Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination

by Dane Hatchell

  The gate. Is it opened or closed?

  I took a deep breath and took one step forward, conscious of every movement as never before. My shoe lifted from the ground and then the heel touched back down first, followed by the sole slapping the hard concrete. I felt the insole cushion give underneath my toes.

  One step closer.

  Again, I repeated the mechanical action of an unconscious daily movement. I took another step and stopped.

  This was far worse than any of my training sessions that tested my resolve. Taking a deep breath, I walked forward and braced myself as I exited the doorway. I lifted my eyes to the fence in the back.

  The gate was closed.

  Halleluiah the gate is closed! I felt like a TV evangelist overwhelmed by the Spirit and God had performed a miracle greater than parting the Red Sea.

  I ran to the gate and hesitated before turning the handle. “Devil of doubt, get behind me,” I said aloud, and swiftly pulled it open.

  There set the trashcan, looking as ordinary as it ever had. The nagging doubt was quenched by cool relief. Tears of joy welled in my eyes. I even raised my hands to the sky and gave thanks. If anyone had seen me they would have thought I was a nut.

  I walked behind the trashcan and pulled back on the handle to put it on its wheels.

  It was as heavy as the previous time.

  My heart sank and my bowels quivered so violently I nearly soiled myself. My nightmare continued.

  I lifted the top, and as before, the bloody remains of a dismembered body filled the can.

  This time it was the blood-stained face of Paul, not Mickey, gazing back at me.

  Paralyzing fingers of shock weaved itself throughout my body. The lid dropped and I used every ounce of my will to keep it together. The image of the dead empty stare of my only child, my precious son, seared a hole in my mind.

  My fingers dug into my hair and a clump tore free into my hand. Despair boiled inside so greatly I wanted to rip the skin off my body in repentance.

  The only thing that saved me from putting the pistol to my head and blowing my brains out was the knowledge this outcome was not final. It was up to me to make things right. I found that speck of rationality within and pushed away the debilitating sorrow of my new reality.

  Once again, the lock came off the mountain bike and onto the garden shed. The trashcan was secure from inquisitive eyes.

  It was time for me to get in my car and drive to work. I had some unfinished business to take care of. I didn’t want to be late.

  END

  Empathy

  Do dogs really go to Heaven? Robert Curtis entertained the thought, as he slowly poured Russia’s most popular brand of vodka into a martini glass containing two cubes of ice. He had to be careful to keep the level a good distance away from the rim for fear of spilling his drink. He hated martini glasses, but for some reason the concoction never tasted as good in any other style of glassware.

  A car pulled into the garage and soon keys jingled behind the backdoor before it swung open.

  “Hi, Dad. Did Hunter come home?” Chris, his son, asked, clutching one hand tightly in the other.

  Robert closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. He’s not here.”

  “Did you go looking for him? Did something bad happen and you aren’t telling me?”

  “Chris, I’m not keeping anything from you. You’re old enough now to handle bad news. I looked for him all morning. Walked the entire neighborhood three times, and drove up and down Joor Road, north and south. I didn’t see any sign of him.”

  Chris slumped his shoulders and let out a huff. “I didn’t think he’d be home. I hope he’s not hurt and suffering somewhere.”

  “Hunter’s almost as old as you. That’s pretty old in dog years. He probably got confused when he went out yesterday and wandered off. I expect we’ll get a call from one of the neighbors saying they found him. He’s got tags with our home and cell numbers on it.”

  “Maybe. I sure hope so. I made some posters on the color printer at school. I’m going to tape them on the stop signs throughout the neighborhood before going to baseball practice.”

  “You do that. Keep your mind on the road and not on the dog. I don’t need you worrying about him and you get in a wreck.” Robert took a sip of his martini. “Forgot the olives.” He stepped over to the refrigerator and took a jar from the door shelf.

  Chris focused on infinity as his gaze drifted to the floor. “Really, Dad? You don’t know what happed to, Hunter? You let him out in the backyard yesterday and he disappeared? Did a coyote get him?”

  Robert carefully forked two olives and shook off the juice before placing them in the martini. “Chris? What the heck, boy? Why would I lie to you? I told you I found a hole in the fence in the back. He probably wandered down in the ditch and followed it to somewhere. I looked for him for hours yesterday. You saw how late it was when I got home. We’ll find him.”

  “I know. I don’t know. I . . . he’s been sick lately. You told me if things got bad enough we’d have to have him put to sleep.”

  “Yes, I did tell you that, because it’s the humane thing to do. But, that didn’t happen. When it’s time, we’ll both be with Hunter if we have to put him down. Now, get on to ball practice. Maybe he’ll come back while you’re gone.”

  “I sure hope so.” Chris pulled the book sack strap from his shoulder and placed it by the wall. “Bye, Dad.” He turned and left out the door.

  Robert sipped his martini while the truck engine rumbled to life and faded down the driveway. This was day two of his vacation, and he was in no mood to do anything other than relax.

  Water fell in a slow, steady drip from the faucet onto the bottom of the stainless steel sink. The plunk, plunk, plunk, of liquid against metal had his upper lip quivering and brow creased. Robert fiddled with the handle, restraining himself from ripping it off, until the drip stopped.

  Tomorrow he was going to rent one of those carpet cleaners from the hardware store and give the floors a thorough cleaning. He knew it was going to be quite a task to get rid of 15 years of accumulated dog stink from the house.

  A bag of spicy potato chips on the counter called his name as he headed for the den. He grabbed them as he passed and stopped by the bookcase. Rows and rows of paperbacks of various sizes and colors lined the shelves. Robert scanned the titles, looking for a short read to enjoy while relaxing on his lounge chair.

  His gaze came to a stop on a black leather bound book with the words TRUE HORROR STORIES written in red. The book looked odd, out of place. He couldn’t remember where or when he had bought it.

  He pulled the book out with a free finger from the hand holding the potato chips and haphazardly carried both to his chair.

  The martini went down on an end table without one drop spilt. A victorious smirk curled on his lips. He sat down and leaned back, nestling in for a good read.

  There was no table of contents listing the stories when he peeled back the thin cover. Strange, as none of the pages appeared to be missing. The collection started with a tale titled Empathy. With no table of contents, he couldn’t be sure the length of the story. This miffed him a bit, as he didn’t want to be stuck on a story for much longer than 45 minutes. The prospect of dislodging his butt from the chair and finding something else to read seemed to be the greater of the two evils. So, after a sip of his martini, he began to read.

  Robert had been in a daze for an indeterminable amount of time. His whole body ached from physical trauma. He had been fading in and out of consciences. The times he had opened his eyes it was as dark as when they were closed. A steady rhythm drummed in his head. A noise that sounded hollow, making him feel devoid of hope. It went on and on and even followed him in and out of consciousness. It wore his nerves down to the quick and weighed on him like a suffocating boulder on his chest.

  The drip from the faucet in the kitchen returned to pull Robert from the story. He took a deep breath and shook off the trance-like daze the story
had drawn him into. Funny, he thought, the guy in the story’s name is Robert, and a dripping noise is pissing him off too.

  After abandoning the book and making a quick trip into the kitchen for another faucet adjustment, Robert returned to the easy chair and picked back up on the page where he left off.

  Robert finally felt all his faculties return and flexed his arms and legs. Where was he? How did he get there? The only thing he knew for sure was whatever hit him was so powerful he knew he was lucky just to be alive. With some uncertainty he pulled himself up on his knees and slowly stood on wobbly legs. His left foot hurt—badly. Maybe even some small bones had been broken. A least he was able to put his weight on it and managed to walk. But after the first step, the next led him into a wall. It was smooth and somewhat pliable. He allowed his hands to follow the wall and found he traveled in a short circle only as wide as he was tall.

  Robert was trapped. It became increasingly hot in the mysterious prison. Perspiration covered him like a heavy fog, and suddenly he felt like he was suffocating. His lungs began to ache, even burn as each breath became more labored. It was as if he were in coffin with no way out. Cold chills ran down his spine. He began to hyperventilate. Every nerve was on edge. He needed to get out, and he needed to get out now! Tiny crawlies of anxiety worked the skin on his back and neck, and he felt as if he needed to rip it off with his fingers.

  Robert sprang from the chair and ran to the front door, pulling it open so hard it slipped from his hand and crashed against the doorstop. The cool, evening air was blessed relief as it washed over him and filled his lungs. His heartbeat slowly returned to normal as he savored the newfound freedom. Man, that’s some kinda story. How in the heck can it have that much power over me?

  He rested his hands on his thighs as he leaned his back against the door frame. His right hand rubbed over the round object in his pocket. Oh, I forgot that was even there. I better get rid of this so Chris can’t find it. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the dog tag and thought about the day before.

  Robert had enough with cleaning up dog accidents. Hunter was old and senile. Between the dog’s medicine and special food, he figured he was paying over two hundred dollars a month. And for what? Chris was so busy with school and his friends he hardly spent time with the dog anymore. It was up to Robert to take care of Hunter, and he had reached his limit. It would have cost over one hundred and fifty dollars to put the dog down at the Vet. So, he took care of Hunter the old fashion way. Hunter went on a long drive to the country. The dog didn’t even cry when Robert put him in the trash bag and threw him over the side of the bridge. It did bother him though when he didn’t hear a splash. He looked over to see the stream was mostly dried up, and Hunter had landed in mud. Robert didn’t look before he threw him over because he saw a car coming up the road, and he wanted to get rid of the bag before someone saw him. There was certainly nothing he could do then, other than get back in his car and hightail it out before that other car arrived.

  Robert had convinced himself the fall had killed Hunter. If not, then being wrapped up in that bag would have suffocated him in a short period of time. He imagined it would have been a slow, peaceful sleep until death took him to the great beyond.

  The book lay on the floor in front of his chair. What was it with that stupid story? Why in the heck was reading it affecting him that way?

  He closed the door and marched over to his martini. With one quick motion he downed what was left in the glass and chewed on the olives. Screw Robert. Die, loser, die.

  The book remained on the floor as he set the glass in the sink and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. The top popped open—immediately calming his nerves. He took a long draw and thought how hearing the escaping gas from the open bottle made him feel instant relief. Pavlov’s Dog. The irony of the situation made him chuckle and almost had him spitting up his beer. Dogs and humans did share some auto responses. Still, dogs were nothing but animals.

  Taking Hunter for a ride to end his life was more humane than how many humans are treated at the end of days. Keeping humans alive on machines or trapped in nursing homes wallowing in their own filth was no way to live. Heck, I wish someone would throw me off a bridge if I get that sickly.

  The alcohol had gone to his head enough for him to look at himself as an angel of mercy, and feel justification, rather than guilt, from his actions. Now he felt silly for getting so caught up in that stupid story. Liquid courage had him back in his chair and turning the pages in the book.

  The wall ripped open, shredded by frantic fingers. Robert was blinded by bright sunshine and had to shield his eyes for a moment. As his eyes adjusted, he was sure he was somewhere he had never been before. This was someplace far removed from home. A dried up creek ran through dense trees and brush covered hills as far as the eye could see.

  Robert continued to read, turning page after page. His trance altered his sense of time and had him feel each painful step, each brush of a thorn as the Robert in the story suffered the arduous trek to find salvation. When the character became hungry, Robert mindlessly ate chips. When the character became thirsty, Robert sipped beer.

  The sun had warned through long tree shadows night would soon descend. The few plants he’d eaten to quell pains of hunger weighed heavy in his stomach. The air became cooler, and nocturnal animals awakened to watch the interloper tread through their home.

  Spending a night in this desolate area laid up against a tree unprotected was the last thing he wanted. But he was so tired. He needed to rest. His foot hurt so much it felt like stepping on hot coals each time it touched the ground. Robert had no idea how far he had traveled. For all he knew he was going in the opposite direction from his home. He kept waiting—hoping at some point he’d realize where he was and find a familiar landmark.

  Hours passed. The forest so dark and thick he had to practically feel his way through it. The quarter moon directly above gave just enough light to tease him to continue the journey.

  Robert stepped in a shallow hole and tripped on a root, landing on his side. He was so tired he simply laid there for a while with his eyes shut, thinking how comfortable his bed at home would feel.

  The songs of insects soothed him with their sweet lullabies. Robert began to drift to blissful sleep.

  The wailing bray of a wild animal shocked Robert back to reality. His pulse thumped in his temple as he gasped for air. It was a coyote. Those varmints had invaded the neighborhood six months ago. Robert lived in a very nice area known for its large lots. The neighborhood was in the rural side of the county. Maybe he would go ahead and order that night vision scope for his rifle. He could take care of the coyote problem himself.

  His thumb was wedged where he had left reading. Only a page or two remained in the entire book.

  The wailing bray of a wild animal— a coyote— shocked Robert from sleep’s warm embrace. Disabling fear momentarily numbed his body and sent his sphincter muscle into spasms. He pulled himself up and pushed his face against the trunk on the nearest tree.

  The animal called again. Closer this time. Much closer.

  Robert was going to have to defend himself. But with what?

  Footsteps on dried grass and twigs announced the coyote neared. He peered around the tree trunk and could see yellow eyes illuminated by moonlight staring at him.

  The coyote’s mouth opened into a ferocious snarl. It growled showing sharp rows of teeth and long canines.

  Robert’s heart thumped against his chest. Icy coldness washed from his head down his spine. This was it. He was going to die. Killed by an animal in some desolate area where predators would pick his bones clean. Such a horrible way to die. Even animals didn’t deserve to die like this.

  The coyote charged with jaws open wide.

  Robert reached for a short branch on the ground and met the animal’s attack by poking it in the chest.

  It backed off and snapped at the air, the teeth threating to tear him to shreds if he let his guard down.
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  His parry with the branch bought Robert a few precious more seconds. Those teeth seemed to inch closer with each lunge. If only he had a way to stop those teeth!

  The dog tag in Robert’s pocket began to irritate his thigh. He rammed his hand in his pants and pulled out the worn piece of blue aluminum. Without thinking, he stuck the dog tag in his mouth and wedged it between his molars, propping his mouth open.

  The coyote’s tongue hung from the side of his opened mouth. It was as if its jaws had locked just as it was ready to clamp down on Robert’s hand. It was a miracle! He took the advantage and moved forward, poking and swinging the branch hoping to chase the animal away.

  The coyote only became more agitated in its frustration. In Robert’s zeal for a quick victory, he stumbled while swinging the branch going for a headshot. He twisted his ankle and fell to the ground. The coyote was on him in an instant.

  Robert was on his back and had his hands around the coyote’s throat. The hot snarls from the beast assaulted his face. Its front paws clawed into the soft flesh of his chest.

  He was near to the point of exhaustion by this time. How much longer could he possible hope to hold out? He needed a weapon. A gun. A knife. Something to kill this wild animal!

  Robert rolled out of his chair onto the floor. He picked himself up and ran to the kitchen with the book held on the final page. His hand went for the butcher knife by the sink, and he brought it up and stabbed into the open air.

  Frantically, he opened the book and continued to read.

  Robert’s arms began to shake. His chest burned like it was on fire from the claws digging deep. His fingers felt like they were about to break off. The coyote’s opened mouth inched closer. Even though it couldn’t bite its teeth could do him in.

  “The Knife, Robert! Use the knife!” The words were garbled as the dog tag still had his teeth separated. Robert brought the razor sharp carbon steel knife to his throat. “Cut its throat. Cut its damn throat!”