WARPED: A Menapace Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction

by Menapace, Jeff

  I scoot further back on the bed, the corner of the wall stopping me.

  Soft laughter from my mother and Him. My mother then joins Anna’s side and rubs her own belly. And that’s when I notice my mother has a bump too.

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

  “Questions…” He says.

  I say nothing.

  He looks at my mother but still addresses me. “Look how happy she is.”

  I look at Mom. Her smile is…radiant.

  Radiant. Like the day I visited just before recent events. She’d looked especially radiant. And why not? He’d just paid her a visit. What was it I’d thought about her radiance that day? That I could thank Him for affecting my perspective? Even Mr. Holy Shit That’s Fucking Ironic As Hell would be humbled at such an exquisite example.

  “Happy,” I mumble.

  Mom joins His side again. He puts His arm around her.

  “You’re going to be a father,” He says to me.

  “I’m sorry about your tea, sweetheart,” Mom says to me. “But He told me I needed to prepare you.”

  My tea?

  He looks at Anna, beaming. “Anna will be having a special birth. My time is almost up. Towards the end I begin to produce females, and I need a male—a human male—to offer his seed in order to carry on my legacy.” He looks back at me. “I’m sorry I lied to you about that silly ‘half-breed’ nonsense, Alex. Lots of hoops jumped through, I know, but I needed to be sure of your spirit. How far you were willing to go. You didn’t disappoint. Your seed is more than worthy.”

  Mr. Water Balloon Brain is now at full capacity.

  “Anna…” I stutter. “Anna will give birth to…?”

  “To me,” He says with a smile. “One of me.” He sidles up to Anna and now it’s He who rubs her belly. “Congratulations, daddy.”

  I turn and gawk at my mother. “Why…?”

  “I was becoming so worried about you, sweetheart,” she says. “The pills, the booze. He assured me you wouldn’t need them anymore. Wouldn’t want them. Everything is different now.” She approaches and soothes my brow again. “I would do anything for you, honey.”

  “And she doesn’t even want any money,” He says with a hearty laugh.

  Mom looks back at Him. “That’s right, mister. I make my own money.”

  He laughs some more. “I see where you get your resolve, Alex. You two are perfect.”

  “Mom…the offerings…the offerings…”

  “I know all about them, Alex. I’m okay with it. I’m more than okay with it. It all feels so right. I feel so right.”

  (almost there…)

  Anna walks over to the bed and extends her hand to me. I take it, and she guides me out of bed. I look around. I don’t know where we are, but it’s the most extravagant place I’ve ever seen. Puts the homes on Elmwood to shame.

  Anna walks me to the far end of the room, Mom and Him following.

  There are cages, three of them, like the ones in the hidden basement on Elmwood. Geeks One and Two are shackled, hanging by the wrists in their respective cages—shaved clean, gagged, moaning, weeping.

  Cage three is empty.

  “The third one was already spoiled. We need to keep them fresh, don’t we?” He says, casting Anna a naughty glance.

  Anna shrugged playfully. “Got carried away.”

  Spoiled? How long…?

  “How long was I out?”

  “A week,” Mom says. “The rest did you good, sweetheart.”

  (almost there…)

  All four of us are standing in a row, looking at the cages. Anna still has my hand. My mother’s head is resting on His shoulder, His arm around her.

  “We’re going to be a very happy family,” He says.

  (POP!)

  I turn and look at Anna. She kisses me and I kiss her back.

  My mother comes over and gives me a huge hug, tears in her eyes. “I love you, Alex.”

  I hug her back. “I love you too, Mom.”

  She pulls away and I look at Him. He grins.

  I’m going to be a daddy.

  The End

  FIVE CARD—DRAW!

  He hated her. And guess what? She hated him. The hatred was strong enough for murder. But why risk murder if there’s no money involved? So the policies were taken out—each one a considerable sum and kept secret from the other…for a little while. The secrets were leaked from supposed confidants and ultimately revealed the silent truth—last one standing was getting mucho bucks.

  The paranoia in the house was palpable; each of them lead on as if they were ignorant to the other’s intentions. When would the moment come? How would he do it? How would she do it? And most intriguingly: How would they make it look like an accident?

  Each creek of a floorboard turned a head fast enough to wrench it. Sleep was something done with one eye open and one leg on the floor. Meals were carefully inspected to ensure they didn’t contain any ‘surprise’ ingredients. It was maddening.

  A decision was made between the two—ironically, a mutual decision; the first one shared in a decade. They both confessed, not to the intentions of murder of course, but to the policies. The intended murders needed no confession; they were as good as pasted on one another’s foreheads like a game of Indian Poker. And as incredulous as it sounds, it was the game of poker that would decide their fate.

  They were both very good at the game. They had hosted parties for years, each of them matching the other’s abilities, each of them silently spewing venom in the opposite direction when one would best the other on any given night. They didn’t mind losing to their friends, but he couldn’t bear to lose to her, and she to him.

  So a game of poker was decided. One hand. Five Card Draw.

  It was brought up one evening when the tension in the house had no room left to grow.

  “We know what’s going on here,” he said to her. He stood in the doorway of the den. She was on the sofa reading a book with one eye.

  She set the book on her lap, and placed both eyes on him now.

  “Yes, I think I do,” she said.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep,” he said.

  “Neither have I.”

  “I have a way to settle it.”

  He explained his intentions. One hand to decide who would ‘stay’ and who would ‘go.’

  She told him he was crazy. He called her a heartless bitch. She told him that he would lose anyway. He laughed at her, told her she was suffering from delusions of grandeur; he was always the better player. She asked him what would occur when the game was done. He told her that the loser (and he assured her it would not be him) would accept defeat gracefully, and allow themselves to ‘retire’—as long as it looked like an accident.

  She told him he was crazy again. He called her a coward and a lousy player. Her temper agreed, made her get to her feet to retrieve a deck of cards. He put a hand up and told her not to bother, reached into his back pocket and tossed a packaged deck at her.

  “You can deal,” he said. Then tried not to laugh when he added, “I trust you.”

  * * *

  They sat across from one another. A small folding table usually reserved for eating in front of the television was their platform. To the left of the deck of cards was a revolver. When the loser was dealt with, the trick was to make it look like a robbery gone bad, otherwise there could be no claim. Phone calls to someone trusted (not the spineless confidants who leaked news of the policies) were made, and alibis were established. All that remained now was the game.

  She dealt—each of them receiving five precious cards that held their fate. He snatched his quickly from the table as though she may have the ability to see through them. She scoffed at his behavior, then slowly peeled hers off the table, never once looking at the cards as she did so; her eyes remained on him—first to initiate psychological warfare, first in an attempt at getting into the other’s head.

  “Three,” he said as he discarded three of his cards face-
down onto the table.

  “A pathetic pair, huh?” she said. “Hoping for three of a kind?”

  He ignored her and took the three she dealt him, never daring for a second to rearrange his hand once he glanced at them.

  She studied his face. She hated it so much but knew it so well.

  “I’ll also take three,” she said.

  He laughed. “Hypocrite.”

  She ignored him and took her fresh three after discarding.

  He studied her face. He was familiar with her tells and looked desperately for the first sign of one. She too left her cards in the order to which they had been dealt.

  There was a moment of pause. Neither spoke; neither wanted to.

  What did he have?

  What did she have?

  The winner was rich, the loser dead.

  “Alright, let’s see ’em,” he said.

  “Let’s see yours,” she replied.

  “What?” he said. “I just told you to lay down your cards.”

  “And I’m telling you to lay down yours.”

  “What is this?” he said. He frowned. Then he stopped. And then he started to grin—a slow, sinister grin that culminated with the tip of his tongue between his teeth like the deadly snake he suddenly and deliciously felt he was. “You’re scared,” he said. “Those three didn’t help you at all, did they? You’ve got nothing.”

  “Don’t I?” She grinned back—hers equally sinister, but with a spattering of triumph. “You always were an easy one to manipulate—so clumsy and awkward in your attempts at subtlety.”

  His frown returned. “Taking personal shots isn’t going to help you at this point. It’s hardly worth it.”

  “Is it getting under your skin?”

  He said nothing; his ever-reddening face was all the reply she needed.

  “Then it’s worth it,” she smirked.

  He looked at his cards once more. She at hers.

  “Lay them down,” he said again, his face now a pulsating beet.

  “You first.” Her grin was her whole face.

  He hated her. God, how he hated her.

  He looked at the gun.

  She caught him and her grin dropped. She knew him so well.

  He grabbed for the weapon. She was quicker and seized it first. He latched onto her wrist and shook it violently as the two stood to their feet, knocking the dinner tray over, sending the cards fluttering downward into a scattered mess on the floor.

  The struggle was brief; he was far too strong, disarming her with little effort.

  There were two shots. One to the chest…and then…a second to the chest—because he hated her so much.

  He stood over her dead body, smoking gun in hand.

  “Let’s see ‘em,” he said, laughing lightly, then soon, hysterically. “Come on baby, turn ‘em over!”

  He was crying with laughter now—eyes wild with delirium, tears streaming down both cheeks. “Let’s see that pathetic pair!” His stomach was cramping, begging him to stop.

  He took a step backward, his free hand wiping the tears from his eyes. “Did that get under your skin, my love? You still think I’m clumsy and awkwa—”

  The heel of his shoe caught the array of slick cards on the wooden floor. Both feet flew out from under him, his head catching the stone base of their fireplace behind him, killing him instantly.

  * * *

  The gun discharged one last time during his descent—a panicked reflex as he felt himself lose control. The stray bullet pierced the living room window, filling in an ideal detail for the summary of the investigation that followed:

  An intruder had silently entered their home while the couple was in the midst of enjoying a pleasant game of cards with one another. The wife was shot twice in the chest, and as the faithful husband came to her rescue, a struggle ensued. The gun discharged once more during the fight, hitting the living room window. Sadly, the intruder managed to overpower the husband, causing him to hit his head on the bottom ledge of the stone fireplace resulting in death by blunt force trauma.

  As of this time, the intruder is still at large.

  END

  Princess

  1

  June 2012

  John Kearns had a newspaper up to his face but he wasn’t reading. Periodically the paper would drop an inch, John’s eyes peering over it, making sure the boy was still there.

  And he was, multi-tasking with technology as only teenagers can: text messaging at the speed of a veteran receptionist; head bobbing in slight rhythm to whatever he fiddled with on his iPod; periodically stopping after each text in order to gorge on his tray of burger and fries with all the gusto of fortunate teens who had yet to experience the pitfalls of metabolism.

  He was not a perfect match, John thought, but he would do. The food court at the mall was hardly a runway for male models. Besides, he was running out of time. Tonight was the night. He’d been up since dawn, searching. It was now 5:00 p.m., and while the boy was a decent match, there were still no guarantees of a successful delivery—there never were. John only hoped the boy would finish his meal soon, forgo any thoughts of shopping, then get the hell out of Dodge. If John blew it, had to find another one, it would set them back, by several hours at least. And God help him if things didn’t go as planned.

  John shuddered away the thought, looked up and focused on the boy again. The burger and fries were gone. The boy was sucking the last of his soda—John could hear the hollow slurps five tables away. The boy stood, dumped his tray, and headed toward the exit.

  John exhaled, actually breathing the words “thank you.” He left his paper on the table and hurried after the boy. The mall had two major lots—one above ground and one below. If the boy had parked in the lot below, in the dark, John should have no trouble; he’d be right on schedule, and his wife would be pleased.

  2

  Samantha Kearns sat in front of her bedroom mirror, weeping. Tammy Kearns stood behind her daughter, brushing Samantha’s long blonde hair, every few strokes of the brush followed by a reassuring stroke of the hand.

  “I’m sure there’s a very good reason, Princess.” Tammy stopped brushing and glanced out her daughter’s window. She saw no headlights below just yet. Still she said, “He’ll be here.”

  Samantha continued to weep.

  Tammy Kearns set the brush down and adjusted the shoulder straps on her daughter’s pink prom dress. She took a tissue from its box and dabbed it beneath her daughter’s eyes. “You’re going to spoil your makeup if you keep this up.” She showed the mottled tissue to her daughter. “You want to look like a princess tonight don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then.” She dabbed her daughter’s eyes a final time. “Stop those tears. I’m sure Daddy will be calling any minute with some good news.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t suppose…”

  Tammy Kearns moved behind her daughter and began brushing again. “Suppose what?”

  “You don’t suppose he changed his mind?”

  Tammy Kearns slowly set the brush aside. She loomed over her daughter now, spoke with the tone of a loaded gun. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t suppose he decided not to show? Decided to go with someone else?”

  Tammy Kearns spun the chair with the strength of a man, her meaty hands then clamping down onto the arm rests as she thrust her face into her daughter’s. “NO. No he did NOT.” She jostled the chair, once and hard. A lock of Samantha’s hair fell over one eye. “You are second to NO ONE. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “DO YOU?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  The dark cloud passed and Tammy Kearns became sunshine again. She smiled lovingly at her daughter, reached out with a finger and brushed aside the errant lock of her daughter’s hair. “You’re my little princess. And a princess needs her prince.” The lock of hair fell back over Samantha’s eye. Tammy brushed it aside again, tr
ied tucking it behind her ear. “And he’s going to be here very soon.”

  Tammy Kearns saw her daughter give a weak smile.

  “Oh come on—you can do better than that,” Tammy said, crossing the room, grabbing her favorite of many pictures on Samantha’s dresser. “Who’s that?” she asked, holding the photo up for her daughter, her syrupy tone suitable for a toddler. “Who is that?”

  Tammy Kearns saw her daughter start to blush, begin to smile. “Me,” Samantha said.

  “That’s right.” Tammy lowered the picture and began looking at it herself. She beamed as she spoke. “My Princess. Only six years old and already everyone knew you were the most beautiful girl in the county.” She traced her thick finger over the glass, running it back and forth over the little gold crown atop her daughter’s head, the finger leaving the crown, circling the cherub face that was artificially tanned and caked in makeup, leaving the face, caressing the bundle of roses her daughter struggled to hold, leaving the roses, finishing with the trophy that stood next to her daughter, taller than the child by a foot. “My Princess…” she said again. “Your prince will be here soon—you’ll see.”

  3

  Thank you, thank you, thank you, John Kearns thought as he followed the boy to the lot below ground. The boy was moving fast and John had to quicken his pace. His forty-four years wasn’t exactly over the hill, but his fitness was lacking. His wife constantly ridiculed the paunch that hung over his belt, his breasts that were breasts, his hairline that was in a fast retreat. All signs of sloth, a lack of beauty, a lack of dignity. The paradox—the one he would never dare voice—was that his wife was as heavy as he was, an even guiltier culprit of sloth. Or so it would appear; Tammy Kearns had never perceived it that way. Her world was akin to an editor forced to trim (and often chop) a film in order to make inappropriate content suitable for all audiences. Never mind if the chopping came at the expense of plot—when Tammy watched, it always made sense.