Twisted’s Evil Little Sister

by Create50

  A few days later, Stan’s doorbell rang. Stan, unkempt and unshaven, still wearing his pyjamas and bathrobe, trudged to the door and opened it a crack. He peeked out for a moment, then opened it all the way. It was a pizza deliveryman. Stan paid him, took the pizza, and carefully closed the door behind him.

  He carried the pizza into the living room.

  There was a chair and a folding table set up next to a window. The table was littered with dozens of empty pizza boxes, as well as Chinese food containers, stale bread crusts, paper plates, and plastic cutlery – the detritus of many home-delivery meals. Stan dropped the pizza box on top of the clutter, and flopped into the chair.

  He picked up a set of binoculars, aimed them out the window, and scanned the sky, slowly left to right, then back again, right to left.

  Without lowering the binoculars, he reached to the table beside him and fished a slice of pizza from the box. He took a bite. . . then abruptly stopped everything.

  He lowered the binoculars and looked at the limp slice of pizza. He shook his head, winced, and tossed the pizza back in the box.

  He rummaged through the hodgepodge on the table, and pulled out The Book.

  He opened it to the very last page and read the very last entry: In the meantime, Stan sat by a window looking at the sky. For a very long time.

  He stared at the writing for a while, then he tossed The Book onto the pile of trash.

  He walked to the front door.

  Opened it.

  “Oh, fuck it,” he said. . . and he stepped outside.

  The House of Our Dreams

  By Geoff Bagwell

  Four of us work in the office above the bank. The only one who spotted me sneak back in was Ruth, but as she’s my best mate it didn’t matter. I slid into my seat and dragged my sleeve across my forehead. It must be a hundred degrees in here!

  “Hey, shall I pop out for some drinks?”

  The phone cut me short. Déjà vu struck me as I picked it up.

  “Carla, it's me. Can you get away early this afternoon?” That eerie feeling of something having happened before vanished at the sound of Mike's voice. A stab of concern replaced it. “Are you all right? You sound –”

  “Excited? You bet I am. A house has come up in Oaklands Street. I'm on my way there now.”

  I let out another breath as the concern slowly dissolved and what Mike had said registered in my heat-dulled brain. “Did you say Oaklands Street?”

  “Yeah, I did.” I could hear the smile in Mike's voice and closed my eyes to see it lighting up his face. “Barry at Linton Estates called me about five minutes ago.”

  No wonder he sounded excited. On Sunday mornings we go jogging, and our route almost always takes us along Oaklands Street. Its row of grand, sprawling houses overlooking the common must have been built with wealthy professionals in mind, not twenty-somethings on limited means like Mike and me. But somehow, with a little inheritance and a lot of overtime, Mike thought we could afford one.

  “So can you get away?”

  I looked at the stack of papers on my desk. Then I looked at The Boss’s office door. Beyond it I heard him barking down the phone at some unfortunate wretch. “Listen, Mike, if you'd called this morning I could have worked through lunch and –”

  “I didn't know about it this morning. Please, Carla. We're destined to live in this house, I can feel it. Please?”

  I was certain our dream house would remain exactly that – a dream. Mike had been left enough money for a decent holiday, maybe even a new car, not a house in one of the city’s most sought-after locations. But what if he's right? What if by some twist of fate we are destined to live there?

  I glanced again at The Boss’s door. If I was lucky with the traffic I could be there and back before he even noticed I was gone. And it would be a relief to get out. The heat in the office was unbearable. The fan on the wall, sweeping backwards and forwards across the room like a nosy neighbour, was doing nothing but blowing hot air from the ceiling straight back down on us all.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Yes!”

  I tried to share Mike's excitement. Instead, all I felt was impending disappointment when he found it was beyond our budget. “What number is it?”

  “Eighteen. I'll be waiting outside when you get there.”

  I put down the phone and headed for the toilet door. At the last moment I veered off towards the stairs and two minutes later was driving down the high street.

  Driving? Make that crawling. On this Friday afternoon at the tail end of July it seemed everyone was fleeing the city. The line of traffic crept along like blood in a furred-up artery. Outside on the pavement an elderly lady with a walking stick overtook me. The only thing moving quickly was the clock on my dashboard. After twenty minutes in the car I was a two-minute walk from where I started. Mike would be wondering where I'd got to, not to mention the others back at the office.

  Then I spotted Cranham Way coming up on the left. It looked pretty clear. And any clear road on a day like this was worth a try.

  I turned into it. As I saw the empty road ahead, some of the tension I felt eased away. If only it wasn't so damn hot!

  I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat. My trousers clung to my backside, rubbing like hot wet sandpaper. I wriggled again, and when that didn't work I hoisted myself up an inch and tried to peel the trousers from my legs. My eyes were only off the road for a second.

  HONNNNK!!!

  Jeeeeez!

  I slammed on the brakes and went into a long, screeching skid. I screwed my eyes shut and waited for impact. It didn't happen. Instead the car lurched to a stop and I opened my eyes.

  The white van which had pulled out in front of me was disappearing into the distance. I jumped out of the car, hoping to catch its number plate, but by the time I had it had disappeared. I turned and looked behind me. Two long black skids like something from a Roadrunner cartoon snaked back along the road. I screwed up my nose against the smell of burnt rubber. All things considered, I'd been lucky.

  It took me another five minutes to reach Oaklands Street, nervously crawling along at twenty miles-per-hour. A Residents Only sign stood on the corner so I parked at the end of the road.

  Oaklands isn't long – about thirty houses in all – and I expected to see Mike immediately. I didn't. I scanned the common, wondering if he’d decided to catch a few rays while he waited for me.

  Some boys were playing football, shirts off for goal posts. Further away a young couple walked, a small dog darting ahead of them. And stepping onto the common on the far side I could just make out a girl of about fifteen, sauntering along in the way only fifteen-year-olds can.

  No sign of Mike, though.

  I looked again at the row of houses. Maybe he’d already gone inside. I started searching out the numbers. When I found 18, I wondered briefly why there was no For Sale board.

  I walked to the door and rang the bell. While I waited I stepped back and admired the house.

  It had large square bays upstairs and down, mounted with original hardwood sash windows; the front was finished in plain brick, ivy creeping across about half of it; and through the front window I saw a piano. Well if we couldn’t afford the house, maybe Mike could persuade them to sell him the piano – he’s always talked of learning to play.

  I turned back to the front door. It was a deep crimson, with an orange and blue stained-glass window at the top. Below that was the number 18, and further down still was a brass letter box, polished and catching the sun like treasure from a pharaoh's tomb. The only thing the door lacked was someone to open it.

  I rang the bell again. Still no reply. The house was big, but not that big. If anyone was in they should have answered by now. I walked back to the street, wondering what to do.

  “Here again?”

  On the other side of the road stood a bench. It was set on the common, yet for some reason faced the road. I hadn’t noticed it when I arrived, and it must have been new, because I cou
ldn’t recall seeing it on any of our Sunday morning jogs either. Sitting on it was an elderly man.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, 'Here again?'”

  I had begun to cross the road when my attention was drawn from the man to the girl, the one I had seen on the other side of the common. She was more than halfway across now and it was strange: she was a girl, she was fifteen or sixteen… and yet for the briefest moment I thought she was Mike.

  “Well?”

  I looked at the old man again. He sat in the centre of the bench, his clothes little more than grey swatches of cloth hanging from a skeletal frame.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  He laughed, until his laughter broke into a gravelly cough. The sound made me wince.

  “Oh you can look down yer nose at me,” he said. “But at least I know I’m dead. You keep coming back here like he might turn up.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Not worked it out? You're dead, love.”

  Clearly he was mad. And yet…

  Movement caught my eye. It was the girl again, only twenty-or-so yards away now, her face perfectly clear. And in her face I saw it. She had Mike’s nose, Mike’s eyes, and those little dimples that always make him appear as though he’s smiling – “Ah! The truth finally dawns.”

  I tried to speak but nothing came out. My mouth felt like I’d been eating sand.

  “You wanna know what happened?” the old man growled. “You should've stayed in the car. When you got out to look for the van, another one hit you. Dead before you hit the ground, they reckoned. Still, at least you had life insurance. Must’ve cost a packet that house.”

  “Carla!”

  I spun around. “Mike?”

  A car was parked outside number 18. Mike stood beside it. Except it wasn't the Mike I knew. This man had wisps of grey at his temples. He was at least a thirty pounds heavier. He was Mike in twenty years’ time. And he wasn’t talking to me.

  “Hi, Dad,” said the girl, leaving the common and crossing the road.

  My head spun in confusion. “Mike! Mike!”

  Nothing. They couldn't see me. They smiled at each other, a happy family, completed when the front door opened and Ruth, my best friend, appeared.

  “What’s happening? What’s going on?!!!”

  “They can't hear you,” the old man said behind me. “They’re world isn’t our world.”

  I turned, ready to confront him, but the bench was empty. My eyes were wet and I wiped them on my sleeve. Then I saw the little brass plaque on the back of the memorial bench.

  Carla Nicholls

  Wife, Mother, Friend

  1968 - 1998

  Noooo!!!

  It had to be a dream. Any minute now I'd wake up at my desk with The Boss yelling at me.

  I started to run. If only I could get back to work everything would be fine. If I was dreaming, my desk was where I must have fallen asleep so . . . so what? I didn't know. Nothing made sense.

  My car was where I left it. I opened the door and climbed inside. It was like an oven, hot as hell. I opened all the windows. On the drive back, with the breeze gusting through the car, I managed to calm down and think about what had happened.

  A dream was the only explanation. I’d fallen asleep at my desk and my subconscious had played games: with my and Mike’s desire to live in Oaklands Street, with the knowledge Mike had gone out with Ruth before me and she still hadn’t forgotten him, with our plans to start a family. And it had to be a dream, not only because what I had experienced was impossible, but because the more I tried to remember the details, the more they slipped away.

  By the time I parked and walked back to our building my only real concern was whether The Boss had realised I’d disappeared and what I would tell him if he had. But I was lucky.

  Four of us work in the office above the bank. The only one who spotted me sneak back in was Ruth. But as she’s my best mate it didn’t matter. I slid into my seat and dragged my sleeve across my forehead. It must be a hundred degrees in here!

  “Hey, shall I pop out for some drinks –?”

  The phone cut me short. Déjà vu struck me as I picked it up. “Carla, it's me. Can you get away early this afternoon?”

  Seeing Red

  By Philip Trickett

  “Listen to my voice. Bring it to the forefront of your mind and try to imagine all the other sounds slowly fading into the background. Now concentrate on your breathing, slow it down, breathe through your nose, in. . . and out. . .in. . . and out. . . You feel yourself drifting, carelessly drifting, relaxing more. . . and more. Listen very carefully, I’m going to count down from three and with each number you will drift deeper and deeper. By the time I reach one you will fall into a deep, restful sleep, where all you can hear is my voice, carefully guiding you. Three. . . Two. . . One. . . Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Simon Baxter.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Mrs Alexandria Gladstone.”

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “To put an end to my dream.”

  “And what dream is this?”

  “The same dream I have every night.”

  “What do you see in this dream?”

  “I see red.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No… just red. On my skin, in my hair, on my hands… everywhere. I look harder and the shade turns deeper and soon I’m swimming in an endless sea of crimson red. I’m gasping for air as I try to keep my head above the surface, and then I go under. I panic and struggle, trying to hold my breath, but my strength has waned, I’m forced to inhale and fluid rushes into my lungs, dragging me down. I know this is the last moment of my life… one final, awful inhale. Red flows into me… and suddenly I’m awake, covered in sweat.”

  “Extremely disturbing.”

  “I’ve not slept properly in months.”

  “Do you have any idea as to what this dream means or what might account for it?”

  “No.”

  “Think back to when you started having this dream. Had anything happened that stands out in your mind?”

  “Well…”

  “Yes?”

  “There was that stupid woman who pulled out in front of me. It was so close; I still don’t know how we didn’t have a fatal accident. My kids were in the car at the time; anything could have happened. I had to pull over I was shaking so much… The woman, though… well, she just drove off, totally oblivious to it all.”

  “That sounds terrible.”

  “It was.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “How do you think it made me feel? She hadn’t realised she’d done anything wrong; it was so infuriating. I saw her face for only a few seconds, but I could see the vacancy in her eyes, simply tootling along in life, ignorant to the chaos left in her wake. I just know she’ll continue down that road, in her little red car, causing untold horrors, day after day, never knowing a thing about it.”

  “And this still makes you angry?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think it would be better to let go of this anger and try to move on?”

  “…or I could pull out in front of her and see how she likes it?”

  “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Mr Baxter.”

  “Wouldn’t that be some sort of justice?”

  “Is that how you see justice, an eye for an eye?”

  “…I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I see you’re shaking slightly. . . and a little flushed?”

  “I get like this when I’m angry.”

  “You’re angry now?”

  “A little. I don’t like being judged.”

  “I’m not judging you, Mr Baxter. I’m just trying to help.”

  “It’s just that I get a little defensive when
people point out my shaking. You see, it can get extremely pronounced and I start to get funny looks.”

  “What do you mean? Who gives you funny looks?”

  “She looked at me like I was a joke.”

  “She?”

  “My old boss. I can see her now, shaking her bloody finger at me.”

  “Go on.”

  “She’d been massively over-spending on the company credit card and now the department was in the red. When I found out that she’d been trying to hide it in my reports I immediately informed higher management… She didn’t appreciate that.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I grabbed her finger and bent it back on itself so that it touched the back of her wrist. I can still hear the crisp, satisfying snap.”

  “…You broke her finger?”

  “I held it there for a few minutes while she screamed. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem long enough before another manager came rushing into the office and dragged me away. They made me wait in reception while they rang the police. I can still remember the look of disgust the receptionist gave me.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I had to do something! She went on and on, pushing my buttons until I was shaking uncontrollably. I could see her eyes change as she realised the effect she’d had over me and then I saw the slightest of smiles form in the corner of her mouth.”

  “And so you broke her finger?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you still shaking afterwards?”

  “No.”

  “So it made you feel better?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you think that’s normal?”

  “I don’t know! You weren’t there, you don’t know what it was like. I’d had years of this from her. Treating me like dirt while I slaved away and she took all the credit.”

  “Calm down, Mr Baxter, you’re turning red again.”

  “I don’t know why I’m made to look like the freak in all of this. I’m just a regular guy. She wouldn’t stop. On and on she went, pointing her finger, putting me in my place, ridiculing me. Well I showed her. I showed her as she grovelled on the floor in front of me, begging for mercy, the miserable…”