single, as the man’s ring finger declared, though Sherman’s uncombed hair and short but scruffy beard screamed this fact. No wife would have let her husband venture out looking such a muddle, and in a mismatched colorful broadcloth shirt and dull, wrinkled trousers, no less. It was obvious to Baker that Sherman’s passion for life lied elsewhere or was non-existent. The caretaker of the brick structure had the mannerisms and stride of a much older man.

  Baker, on the other hand, wore a gray double-breasted suit and he was immaculately groomed. His desire for order and cleanliness was strong. He realized it should have been kicking up now, as the old place hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. But he was too preoccupied with the black room to fret over the state of the apartment.

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson?” Sherman said, presenting himself reluctantly.

  The short venture had made him sweaty. Both men were quite hot. It was early September, but summer was still awake and active. Baker removed his jacket and unbuttoned his vest as he spoke to the man.

  “My uncle kept things in this room. Things he would have never parted with,” Baker explained. “Who removed them?”

  “Well, when your uncle fell ill and went to the institution, he sent strict and specific instructions on this room, through a message,” Sherman explained, digging a note from his back pocket. “I figured you might want to see it, so I brought it along.”

  Baker took the brief note and looked it over. It was definitely in his uncle’s writing. The penmanship was stressed, but accurate. He handed it back to Sherman.

  “So again I ask, because this is rather important, Mr. Drummond – where are the items?”

  “Hello?” a soft voice interrupted the men.

  Baker looked toward the entrance of the apartment. A heavyset and mature woman lingered at the threshold. She wore dark service work clothes and she clutched a purse to her chest.

  “Are you the nephew of Richard Johnson?” she inquired.

  Baker nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  The woman entered and joined the men. She smiled sadly at Baker. “I can see him on your face.”

  Baker curiously acknowledged the woman. He was working on her, forming a quick evaluation. It was a ritual that he couldn’t help.

  Her appearance told Baker that life had been mostly kind to her, as it had a tendency to be with those bright and pretty. Her beauty was still there, like a faded stamp, and she appealed to Baker in a way he couldn’t quite decide. He didn’t know if he was attracted to what she had been or what she currently was. The affection for a mother and the lust for a lover had a thin boundary between them at best. Baker had read this numerous times in text books that were too dry to be salacious.

  “This is Deidre Ahearn,” Sherman introduced the woman. “She worked for your uncle.”

  “I work for many a tenant in this old place. But yes, your uncle was among them. And he was a colorful one. He spoke of you, occasionally.”

  Baker smiled warmly at her. “It is a sincere pleasure. I hope my uncle’s opinion of me wasn’t too harsh.”

  Deidre snickered. “Well, Mr. Johnson, your uncle was not what you would call personable by any means. If he was indifferent to you, it was as close to fondness as he could get. He made you out to be quite similar to him. But I find you a friendlier version, if you don’t mind me being blunt, sir.”

  Baker shook his head. “No. I am sure you knew him better than I. I haven’t spoken to the man in twenty-five years.”

  Deidre nodded and then noticed that the door to the black room was opened. Her eyes trailed to it and lingered, trapped there by a quiet trepidation. “This room,” she said softly. “This little dingy, forgotten room always made my skin crawl. I wasn’t allowed to enter and give it a proper cleaning. Not that I minded.”

  “I was speaking to Mr. Drummond about the contents of this room,” Baker told her.

  “Given away, weren’t they?” Deidre said. “And right after he was put in the hospital bed. I went and saw him a few times. The doctors said he had dementia. And it pulled down his health quickly. I was the one who found him, you know – the one who contacted the authorities. It was a horrible sight, Mr. Johnson. Your uncle was wearing his own waste like war paint. It was sad and horrifying.”

  Deidre caught herself and looked apologetically to Baker. “I’m sorry, sir. You surely don’t deserve that image.”

  “It’s all right… Miss?” Baker guessed.

  “It was missus for some years. But Mr. Ahearn died early into our marriage. So, yes, miss is appropriate, Mr. Johnson. And you are married, I believe. Married with a daughter, if I recall correctly, though it may be a decade or more since your uncle mentioned this to me.”

  Deidre looked the apartment over. “Is your family here, Mr. Johnson? Or will they be joining you soon?”

  “My daughter was taken by a fever five years ago,” Baker revealed. He bore it stoically. “My wife followed my daughter shortly after. Her grief drove her hand to it.”

  Deidre gasped and covered her heart. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard, you poor, poor man.”

  “My condolences as well, sir,” Sherman added, a little more civility showing.

  “I endure. That’s all I can do,” Baker explained. He returned the conversation to the black room. “My uncle instructed you to give these possessions away?”

  “When he felt the end dawning on him, he wrote that I put up signs on the front of the building,” Sherman said. “Your uncle paid me quite well to see to it. We opened the apartment up on a Saturday and the room was empty within an hour.”

  “And who took the belongings?” Baker queried. “Was it residents? Outsiders?”

  “Well, it was a bit chaotic, Mr. Johnson, with the giving away of free things and all. People were very pushy that day and I had to keep an eye on what sat outside this room, as your uncle wanted no other possessions taken from the apartment. I recognized a few residents. Most that attended were strangers. I couldn’t account for who took what.”

  Baker nodded slowly and then motioned to the black room. “Do you have any idea what this room represents?” he asked them both. “What it held?”

  “I always assumed it a junk room,” Sherman said, sneering at the space.

  “More likely it was an odd museum of some sort,” Deidre said. “But a rather boring one, I always felt. It seemed a rather mundane collection of items assembled inside. But your uncle was always a little on the eccentric side of the fence.”

  “And my uncle’s vocation?” Baker questioned them further. “Was it known to either of you?”

  “No, but I assumed him retired for many years,” Sherman said first. “We didn’t talk much, sir. As Miss Ahearn has attested, your uncle had little need for most people. And when he did, it was generally about the tending of something.”

  “He never spoke of his work to me, but I guessed, by the books in his study, that he had been a doctor of some kind,” Deidre said on her turn. “He was intelligent enough to have been anything, sir. And quite successful at what he did, I am sure.”

  “Are you familiar with psychical research?” Baker asked them both.

  Deidre frowned curiously. “Can’t say that I am but I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “I’ve heard a little about it,” Sherman replied, but he elaborated no further.

  “M
y uncle and I were both involved with psychical research,” Baker explained. “We investigated claims of supernaturalism.”

  “I always took him for a little morbid, but I had no idea he engaged in such black pursuits,” Deidre said, with a superstitious distaste. “The things I’ve heard – mediums and séances. Spiritualists bleeding slime from their mouths. We aren’t meant to call upon the dead. The good lord put a fence between us and the deceased for a good reason, I am sure.”

  Baker was having more impressions regarding the lady. He imagined her deceased husband had done well, but still left her with little. And there were children involved – otherwise she would have simply found another husband. She had been educated. Perhaps too well, and there was a dearth of opportunity for women who were too smart. God-fearing was blatantly obvious. He tried to appeal to that intelligence of hers.

  “My dear lady, it is nineteen twenty-five, after all. It is time to look with objective eyes toward things we don’t comprehend. And as I stated, Miss Ahearn, we were scientists,” Baker stressed. “As such, we approached this particular research as skeptics. There are several flamboyant charlatans out there giving the studies a bad name. I have worked with many spiritualists over the years, and found only two that I could not disprove as conmen who were using theatrics to bilk widows. My uncle and I both had a particular corner of the field that we specialized in, and that’s where this room comes into play.”

  “What corner would that be, Mr. Johnson?” Sherman asked.

  “A dark one, absent of the lord’s light, I am sure,” Deidre threw in.

  Baker ignored her. “The haunting of places,” he replied to Sherman’s question.

  “And how does this room fit in with that?” Sherman said. He seemed absolutely fascinated with Baker’s story.

  “In many cases of a haunting, we suspect a human spirit to be behind the phenomena. Sometimes it is something more malevolent than that,” Baker explained.