by Scott Savino
This was my fault. I’d dragged someone totally innocent into my fucked up nightmare and now he was dead because of me. He’d probably had plans for the weekend, or a term paper to write for college, or a big lacrosse game coming up or something. I’d never asked. Now I’d never know.
Trying to call someone was obviously a bust and I knew couldn’t stay there for long; the stench from Travis’s corpse was threatening to make me vomit again. Besides, sticking around when a stalker had already murdered someone in my bed was borderline suicidal. I hastily pulled off my bloodstained t-shirt and threw on some clean clothes, then grabbed my backpack and shoved in a handful of necessities. It was early, but I could probably catch a Greyhound out of South Station if I booked it. Boston didn’t feel like the safest place for me anymore.
I didn’t want to leave the body for my roommate to find when he got back, but there was no chance in hell I was going to try and move it. If I could find a working phone somewhere along the way I’d try reaching the police again, but that was the extent of my advance planning. I was too focused on the now, on getting the fuck out of there while I still had my legs attached, to worry about what came next.
I swung the backpack over my shoulder and hurried down the stairs, out into the frigid winter morning. The sun was just barely coming up over the tops of the apartments across the street and everything was quiet. I could only hear the clomping of my footsteps and the rumbling of distant traffic.
I kept craning my neck to look behind me.
There was no one else walking the sidewalks at this hour, but my neck was prickling and I wasn’t sure if someone was actually watching me or if I was being paranoid. I shifted my backpack and quickened my pace. The Boston College stop was only a few blocks away and I figured I could get there before the sun came up completely.
Then I heard it. The light patter of shoes on pavement. I turned around, nervous breaths billowing in the cold, and saw a man in a black hoodie strolling along the sidewalk. At first I let myself believe it was just someone out for a brisk morning walk, but then the stroll turned into a stride, covering several feet with each gangly step.
My heart lurched in my chest and I turned and ran.
The stranger’s footsteps changed again, this time from light patters to earth-shaking thuds. I clutched at the straps of my backpack and ran as fast as I could, even when my side seized with cramps, and even when I snagged the edge of my jacket on a loose tangle of fence.
There was no one on the street to cry out to. No cops waiting on the corner to save me. If the train wasn’t waiting for me when I arrived then I was fucked, plain and simple.
I dared one more look behind me and nearly stumbled flat on my face.
The man in the hoodie was changing. His body was unfolding like an envelope, his face waxen like a dummy’s, his chest bursting open to reveal a grisly red-and-black interior. The black looked like the same the same goop I’d seen in my apartment. The red was a pulsing cluster of human hearts. There must have been twenty or more stuffed into his chest cavity. They were still beating, still pumping out streams of thick red blood, and they throbbed as one when they saw me looking back.
We can be together, we can be one soul, one being, one beating heart—
I shuddered, swallowed some bile, and forced myself to go a little faster. I could see the green line train approaching the station just up ahead. The sight sent such a surge of relief through me that I think I started laughing and sobbing at the same time. I leaped off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a passing car, and hurried onto the platform. The trolley doors were just hissing open as I ran up.
I hurtled inside, breathing heavily, and swiped my Charlie card across the scanner. The doors began to close—too slow. Far, far too slow. I ignored the stares of the other passengers as I clambered to the back of the carriage and took a seat. I couldn’t keep myself from glancing nervously out the window. The train lurched forward, rumbling its way along the track, leaving behind a solitary figure on the platform.
He looked like a person again, just an ordinary man in a black hoodie. But I’d seen the thing inside of him. Whatever was standing out there, it wasn’t human. It never had been. It stared at me with those weirdly purple eyes as the train left it standing in the cold.
I turned away from the window and tried to breathe normally again.
That all happened this morning.
I’m writing this from the back of a Greyhound bus, huddled up in my winter jacket and keeping a watchful eye on the other passengers. I haven’t seen the figure in the black hoodie since I left Boston. I haven’t gotten any more threatening emails, or taken any menacing calls on my phone. I’m not naive enough to believe this is over, though.
I will never stop, Jonathan, I will follow you to the ends of the earth until at last we can be together.
Not going to lie, I still get chills thinking about those words. But I have to try and escape.
Maybe I’m an idiot for thinking I can outrun this thing. Maybe it’s always going to be at my back. Maybe one day I’ll wake up to find that hideous cavity of beating hearts opening up to consume me. Life’s a ticking clock now. I don’t know how long I’ve got left. But you’d damn well better believe I’m going to outrun this thing as long as I can.
I can’t tell you where I’m going in case he happens to be reading this. Just know that I’m going somewhere safe.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, somewhere I won’t be alone.
The Woman with the Comb
KITTY OLSEN
I KNEW MY HUSBAND WAS cheating on me. Every Tuesday night he’d make up some bullshit excuse about going to see some friends, but a quick call to their wives confirmed it was all a lie. I was furious. I had vague notions of what I wanted to do, what I wanted to say, but first I needed to catch him. I needed to see it with my own eyes before I confronted him.
I’m not really a professional stalker, but I borrowed a friend’s car to follow him to a cheap motel outside town. There, he parked his truck and walked confidently up to room 102, knocking twice before stuffing his hands in his pockets and waiting for a moment. The door opened and I saw a flash of blonde hair before he swept on in.
My stomach curled at the confirmation of my worst fears. Just over ten years of marriage and he was willing to throw it all away.
My first plan was to barge in there and confront him in the act, but my resolve had already shriveled and wasted away. Instead, I sat frozen in the front seat, twisting my wedding ring around and around, staring at the door of room 102.
Almost an hour later he sauntered out looking like the cat who got the canary. I saw the blonde leaning against the doorframe with a matching smile. I barely had enough sense to duck down to avoid being caught as my husband drove away.
That’s when a new plan took form.
I had to confront her.
I jumped out of the car and headed for that door, knocking twice just like my husband had.
“Oh, you forget something, Frank?”
The door opened and there she was, petite, and blonde, and adorable. Was that what Frank was into now? Pixies? Fairy women? Delicate elven damsels? She even dressed like something from a fantasy painting in a simple, but flowing green dress that showed off her curves without demanding attention or revealing too much. The blonde looked me up and down before her velvety black eyes widened in recognition. “You—you’re Danielle. Frank’s wife.”
“Did he tell you about me?” I was shaking with rage. “Did you know he was a rotten bastard cheater?”
The blonde blinked owlishly before her lips curled into a grin and she started giggling. “I’m not sleeping with him. God no. Ew. I’d charge way more for, well. That.”
That bubble of rage in my chest popped and I was left feeling flustered and confused. “Oh, I’m so sorry—” I cut myself off. “What are you doing in here then?”
The woman gestured to the room. “Come on in, I’ll show you. First time’s always free anyway. I’m Cassandra.
Call me ‘Cassie’ and I’m booting your ass out,” she added with a smile.
I walked into the motel room, which had clearly been turned into a long term living space. The air smelled like lavender incense. I saw piles of empty ramen cups and frozen pizza wrappers piling out of the trash next to the microwave. The closet was jammed full of loose fitting dresses like the one Cassandra was currently wearing, and the dresser was covered in various nail polishes and make up palettes.
Cassandra sat on the bed and patted the spot next to her. “Come here. It’s easier if you put your head in my lap, but you can remain sitting if you’d like.”
“And this isn’t for sex,” I asked as I took a seat.
“For the last time, no.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. “I’m just going to comb your hair.”
I snorted. “Seriously?” I’d heard of some strange fetishes—I wasn’t naïve—but this was a first.
Cassandra nodded before picking up an ornate white comb with a broad grip from the side table. “Yes, seriously. You’ll get it once I do it. Your mind’s filled with cobwebs and stress and I know just how to clear that out. Come here. I promise it won’t hurt.”
Wondering if I was about to be the victim of the most bizarre prank I’d ever heard of, I rested my head on Cassandra’s lap. Her finely manicured nails stroked my hair briefly before the comb descended.
My whole body turned to jelly and my eyes slid shut as Cassandra began to comb my hair. Behind my eyelids paraded images of the previous week: the argument I’d had with Frank, the bills piling up since I’d lost my job, the interview that had gone so horribly I’d left in tears. I felt my memories being pulled out and put right back with each pass of the comb.
My bottom lip quivered before I began to sob. Cassandra softly shushed me and massaged my shoulder, whispering, “Let it all out, Danielle. It’s part of the healing.”
I was bawling when the comb went through my hair again.
When it was finally over, I sat up and wiped the tears from my face. “Jesus Christ, what was all that?”
Cassandra smiled and I saw a few unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’m going to give you the best advice of your life: don’t overthink it. Sometimes you just need a little help getting through some of the tougher things. You feel any better?”
I found myself nodding. “I … I do.” It was like the weight of the last week had lifted from my shoulders, leaving me so much lighter. “Thank you, Cassandra. Is this what you do for my husband?”
“Something similar.” Cassandra stood and picked up a tissue, handing it to me. “Get yourself cleaned up,” she smiled. “You look like hell. I charge a hundred dollars a session if you want to come back.”
And of course I had to come back.
Every week I’d return to that motel room at my scheduled time—Wednesday at 7:00 p.m.—and Cassandra would use her comb to take away all my stress and pain. Afterwards, we’d enjoy a cup of tea and have a nice talk.
It was so much easier to get through the week knowing I could shed some of my burden every time I saw her. I ended up getting a new job, the house was cleaner than ever, and I was paying the bills off one by one.
The only thing that didn’t improve was my relationship with Frank. I might have extended the olive branch too easily, but Frank was in no mood to accept it. He just spent more time at work and his sessions with Cassandra. I knew Cassandra wasn’t sleeping with him, but my suspicions about him cheating had risen to an uncomfortable level.
The next time I visited her I asked her about the comb.
“How does it work?” I sat up, wiping the last tears from my face as she set the comb down. I’d learned not to wear makeup on my visits since I’d only end up looking like a drowned raccoon by the end. “Is it the comb that lets you help me, or is it all you?”
Cassandra chuckled as she got up to turn the kettle on. “I told you not to over think it, but I guess you’re bound to be curious.”
I smiled, watching her bounce from toe to toe as she started sorting through boxes of tea.
“I guess it’s both,” she said. “I need to use that specific comb, but if you combed my hair with it all you’d do is help me with the tangles.”
I picked the comb up off the side table and examined it. It was lovely, made of a pearly material with several green gems pressed into the grip. “Where’d you get it?”
Cassandra glanced over to see me holding it but didn’t seem overly bothered. “I think I got it on one of my flea market trips. I get everything there: clothes, jewelry, my microwave …” She returned to my side and sat down, kicking her feet back and forth. “I figured out what it could do when I used it on my ex.”
“You dated one of those guys with really long hair?”
Cassandra giggled, a sound quickly becoming one of my favorites to hear. “She had really long hair, actually.”
“Oh…. Oh!” It took me far too long to figure that one out and I felt the heat of embarrassment rush to my cheeks while something less easy to define fluttered in my chest. I decided to move onto my next question. “So when you go through my memories, do you see them?”
Cassandra tensed and I realized I’d asked the wrong question. “Danielle, if you’re going to ask about Frank’s memories, you should go.” She got up and turned the kettle off.
“Sorry,” I bowed my head and got up. “I’ll … see you next week?” There was a tightness in my chest. The idea of never seeing her again terrified me, but I knew if it was what she wanted I’d respect her wishes. What else could I do?
Cassandra was quiet for a moment and I braced for the worst.
“I’d really like that,” she said at last, and the relief I felt nearly took me to my knees.
I didn’t have to wait until the next Wednesday to see her. That Friday I got a text from an unknown number telling me to come to the motel room. I didn’t need to think too hard to realize it was from Cassandra.
When I got there the door was already partially open and I could see Cassandra pacing inside. I pushed it open the rest of the way and headed in.
“Are you okay?”
“I see them.” Cassandra looked up at me and I could tell she had been crying. Her eyes were tinted red and her cheeks were blotchy pink. “I see all of the memories. It’s not usually bad, but I don’t usually use my gift on couples or people that know each other too closely. But this time it is bad. It’s so bad, Danielle.”
For once, I was the one wrapping my arms around her, combing my fingers through her hair and quietly shushing her. “You don’t have to tell me about what you do for Frank, I’m sorry I—”
“I need to though. Because it’s exactly what you think and then some.”
Cassandra pulled back and wiped her eyes. “He’s cheating on you. Cheating on you with every Mary, Sue, and Jane. Any woman that’ll jump in bed with him. He came to me to get rid of the guilt, but it’s just made him more of a horn-dog. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal, but I can’t anymore. Especially now that I know you.”
I had to sit down. I couldn’t believe it. “That bastard,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry I hid it from you for so long. I’m a horrible friend,” Cassandra sat next to me, gently resting her hand on mine. “I just worried if I told you, you might not come back. And, well, your company. I—well …”
The kiss was brief and sweet. It happened so fast it was over in a blink. I felt her lips brush mine before she darted back, cheeks burning even brighter than before. Guilty eyes stared at the floor. “I’m horrible at confessions,” she murmured.