Restless Highways

by Melissa L. Webb

  I know this more than anyone. I have seen it happen time and time again. It’s all I can think about as I prepare my cursed objects. The world will suffer and all because I laid my curious wares out on this table and opened my shop for the day.

  Fair Warning

  Cassie looked around her. Why was no one listening? Her warnings only seemed to fall on deaf ears. “You have to believe me. It’s coming,” she shouted at the people around her.

  “Don’t start this again,” her boyfriend said, looking up from the pizza he was making. He glanced nervously around at the customers staring at her. “Come on, Cass. You can’t come in here while I’m working and say things like that.”

  She looked at him, frustration plain on her face. “But, Ricky, I’m trying to save you.” She looked around the pizza parlor. “I’m trying to save all of you.”

  Rick’s boss stepped out onto the floor and looked at his employee. “Do we have a problem here?”

  He shook his head. “No. No, sir. Cassie worries a lot,” he said with a shrug. “It’s an O.C.D. thing.”

  She gasped, shocked at his words. “An O.C.D. thing? How many times am I right about things, Richard? How many?”

  Sighing, Rick stopped what he was doing, wiping his hands on his apron. He walked over and took her by the arm, leading her out the door and past the windows, avoiding the stares of the people inside.

  “How many times have I been right?” she demanded when he stopped walking.

  Looking down at her, he sighed. “Quite a few,” he admitted.

  “Then why won’t you listen to me now?”

  A faint smile ghosted over his lips. “Because, Cassie, the earth will not tremble and the water will not rise up and claim this town today,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just not going to happen.”

  “How do you know? How can you be so sure?” she questioned.

  “Because,” he told her, weariness creeping through his words. “Not even you can foresee that, Cassie.”

  She shook her head. “You’re just like the rest of them,” she said as she started to turn away from him.

  “Listen, Cass,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “Even if something was to happen, the water can’t reach us here. We’d be safe.”

  She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Not this time, Ricky.” She grabbed his hand, desperation in her eyes. “Come with me. Please. We can still make it if we hurry.”

  He pulled his hand away. “Cassie…I can’t. I have to work,” he told her heading for the door. Suddenly he stopped and turned around. “I’ll call you later, okay?” he said before slipping into the pizza parlor.

  She watched him go; feeling as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest. “No, you won’t, Ricky. You won’t be calling anyone ever again,” she whispered, heading back to the car.

  Sliding behind the wheel, Cassie pulled out onto the street. She quickly made her way onto the highway and headed out of town. She could practically hear time counting down, like a steady ticking in her mind.

  She pulled the car over at the lookout point outside of town. Here she would have a perfect view of the ocean and her town. Opening the car door she placed a foot on the ground just as the earth started to shake. She quickly sat down on the curb, holding onto the ground as it rolled under her.

  Tears began to flow as she gazed down upon her little town. She would be safe here but down below…the town would be decimated and that would be before the tsunami. The town would be wiped out of existence when it arrived.

  The quivering below her stopped. Cassie stood up on shaky legs looking out to the sea. The water’s edge was slowly retreating. Exposed ground now stood where water once was. She shook her head sadly as more tears fell. What a waste this all seemed. If only they had taken her seriously. Now all was gone, just because they couldn’t believe in her.

  She stood there, crying softly as she watched the water return once more.

  Campfire Tales

  Something lives deep in the woods where I grew up. Most people only talk about it in hushed whispers, nervously glancing over their shoulders. The rest use it as a cautionary tale, warning their children not to venture too deep into the trees there.

  My parents were the latter. They used the legend as a way to keep me out of the forest behind our house. I always got a laugh from their warning. I knew things like that didn’t exist. Yet they would swear by it. “The Patchwork Man walks tonight. He’ll steal your children and taint their souls.”

  Yeah, right. Tell me another one. I wasn’t a naive child. I was a street-smart teenager; they couldn’t fool me with their fairytales and lies.

  It didn’t matter that they wove tales of an entity so depraved that not one adult would set foot near the forest at night. The fact he was said to slip past lit windows searching for his next victims to play with didn’t bother me; it wasn’t real. A creature who stole the flesh from children’s bones wasn’t something that existed. It was only a campfire story, nothing more.

  So I decided to prove them all wrong. Everyone told me not to look for him. I was only inviting danger because once he’s set his sights on you, nothing would stop him. I didn’t listen. I had to prove to them how wrong they were.

  Now I know the truth. I was the one who was wrong. Everything you have heard about the Patchwork Man is true. He is your worst nightmare, personified. The stories people tell are but a pale reflection of what he truly is. I know this. I know it very well.

  I’m now one of the damned who lingers in these woods, my life snuffed out by he who dwells within. I issue this warning; lock your doors, keep your lights on, and hold your children close. The Patchwork Man walks tonight.

  Confessions From An Apocalypse

  It started with a raccoon. A dead raccoon. I don’t know how everything escalated so fast from there. Maybe we brought it on by our lack of compassion. We honestly deserved no less.

  The raccoon’s body was found in the gutter next to our house. Its torn coat matted with blood as its eyes remained forever unfocused. I wanted it gone. Death and disease that close to our little slice of suburbia was unacceptable. What if the kids played in it? What if the dog rolled in it? The filthy thing had to go.

  My husband refused to dispose of it. He wasn’t going to touch the germ-ridden corpse. That’s what they paid garbage men for. Let them do it.

  So with that refusal, it left me with the responsibility to deal with it. I called the City and complained. What else was I going to do? It’s not like I was going to touch the damn thing, especially with a fresh manicure.

  The city worker told me they’d send someone out if they had time, but I could hear it in her voice. It wasn’t very high up on her list at all. Yes, that was my tax dollars hard at work.

  Days went by and the raccoon continued to lay there, its corpse bloating by the minute. I was certain any moment the blasted thing would pop and spray the entire neighborhood with its filth. And the smell was the worst. Summertime was here and the long days of endless heat had caused a stench to waft through the breeze. I couldn’t enjoy my “me” time out on the patio because of it.

  How could that animal be so inconsiderate as to die outside of my home? I was at my wit’s end. Something had to be done.

  So, I did what any irritated woman would do. I grabbed a broom and marched outside. As I got closer to the beast, I realized my mistake. The smell was overpowering this close to it. It was all I could do to keep my breakfast down. This stench was something no proper woman should ever have to deal with.

  But I was here and I wanted the vile thing gone. I looked around, hoping for inspiration to come to me. Luckily, it did. There was a storm drain leading to the sewers not very far from the rotting abomination. I knew what I had to do. I was going to shove that wretched thing down into the sewers.

  I brought the broom to the corpse’s side and pushed with all my might. The body slid forward, breaking open as it did. Putrid liquid flowed out of the remains, coating the straws of t
he broom. I gagged, trying to advert my eyes from the gore, but kept pushing with all my strength.

  The body continued to slide, my efforts made easier as more fluids ran. My shoes tried to slip in it and I cursed the animal as I went. How dare it choose my curb to rot against. I damned its soul to the worst torment Hell could offer. No one subjected me to this and got away with it. It would pay.

  I got it to the grate and shoved it towards the opening. With a satisfying crunch, it dropped through into the darkness below. With one final glance at the rot smeared across the blacktop, I turned and headed back to the house to burn the broom and my shoes.

  I gave no thought what-so-ever to the life that had been taken on this road, only to the inconvenience it put me through. I had cursed the creature with all the hate I could muster.

  I think about that now as I sit here in this dark abandoned house, trying to purge my soul of this sin by the dying candlelight. I have lost everything because of my selfishness. I’m alone now, my family taken from me. This is my punishment. I know that…

  Wait. I hear them outside. The zombies must have been drawn to the flickering light of the candle. I don’t know how long my barricades will last. I have to get this out. I need those of you left to know the truth.

  The zombie plague is my fault.

  I knew my curses had been heard by someone’s ears. I had cursed that raccoon’s soul to the worst torment Hell had to offer.

  That night, after I had shoved the body down in the sewers, the poor doomed creature had crawled into my bedroom, dragging its broken body behind it. There was nothing I could do as the reanimated corpse launched itself at my husband, its dead eyes watching me as it tore the flesh from his bones.

  So this is my confession: my selfishness created the first zombie.

  His Dark Ink

  Jack sat up in bed, sheets clinging to him as his heart thundered in his chest. The image still lingered in front of his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull himself from the faint grasp of sleep still clinging to his mind. He quickly untangled himself, rising from the bed. Padding silently into the kitchen, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat down at the table. What was going on with him?

  Every night this last week he had woken up the same way; heart pounding, an image in his mind. He never remembered anything else except that image. Even now, it still burned in his mind. Taking another sip from the bottle, he grabbed a notebook and a pen from the table, carefully recreating the image from memory.

  Suddenly Jack stopped, staring down at the paper. The picture he had created was breathtaking. Black lines swirled together in complex patterns forming an exquisite sight. A perfect duplicate of the image haunting his dreams.

  A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. These black lines stirred feelings he had never experienced before. It was all encompassing, yet comforting; as if being wrapped in a mother’s embrace. Looking at this design, he knew he belonged. Someone was out there who loved him, who cared about him. This was their sign all would be well.

  Leaning back in his chair, Jack took another sip of water. He needed to find a way to keep this feeling; to hold on to this gift he’d been given.

  A smile spread across his lips. He knew exactly how to make this symbol his forever.

  A week later, Jack left the tattoo parlor and glanced at his bandaged bicep. The symbol was now his. It had become a part of who he was, who he could be. It was now part of who he was destined to be. Grinning, he made his way to the car. He would carry this beauty with him forever.

  ***

  The God rejoiced as he felt his reach flow into the man, slowly taking him over; turning him into a willing pawn. This mortal would become the first of his new soldiers.

  Soon, the God would have his army. Rising up, they would reclaim the world in His name. It was only a matter of time now.

  He turned his sight from the anointed mortal and started to search for the next victim to wear his mark.

  Wet Work

  The blood splattered the walls as if it was abstract art. I watched as the patterns seemed to come together around me. Damn, I wish I had my camera. The gory masterpiece before me should be documented for posterity.

  I slide the blade from her skin as she moaned causing more blood to flow, staining the white sheets to a dark crimson. What little life she had left in her struggled against me as I worked, even as it ebbed away.

  I tossed the knife aside, wanting to feel her fleeting life force against my skin. My fingers curled around the pale flesh of her throat, digging in. She gurgled against me, trying desperately to suck in her last remaining breath as I tightened my hold, watching the life fade from her eyes.

  With a final failed gasp, her muscles relaxed. I grinned as her body went limp. All life had been spilled from her. I reluctantly withdrew my hands from her neck and got up; staring at the lifeless beauty sprawled across the bed. How exquisite she looked in death.

  Everything always seemed more beautiful at the end. I don’t know why that’s true, but it is. I guess death strips away the pretenses and leaves us with nothing but honesty.

  I stepped back, sadly drawing my eyes away from my dark creation. It was time to clean up. I got busy, removing all evidence I had been there. I am saddened by this part, because the dance of death cannot be done without a partner, but I can’t let them find me.

  I finished and quickly looked around the room, my eyes taking in the perfection of death one last time. My eyes linger on the blood splatters, taking in their whisperings of mortality. However, as I walk away, the sadness is fleeting, for I know, there are always more walls to paint.

  Domestic Disturbance

  Beth stepped into the kitchen and let out a sigh. The kids were at school. Her husband was off to work. Finally, she could catch her breath and relax a little. Grabbing a mug, she poured herself a cup of coffee, then slipped into a chair at the table. Closing her eyes, she let the stress of the morning flow from her.

  “It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

  Her eyelids cracked open as she peered around the kitchen. Not again. “Go away,” she muttered, closing her eyes once more.

  “Not until you listen to us.”

  With a sigh, Beth opened her eyes. “We’ve been down this road before; I’m not listening to you.”

  There was a clatter next to the sink as one of the pots moved forward, its lid lifting as speech flowed from it. “All he does is treat you like a slave,” it told her. “You need to get rid of him.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not doing that.”

  “What? You’d rather spend your life at his beck and call?” the oven asked, opening its door.

  Beth took another sip of her coffee, thinking over those words. “No. You know I don’t.”

  “Then fix it,” the can opener said as it turned on. “Make him pay for it. Make him pay for everything.”

  Setting down her mug, she stared at the appliances around her. “Phil doesn’t deserve to die. Is it really too much to expect me to run the household?”

  “You tell us,” the coffee pot chimed in. “How do you feel when you’re waiting on him hand and foot?”

  “I don’t like it,” she said, rubbing absently at her forehead.

  “Exactly.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he deserves to die.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the toaster said flatly. “But you have to realize something, killing him is the only way you’ll be free.”

  Beth stood up suddenly. “No. I won’t do it. I can’t.”

  “You have to,” the fridge said. “You have to kill them all.”

  “I don’t,” she told it firmly. “And I won’t. Do you hear me? I’m not killing my family.”

  “Fine,” the oven told her. “Keep on suffering. We’re only trying to save you.”

  “Well, I don’t need to be saved,” Beth told it, sitting back down at the table. “Now, please, I’d like to finish my coffee in peace.”

  “O
kay,” the pot told her as everything settled back into its place. “But just remember, it’s only a matter of time before you listen to us.”

  The Message

  Three days ago, I made a terrible mistake. It was an honest one that anybody would have made. I know that. If time could rewind, I know I would do it the same way. I can’t be blamed for my actions, but I can still suffer from them. I made a mistake that altered my life. I answered the phone.

  I didn’t recognize the number when my cell phone rang. I wasn’t surprised by that. I get a lot of calls from people I don’t know. That’s what happens when you run your own business. There was absolutely no hesitation as I answered it, but the sobbing on the other end did give me pause.

  I was speechless as my mind whirled with images of people who might be hurt or worse. That was the only reason I could imagine for this call. But when she spoke, I realized I didn’t know this crying woman. She was just a stranger weeping into my ear.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she told me through tears. “But I need to talk to someone; to tell them this and it can’t be anyone I know.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. How could I turn away this woman when she was so distraught? So with a sigh, I spoke, “What can I do for you?”

  “Just listen, please. That’s all I ask. Just listen to what I have to tell you, it will only take a minute.”

  I reluctantly agreed. She took a deep breath and began to tell me about a conversation she had the other day. A woman had stopped her on the street, asking if she could spare a moment. This woman needed to speak to her. She told her a story of how she had been asked to hear a tale of woe from a stranger and every since she had, her life had been a nightmare.

  This stranger on the street told her she was having nightmares; that her luck had changed for the worse, and she was being stalked by some unseen thing. She was sure some negative force had entered her life and now she feared for herself and those she loved.