Twisted’s Evil Little Sister

by Create50

  His shaking hand fumbled in the glove compartment, fingers groping for the cold body of a torch. He illuminated its feeble beam, then gingerly stepped outside. A weak pool of light competed ineffectually with the headlights, as he swept the torch over the front of the vehicle, his breath clouding and his fingers rapidly becoming numb. The chrome bullbars were spattered with blood and a twist of thick brown hair was snagged in the radiator grill.

  With trepidation, he made his way to the rear. A narrow smear of red stretched from the underside of the vehicle, continuing back down the road to where the torch beam picked out a dark and immobile object, the size of a small child. Cautiously, and with growing anxiety, he followed the trail of blood.

  As he approached the inert shape, the sinuous trail became a pool, and the dark shape gradually transformed into the carcass of a Muntjac deer. He’d heard they inhabited the deciduous woodlands that surrounded their country home – yet in the two years they’d been married he’d never spotted one in the flesh.

  Now a pair of large black eyes stared lifelessly back at him. The delicate features and the absence of antlers indicted it was female, though its body had been grotesquely mangled. Its hindquarters had been twisted like a dishcloth as it caught the underside of the vehicle’s chassis. A sharp edge – perhaps the wheel arch, or exhaust housing – had sliced the stomach open from throat to haunches. Foul smelling fluids flowed amongst the eviscerated entrails in an ever-increasing puddle, as a warm steam rose then dissipated in the thin atmosphere. He felt a wave of relief that the cadaver wasn’t human, yet a wave of sympathy for this mutilated creature – the face of peace and innocence now a distorted rictus, its long tongue lolling from a breathless mouth.

  With a compassion he struggled to understand, he did not want to leave this carcass stretched across the open road – to drive into work the following morning, to face the post-mortem of the office party, and to find the innards of this unfortunate animal dispersed the length of the road by thundering commuter traffic. He resolved to drag the carcass from the roadway and tip it into the undergrowth, where nature’s scavengers would do their work.

  He set the torch down. Rubbing his hands vigorously for warmth and resolve, he grasped the ankles of the twisted hindquarters, wondering how the scene might look to a passerby. The weight of the animal surprised him. As he tugged at the unyielding flesh, the gaping wound in its abdomen widened, bubbled, and pulsated. He dropped the hind legs in shock. Was it possible the creature was still alive? Clasping the torch once more, he bent over the stricken corpse and shone its pale light on the belly of the beast. As he leant in close for a better look, a slender hooved leg shot out of the open wound, ripping through the placenta that restrained it.

  He screamed and fell backwards, dropping the torch and floundering amongst blood and amniotic fluid, as first one limb, then a second, burst from the rent midriff, kicking ineffectually at the cold night air. The corpse became a freakish apparition – the four lifeless limbs of the mother impervious to the struggling emergent legs of her unborn child.

  The desire to run fought a desire to help the stricken offspring, and he found himself drawn back towards the prone mammal. He inserted his fingers into the soft warm flesh that surrounded the protruding legs – battling a repugnant, abhorrent association with his indiscretions earlier that night. Opening the cavity with one hand and pulling on the protruding legs with the other, the slippery fawn burst into the night air. The man knelt for several moments holding the frail progeny, as it twitched and gasped – its tiny lungs struggling to adjust to the outside world. The futility soon became apparent. This youngster was doomed – motherless, skeletal, and fighting for life in his bloody hands. He whispered a quiet prayer, stroked its damp head, then quickly and decisively snapped its neck.

  As he contemplated the limp form, an intense but irrational fear ran through him – a feeling that he was suddenly vulnerable and alone, alone against the wilderness, both ostracized and scrutinized by the forces of nature. The cold was intense now and his clothes, wet with blood and detritus, clung freezing to his limbs. On looking up, he shuddered to see a silent silhouette, standing in a pool of moonlight in the middle of the road, motionless and monochrome. A Muntjac buck was watching him in silence – its elevated haunches and slender forelegs giving the impression of a huge cloven-hooved rat, with sharp single-spiked antlers resembling horns.

  The diminutive animal posed no physical threat, yet as the hiss of a cat or the cry of a raven can turn blood to ice, this creature channelled all the vengeance of nature. There was little definition in the black shape other than a scarcely discernible brightness in its eyes, which stared with malevolent intensity. The man dropped the dead fawn on the bloody remains of its mother and ran for his car.

  The Range Rover crept up the gravel drive and eased to a standstill. After a long moment to compose himself, the man finally got out and approached the porch. The door eased open and he stepped into darkness and removed his shoes. He stripped off his blood-soaked shirt with revulsion, discarded his trousers in the laundry basket, and headed for the brandy in the living room.

  He was surprised to find his wife standing in the shadows, lit by a silver light that shone through the open French windows. A chill breeze gently moved the folds of her nightdress, but she stood tall and upright, gazing out across the expansive lawn, caressing the contours of her pregnant belly.

  “Where have you been?” she asked with a cold indifference that frightened him.

  In spite of his dishevelled nakedness, he wanted to hold her, to hold her close, but she shrank away from him like a ghost.

  “You’re filthy,” she said.

  “I had an accident.”

  “Apparently so,” she replied, running her index finger over the faint nail marks down his back.

  And then the smell of guilt returned, not exciting this time but foul and asphyxiating, like the smell of death.

  “Look,’” she continued through her tears. “Look out there.”

  He followed the direction of her finger to the centre of the lawn. A Muntjac buck stood motionless, staring towards the house with dark black eyes. Only this time it wasn’t staring at him. It was staring at his wife – the mother of his unborn child, and she returned the creature’s stare in silent communion. The man had wronged them both, and nature would be avenged.

  At that moment, the man knew he would lose his family – not suddenly, like the impact of a car, but gradually, like slowly freezing ice.

  Velvet Mary

  By Rachael Howard

  The scream of the train brakes jolted Siegfried from his doze. At last, home. All he wanted was to have a bath and forget the humiliating stream of rejections. None of the art galleries had recognised his genius.

  The window was steamed up but he could just make out a platform. Grabbing his portfolio, he dived out into the darkness and rain.

  Siegfried was halfway down the hill before he registered his feet were slipping on wet cobbles instead of paving slabs. Wrong stop. He ran back up, splashing through the puddles and slipping on the cobbles. Too late. The last train pulled away.

  “You missed it, mate,” shouted the guard as he dragged the gate across and locked it. “Best find some shelter for the night.” The guard pulled up his collar and ran off into the torrential rain.

  It only took a moment to reject the wooden bench by the gate. The wind was already tugging at his coat and an icy trickle down his neck told him his showerproof was not going to be up to the job tonight.

  There was a long Victorian terrace either side of the road. The granite walls grey with the grime of modern life. Iron stumps on the shin-high walls the only reminder of once grand railings. Rotting wooden window frames going soft in the downpour. The road was well past its prime and still undiscovered by commuters keen to escape the city.

  Siegfried wrapped his arms round his portfolio, crushing it to his chest for protection, and trudged back down the hill. The cobbles were slick with r
ivulets streaming between them. It was hard to see what was flat surface and what was an edge waiting to turn his ankle. Slip or twist.

  A gust of wind caught him unawares and his feet chose which way he went. Down like a boulder. His right ankle screamed at him but he felt relief there was no sound, no snap of a bone.

  In the lull he heard click, click, click. Nails on stone. He twisted round to see a large black dog. It paused in its approach and stared back. Yellow eyes inspected him. No tail wag or pricked up ears. Just still regard.

  “Hey boy?”

  The dog sat and continued its baleful stare. Slowly Siegfried reached into his coat pocket. A soggy paper bag met his fingers, a half-eaten bap he had meant to bin. He slowly drew it out and tossed it towards the dog.

  “Go on boy. Tastier than me.”

  The dog sniffed the bag then delicately pulled out the bap. He gave Siegfried one more stare then settled to eat.

  Siegfried struggled to his feet. His ankle was agony but could just support him. He limped on down the road, glancing back occasionally to check the dog was still occupied.

  A few doors down he saw a grimy B&B sign. It looked like every bird in the area had used it for shit-dropping target practice. The house, if anything, looked in a worse state than its neighbours. Windows so thick with grime that nothing could be seen within. Weeds ripped apart the flags of the little forecourt. But swinging below the sign was a second – Vacancies.

  Siegfried looked at the unappetising offering. He tested his ankle. Yes, he thought it could hold out long enough to find something better.

  Click, click, click.

  The dog was running towards him, head down, teeth bared. Siegfried fumbled at the gate; he struggled in and slammed it shut, nearly trapping the dog’s nose.

  “That yours?” a sickly-sweet voice called from behind him. “Don’t cater for dogs. Evil creatures.”

  “No, it isn’t mine.” He replied to the elderly hippy standing in the doorway.

  “Good. It’s £10 a night. Hurry up – I’ve got heating on.”

  Siegfried followed, her schoolmarm command overcoming his doubts. The hippy slammed the door shut. Bangles and chains jangled as she adjusted the silk scarf round her head and marched past him.

  “I’m Mary. I have one room left. It’s upstairs. Will you manage with that leg?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so.” He looked around the long dark hall. Drapes and banners covered the walls but provided no brightness. Just added to the stifling heat. He could see no doors.

  “Breakfast is served at eight and it’ll be Fruitarian.”

  “I’ll be leaving at six to get the train.”

  Mary paused, smoothed her thickly embroidered gown. “Breakfast is served at eight.” She progressed up the stairs.

  He hobbled after her, clinging to the heavy balustrade to haul himself up the stairs. Once he stumbled and thumped against a tapestry. A plume of dust enveloped him. Mary gripped his arm and pulled him back upright.

  “Watch the step now.”

  He rested a moment, gasping for breath, then sneezed loudly. “Sorry. I hope I’m not disturbing your guests?”

  “Oh they’re no trouble, love. Once I have them settled they don’t stir for anything.”

  On the landing, Mary approached a heavy hanging and pulled it aside. Behind it was a sturdy, oak door. She turned the knob, swung it wide and nodded for him to go in.

  He struggled into the room and collapsed with relief on a cast iron bed. The mattress felt firm and comfortable, even festooned with a black, velvet cover.

  “You can pay me in the morning,” Mary called as she shut the door and went down stairs.

  Siegfried hobbled over to the door and locked it. The room was as stifling as the rest of the house. The windows painted shut and covered with more rich, heavy drapes. The whole room was swathed in velvet and tapestries. The bed frame was the only hard surface in the whole place. Even the door was now hidden behind drapery.

  He stripped his damp clothes off and spread them round the room to dry. It was so hot that sweat was now replacing any moisture that had got to his skin. The velvet throw on the bed made his skin itch so he draped it over a padded chair and lay naked on the bedsheet. Pain and exhaustion finally caught up with him and he slept.

  The feel of freezing sweat woke him. The room was icy cold and he lay there shivering. A draught across his legs made the hairs stand on end but no cloth moved to indicate a source. He swung his legs over and his toes dig into the chilly pile of the carpet. He’d never felt a carpet so cold. His feet were going numb.

  On the far chair he spotted the velvet throw where he had abandoned it. Siegfried tiptoed towards it, trying to reduce the contact with the carpet.

  A low growl stilled him and he turned back towards the bed. A pair of yellow eyes shone from a dark mound beneath the bed. He stilled. How the hell had that dog got in here?

  The numbness rose up his legs. If he didn’t move then he soon wouldn’t be able to. He had to get warm. Siegfried took one step back, closer to the velvet throw. The yellow eyes watched, unblinking.

  Siegfried reached behind him for the throw but his fingers met nothing but cold. The dog still lay there. Dare he look away? He slowly turned towards the throw, every sense at high alert for movement behind him. There was a faint sniffing but nothing else.

  The throw was dark, black on black. So dense that a faint flicker of light in the centre seemed blinding bright. A glance back at the dog, its head raised, ears pricked. He looked again at the throw.

  The light was back. A single white dot that grew and darkened to ruby red as he watched, fascinated. It grew so slowly the change could only be noticed either side of a blink. It was beautiful, magical. The red light gradually parted, to become two glowing spots.

  Siegfried registered a scrabble of claws from the dog as it hauled itself out from under the bed but he could not turn to look. His body felt heavy, his eyes fastened on the two red orbs that now looked back.

  The click of claws drew closer and a growl slowly rose from behind him. His mind screamed to run but his legs were ice – unfeeling, unresponsive. The red glow now lit his face and he felt his body weaken, an invisible cord tugging him towards the deep, bottomless velvet.

  The cold was still rising, nearly at his heart. He felt his pulse become slow, desperate throbs. A shout for help became a grunt as his breath was drawn towards the velvet. His eyelids ached to close but even gravity could not help. The glow filled his vision, a humming in his ears, what little of his body could feel suffered the painful ice of the room. Everything else was gone.

  A roar from behind and the mesmerism was ripped apart as a great weight slammed into his back. He fell to the ground as the dog leapt over him.

  It lunged at the velvet, thrusting its head deep into the darkness, a frenzy of tearing and rending.

  A gut-wrenching screech rose from the floor below. The dog paused and cocked its head to listen, blood dripping from its jaws and soaking into the carpet. The velvet was a mass of steaming gore. The dog buried its muzzle back into the velvet and a desperate groan rose from below.

  Siegfried clutched his stomach as feeling returned and it cramped with pain. He scrambled back from the dog and ripped the door open to escape the sight. He stumbled down the stairs, but he couldn’t remember which end of the gloomy hall was the exit.

  Choosing at random, he raced to an end curtain and ripped it back. He dived through, fearful that the dog would soon be on his heels. The door slammed closed and he found himself in a dark room. It was so dark he could only make out regular shapes lining the walls and a maze of bead curtains ahead of him.

  “Help.”

  A faint call came from beyond the curtain. He ventured further in, drawing the beads aside. “Who’s there?”

  “Help.” So faint it was more a breath.

  Siegfried drew the last set of beads aside. A body lay on the floor, clutching the bottom of a great velvet throw, the twin of the one in
his room. He rolled the body onto its back. Mary. Her gown was ripped open and entrails spilled onto the floor. Her breath more a gurgle in her throat.

  Siegfried tried to sit her up but the velvet throw deformed and the great muzzle of the dog pushed through from some blackness beyond. It gripped her throat and rent it free. Blood gushed and disappeared into the velvet as the muzzle disappeared back into the black pit.

  Gagging at the sight, Siegfried staggered back into a shape against the wall. It felt papery and light. He pulled free and found its mummy-like face staring back. Fake nails and the remains of hair extensions told him this was no Egyptian artefact. He pushed it away and it hit another husk, then another. The walls were a mosaic of drained bodies, toppling in turn with cracks as they snapped and crumbled to dust.

  He scrambled out of the room and into the hall. A yip made him look up to see the dog at the top of the stairs, watching him. With what little wits he had left he raced to the far end of the hall, threw open the door and ran out into the night. Naked, babbling, but alive.

  The dog trotted down the stairs, nudged the front door closed and returned to the feast.

  Deep Conviction

  By Kim L Wheeler

  Last week, I bought an island. Today, I bought a jury.

  Yes, I murdered my wife, but then she had it coming. Who the fuck cheats on a billionaire?

  I leave court a free man and slip into the back seat of the Lincoln.

  There’s something remotely phallic about a skyscraper which bears your name upon it; upright and rigid. Size matters. Gazing out from my 75th floor office, a chill runs through me. I shake it off and assign the desk photograph of my beautiful, two-timing wife to the trash.

  The whole process has proven remarkably simple. Twelve jurors. Twelve not guilty verdicts. Twelve million dollars. Even the math is simple.

  I swig back a double scotch. It's over.

  Ninth Day After Verdict

  I wake in the penthouse, for the ninth morning running, in a cold sweat.