Individually Wrapped Horrors

by Eric Joel Kleinschmidt, Sr.

  “Welcome to Atlantis Audiobooks. This is ‘Be the Best You That You Can Be’ by: Terralina Gravves. This book is copyrighted 2017 and is read by the author.” His dry, hollow recorded voice ended and there was a moment of dusty, scratched silence, like on a vinyl record, then the driest female voice I had ever heard in my life began to speak.

  “Be the best you that you can be. These aren’t merely words, but a true sentiment of human advancement and survival. What are we as humans if not ever reaching for the stars, ever clawing our way out of the primordial ooze we have sprung forth from, ever climbing to the top of Everest and beyond that just to be able to look down on God’s creation and say ‘I did it!’? Everything mankind—and womankind-” she added snidely, “had ever sought out to achieve is due to the fact that one person stood before the precipice and said ‘you will not hold me back! I will overcome you and you will not hold me back!’ Throughout all of time and space, the only true sign that we can tell of advancement and utter intelligence is right here in our own back yard. WE are the only sign of that advancement and utter intelligence. We are the ones who shivered in the cold and so built fires and made blankets and clothes and ultimately houses with central heating. We are the ones who stood in the dark and strove to see what could not be seen. We are the ones who built fires and made light out of lightlessness. We are the ones who now live in a twenty-four hour a day world where lights and electricity are everywhere, illuminating what once drove us to fear and madness because we would not go quietly into that good night…not without an L.E.D powered flashlight with pulsating warning lights and a built in am/fm radio to keep us company. We, the humans who will not be undone, have done all of this and more by simply saying that we will be the best WE that we can be. We will seek out a challenge, stand tall and conquer it. So, from that sentiment, let us begin to look at ways that we can improve ourselves and climb our own personal Everest.” It was a nice—if not bitterly boring—pitch, but I thought hundreds had come before with this self-help nonsense and done and a much better wind-up than this. But I was no expert on the matter, so I continued to listen. For the next three days, I listened all the way through and finished with a grunt of boredom, but no real sense of foreboding. I sat back in my chair and threw the headphones on the desk. Something was wrong here. I felt like I was missing something obvious, something just right there in front of my face. My poor dumb numb brain just couldn’t grab it. Maybe if I got a good night’s sleep it would come to me. I went to bed early that night and still, I never felt my head hit the pillow.

  The dream came hard, fast and so vivid. I’d have preferred the softly lit mellow kind of dream instead, but what I got was sitting up in bed and looking around in the moonlit room. Two figures stood over against the wall, facing it. They were dressed in the funeral clothes. Mom was in a black dress bought special for the occasion, Molly was in more of a black pant suit. It had been needed for the stitching back together of her remains in the just-in-case scenario that we did want a wake. They turned to look at me. “Please don’t.” I moaned. “Don’t look at me. I can’t bear that. Say what you have to say.”

  Mom whispered in eerie tones, “I listened for three weeks. I listened for three weeks. I listened…” Molly was more of a gasping drawl.

  “You didn’t know how long I’d been listening, but it was longer than that. It was longer. It was…” Her voice trailed off into silence, but was broken by a faint tapping at the window. My gaze came around to look in that direction. The moonlight coming down through the tree limbs outside made horrible shadows dance across the walls, shadows of skeletal remains and wicked, clawing things. I swallowed dryly and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the shadows had all taken on a faded aspect and the wind outside had all but died down. I watched in terror and fascination as an impossibly long boney claw pointing up became visible an inch at a time out the window. It came up from beneath, first the tip, then the first knuckle, followed by four or five inches of bone, then the second knuckle, followed by a few more inches of bone, then to my horror, the third and fourth knuckles and still it came up. Then it stopped its course, this ridiculously long boney claw pointing at the sky. It began to curl down and toward the window. It curled until the boney tip was a breath away, then it began to tap. Tapping on my window as my dread grew into an ocean’s violent wave. It gave one more tap, harder than before, and the window shattered. Mom and Molly turned to look at me, rotted flesh dripping from their faces. Molly with black liquid leaking out from her stitches, mom’s ran thick and sluggishly from her many knife wounds. Their eyes had been eaten out of their sockets by bugs who now inhabited the vacancies. Molly’s nose peeled down and fell off to the floor with an unimportant little plop. They moved to the side of bed as the boney claw outside scratched against the broken shards of glass still in the frame. Mom leaned in. “Listen longer,” She hissed. Molly added, “All will become clear,” with a gurgled vomit sound. “It isn’t for you,” they hissed in unison. From outside the window, a devilish tittering chuckle rose up through the foul night air, drawing my attention away. The boney claw had three more friends and now they began to wrap around my neck and squeeze. I woke up with a scream. Looking around, I at once noticed that the storm outside had sent a branch through my bedroom window. The long, sharp branch came in far enough to have been scratching at my forehead. A small cut with a thin trickle of blood was my proof. I got out of bed in a hurry, though it was barely sunrise, and ran downstairs. The old man was sleeping poorly on the couch, tossing and moaning in his sleep.

  “No, Betty,” he cried out, “you and Molly leave me be now! You ain’t here no more! You’re both dead now, leave me be!” I felt a momentary pang of pity for the old bugger, then remembered everything that led up to mom’s parting and my face grew dark and cold, bitter toward him and the drink that either made him so evil and hateful or simply amplified what was already there. “It isn’t for you…” echoed through my fear and rage rattled brain. Dad snorted and whined a bit in a low way. I could feel a cold blade pierce my heart and everything became clear. I trundled back up the stairs to my room and began rooting around through my drawers. My fingers happened upon what I was after and I turned to leave, stopping quickly at my desk and grabbing what was there.

  At the bottom of the stairs again, still in an almost trance like manner, I took one last look at the sleeping, writhing idiot that was my father. Without further hesitation, I walked over to the couch, pressed play and slid the headphones of my own portable cd player over his large, misshapen ears. I lovingly laid the player on his stomach and took a few steps back. I came to the recliner and slowly fell into it, observing. Mom and Molly had listened to the cd’s God only knew how many times. How many times would it take the old man? That was essentially what I had here, right? A suicide machine? I saw that clearly then. I see it clearly now. His head waivered back and forth on the pillow he was using. His mumbling grew steadily more dire and it sounded like the dreams I was feeding into his sleeping brain were really ramping up. I thought once around the mulberry bush would do the trick all right. I watched in amazed fascination as he began thrashing out with his closed fists at what was not there and then something really amazing happened that made me sit upright and slide to the edge of my seat watching. He lowered his hands—as if in acceptance—and focused in his sleep on one point and began slowly nodding in agreement. He seemed to really be considering whatever the audiobook was telling him. He continued nodding and I was all eyes front as he swung his legs out over the edge of the couch and sat up. His eyes were plastered closed and he was clearly still sound asleep—or passed out—when he gave a small grunt and stood up. He stood in one spot wobbling. I thought he was just going to go right over, until his vacant, mostly white and bloodshot eyes popped wide open—fixed directly on me. All of a sudden, this didn’t seem like such a great idea. I got to my feet in a hurry and took a few steps back. His dried and cracked lips parted and he said, “Call the cops, son,” in a sleepy, groggy voic
e.

  “Why the cops, Dad?” I asked in disbelief. His head was lowered, but his horrible blind eyes never left me.

  “Call the cops, son, or I’m going to rip your throat out.” He smiled the most heinous gesture I have ever seen. A long string of drool with a pink hint of blood escaped him to the floor below. “I have always hated and regretted you, son,” his hands coming up to me, outstretched like in the old zombie movies. “You are the biggest mistake I ever made. Don’t disappoint me again. Call the cops, son.” He lunged for me and I swerved away from his grasp. He swung back around, now closed fisted, and caught me on the side of the temple. I went over and down in a heap. Rubbing the sore spot, I quickly regained my feet and he was still looking me dead in the eyes with that downward gaze. “I don’t want to have to kill you, boy,” he said, almost regretfully, as if the old man was actually coming through a little. “I will kill you slowly if you don’t mind me. Call them now.” I slowly got out my cell phone and held it firmly.

  “What do I say to them?” I asked. He struck out again fast and caught me by the throat. Squeezing hard and harder, he hissed:

  “It has to sound convincing. Tell them I’ve gone crazy and am going to kill you.” He squeezed brutally hard, then threw me even harder against the closest wall. I hit my head and the phone fell to the floor. I slid down the wall beside it, picked it up and dialed 911. The operator answered and asked me what my emergency was. I screamed into the phone my name and address and that my old man was trying to kill me, send help quick, and hung up the phone. He approached me again. “Let’s try this again,” he rasped at me, grabbing me by the collar and throwing me across the room. “You’re dead, boy, if they don’t get here in time!” He yelled. I knew I had this coming. I knew it was my fault. I had put the headphones on him. I had to handle this. I pocketed the cell phone and balled up my fists, enraged by every scolding, every belittling, every time this waste of space had ever lashed out verbally or otherwise at any of us. I saw Mom’s ripped up book in the garbage and saw red. I rushed at him and he grinned morbidly. “That’s the spirit, boy.” He shouted. He received me with inhuman strength. I swung out at his face, but he ducked quick and threw a hard left into my gut. I was doubled over with pain and the rush of wind going out of me. I lay on the floor in a crumpled-up pile. He reached down and without even seeming to strain, grabbed me by the throat and lifted me two feet up off the floor. He stood a good foot above me, but he had some real strength now. I was face to face with him and saw how his eyes had taken on dark, demonic shades. This couldn’t be the old man, I thought. Just look at him! He turned a bit to the left and I felt it in my bones and knew it in my brain one second before it happened—he drew back the hand that clutched my throat and threw me smoothly through the front door and onto the porch outside. I heard a loud snap in my right arm as I came down hard on it and the bolt of pain made me scream shrilly into the otherwise quiet night. The amazingly humorous part of this whole ordeal was, he still had on the headphones. The wire dangled comically as he walked through the living room to the kitchen. The player must have been put in his pocket or down his pants. I didn’t see it dragging behind. He was out of sight for a moment more as I tried to scramble to my feet, holding my broken right arm. The bones clicked and grated in there sending fresh spasms of pain throughout my whole body. I staggered drunkenly down the porch steps and distantly heard the warble of sirens. No sign of them yet, but I thought I could hold him off a few minutes longer. That was, until he came out the front door holding his hunting rifle. His black Mossberg 22” was leveled directly at me with one blinded bloodshot eye at the scope. I turned to run and caught the first bullet in the back of my left calf. It threw me forward and the screeching pain inside me was more than I had ever known was possible. A fire starting at my calf was burning all the way through my body, in every direction, like he had shot me with molten lava. I rolled over on my back on the sharp gravel driveway of my childhood—where bikes had been ridden, games had been played, knees had been scraped, and tires had been spun out in big round donutty fun—and watched as my father, the man I could never really come to love, trust or respect, had my head in the scope and was approaching. I cringed, I cowered, like a beaten dog ready and in preparation for the next blow, I knew this was the moment of my death. He had the barrel of the gun about two feet from my forehead when he grinned a fearful and almost apologetic grin…tires sliding to a halt on the loose gravel, lights flashing, men jumping out from all direction, guns being drawn and cocked, a bullhorn: “Jim Hammond!” The voice bellowed. “Drop it and get those hands up. No second warning!” His gaze drew away from me, somewhat relieved looking and the barrel of the Mossberg did likewise.

  “Thank you, boy. I love you. Now go on and get.” He whispered at me, lowering the gun slightly and moving all of his attention toward the gaggle of police gathered now. They all had eyes on him as well and the tension was thicker than molasses in January. I rolled over and crawled away from him as fast as I could, which was to say turtle speed. I began to cry as I did so. If only he hadn’t said that last thing to me. I was so full of conflict over it, I didn’t know what to think. Had he wanted this all along? To die? To self-destruct? What was it called online? Suicide by cop? Oh, God, what have I done? I crawled, first to the silent stress-filled sound of the night, trying to yell that there had been a mistake. They had to hold their fire! Still belly-down on the ground, I raised my good arm up, but it was already too late. Then, I was crawling again, but this time to the crackle-pop-bang of gun fire. He had stood behind me, gun still in hand. He got off one shot, ensuring his fate was sealed. No cop gave a crap about a cop killer. That one shot he got off, caught one officer high in the temple. That officer survived for three nights before succumbing to the wound. He never awoke though. My father, dad, the old man, that mean old drunk, had finished with a total of eighteen bullets in his body, according to later official reports. The one that really counted was the one that took out his right eye. That was the money shot, so to speak. He fell straight back, flinging the rifle to his right, and coming to a dead rest on the cold gravel of our driveway, thus endeth his part in this tragic tale. But, not the tale itself. No, never the tale itself. I don’t think this kind of tale really ever has an ending.

  As they were loading me into the ambulance, A loud noise out by the shed attracted most of their attention. Two stray dogs or a dog and cat or two somethings anyway were out there tearing each other up. There was snarling and barking and some other pretty feral noises and the majority of the officers went that way to check it out. No one but me saw the figure of a woman, dressed in a black pant suit and with a slight cloud of mist around her form, emerge from the shadows of the yard, casually stroll over to the lifeless form of my dad, reach down and pluck the cd out of the player (which he did have in his pants). She produced—from out of nowhere—the rest of the audiobook case and with no real sense of urgency, slid the cd home in its correct slot. Still, no one saw this mysterious woman. I know it wasn’t Mom or Molly, that much I do know. Call her Terralina Gravves, perhaps? I don’t know. She finished the task at hand, looked over at me knowingly and put her first finger up to her lips in a ‘shh’ gesture. She turned back toward the trees in the darkened yard and walked away. As she did, she seemed to merge into those shadows, becoming one with them. Dissolving into the darkness. Then, whatever the ruckus was that drew the cops’ attention away was over. They made their way back over to the old man and began taking pictures and taping off the area. About that time, the approach of other vehicles meant all the neighbors were on their way, having heard the shots and seen the lights. Must be some good action, better than tv! The ambulance rolled away with me in it.

  I was rushed off to the hospital, about four miles away. My arm was reset and put in a cast. It took them an hour or more to get the bullet out of my leg as it had driven deep into the bone. I lost a great deal of blood and have ever since walked with a noticeable limp. Questions were asked, but met with only v
ague, non-committal answers. I had nothing to say to any of these people. I sold the old place after having a huge bonfire of most of the family’s belongings first. Didn’t get half of what the old place was worth, but I got out. That was enough. There was nothing of the family’s stuff I wanted to keep anyway. I barely wanted anything of mine. I finally put together enough money and moved out here to Castle Rock, Colorado—just south of Denver. Took a little while to get used to the air up here, but I manage. Had pretty much just thrown a dart at a map and this is where it took me. Great place to live though. Nothing here to remind me of those I lost along the way. I still don’t sleep so well at night. Bad dreams. You can imagine. But I got a decent job—turns out, I’m a pretty good car salesman—and there’s a girl I’m seeing here. Nothing serious, but it has potential. Also, I stopped in a few times to say hi to Lynn. I don’t think I will do that again, though. She seems edgy when I’m there, like she wishes I was gone. Found a nice little house on the north side of town, about a mile outside. Very quiet and peaceful place to be. Still, I get into a sweaty panic nearly every time I approach the front steps to my house. Thinking that one day there will be a small rectangular package with just my name on it waiting for me there on the steps saying, “Welcome home, son, plug you phones in and give this little beauty a spin. Be the best you that you can be…”