13 Tales To Give You Night Terrors
Page 11
"THAT fake ID is never going to work," Hunter told Corey.
Two seventeen-year-olds sat on a curb in the plaza, watching shoppers come and go.
"I've been growing out this beard for three days. I can pass for twenty-one," Corey said.
Hunter grimaced at the shadow of black stubble on his friend's lower jaw. "Good luck."
Corey stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and sauntered into the liquor store. Hunter prayed they could score booze for Melissa's Fourth of July party. If not, he'd have to break into his parent's liquor cabinet and they'd be pissed when they got back from vacation.
Hunter had considered asking Corey's foster brother for a fake ID of his own, but his short blond hair and boyish looks meant he'd never pass for twenty-one.
"Hey, man, could you help a veteran?"
Hunter jumped up to his feet. A smelly guy with a ratty beard and a torn coat stood only a foot away. Hunter backed up a step.
"What?"
The man shook his head warily. "I'm trying to make it to my family in Sylvanville. I just need some money for a bus or even some coffee, man."
"Oh."
"If you can spare anything, brother."
Hunter grimaced. The hobo probably wasn't even a veteran. And he'd just use the cash to buy booze. Or drugs. Or booze and drugs.
"Uh?" It crossed Hunter's mind that if Corey struck out, they could pay the beggar to buy them something.
"Don't make a vet beg, man."
"I don't have any money on me," Hunter lied.
"Thanks anyway."
Hunter leaned against the wall and felt his wallet as the beggar lumbered away. He expected Corey to get kicked out any minute, but the seconds ticked by and nobody emerged from the store apart from a creepy old woman. He watched her hobble past the beggar on the other side of the parking lot. He'd make Corey chase after him if they needed his services.
The front door opened again and Corey emerged carrying a large paper bag. Hunter hurried over to him.
"You did it?"
"Of course. Trust in the stubble."
That night, red and gold lights burst in the mid-summer sky. Hunter gaped back at Corey, who sat beside him looking equally awestruck.
Melissa's party was everything Hunter had expected. No adults. Tons of booze. He'd graduated in June and most of his old classmates were set to go to college or some branch of the military, but Hunter hadn't made up his mind yet.
Corey had been accepted to Prescott University. The only consolation was that Hunter could drive over to Prescott, crash in Corey's room, and have access to a whole campus of girls.
College was going to be good for Hunter even if he wasn't enrolled.
"Come on," Corey said, slapping Hunter's back. "There's only so many Jell-O shots."
They made their way through the crowd toward Melissa's kitchen and found the hostess handing out shots.
"Hey Corey," Melissa said. "This music sucks, can you put something better on?"
"Yeah, I have This is My Roommate on my phone. I'm on it."
"Thanks," Hunter said, grabbing two Jell-O shots.
"Careful. Those are strong."
? ? ?
HUNTER'S eyes opened. Blinding light poured in. He lay face down on his mattress, the sheets bunched all around him. He was naked and his head throbbed.
His stomach rolled and he barely managed to make it to the trashcan before he added more puke to it. He stumbled down the hall into the bathroom, thankful his parents were on their cruise, and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked years older. The spit and puke around his lips didn't help. He splashed water on his face and opened the mirror cabinet. After downing some aspirin, he cradled his head in his hands.
What happened last night?
Fireworks and Jell-O shots and-what else?
The night was a blank but Hunter had a feeling something bad had happened.
You're paranoid.
He couldn't believe he'd made it back to his house in one piece. He wobbled back to his room, grabbed his underwear and jeans and went into the living room.
"Corey?" he called out.
No one answered. The couch was empty. So Corey hadn't driven him home or slept over.
Had he hit on Melissa? Had he made a move on one of the other girls? He pictured himself stumbling up to his former classmates and throwing himself at them. Maybe he'd been too forceful? Maybe he'd been slapped or something.
What if he got in a fight with Corey? Hunter could be a real jackass when he got that hammered.
Maybe his phone held some clues. He returned to his bedroom and searched for it on his bedside table and in the pockets of the dirty jeans on the floor. The longer he went without finding it, the more worked up he got.
It's going to be bad. What the hell did I do last night?
He tossed clothes off the floor and kicked others out of his way.
Where the hell is it!
Hunter slammed his fist into his mattress. He felt like pulling his hair out.
He stalked back to the living room and dialed his cell on the house phone.
As soon as he heard the ringing, he held the receiver to his chest. A soft ringtone sounded. He set the receiver down on the stand and followed the sound of his phone until he found it in the kitchen sink.
"Huh."
Hunter grabbed his phone, wiped the sour cream off the edge, and scanned through the last dozen texts, his heart beating madly.
To Brenda at 2:03 am: hry cutie u upp?
No reply. Not too bad.
To Heather at 3:47 am: oreiage?
Little worse. Call it a butt text. Salvageable.
From Corey at 4:01 am: You get home all right?
To Corey at 4:04 am: saop wpou s
From Corey at 4:04 am: all right man, get some sleep!
But what about email?
Hunter logged into his account on his phone and checked the sent folder. Nothing from last night. He turned on the instant coffee maker and sat down. Maybe nothing bad happened after all.
People black out all the time, right? Well, not all the time, but still.
As the smell of cheap coffee permeated the room, Hunter remembered to check Facebook. No messages. Nothing but a few new pics of him drinking that he swiftly untagged.
Even after finishing a cup of heavily sweetened coffee, Hunter couldn't shake the foreboding feeling. Something had to have gone wrong. A fight with someone. Something broken. He needed to figure it out and fix it before it was too late.
Maybe I can't fix it, whatever it is.
He started checking the house over. Maybe he'd stumbled into a wall or knocked a vase over. An easy lie to his parents when they returned and that would be that.
Everything seemed normal in the kitchen and the hallway. The door to the garage was open.
The car!
No, he couldn't have crashed it. He'd be bruised and more than his head and stomach would hurt.
He caught his breath and stepped into the garage. Boxes and tools lined the walls. Christmas decorations and broken lawnmowers. An empty spot where his dad's car usually sat. His own car in its regular space. No cracked windshield. No flat tire.
Just something dark on the bumper.
Hunter flicked the lights on in the garage. His blood ran cold.
The front bumper was bent and stained with blood.
I hit someone! I hit something. Oh God oh God oh God.
He must have driven home without even realizing what he'd done.
Hunter's mouth went dry, his head spinning. His life was over. He'd done something unspeakable and he couldn't even remember doing it.
Clean up. Maybe no one knows.
The following minutes sped by in a blur. Bleach. Rags. That smell. All the blood. When he was satisfied he'd destroyed the evidence, he grabbed a hammer and a two by four and gently tapped the dent out of the front bumper.
His shop teacher would have been so proud. Presuming that's not who he hit.
T
he house phone rang. Hunter jumped and spun around. He hurried toward the living room.
It's the cops. Has to be.
He imagined an authoritative voice on the other end. He glanced out the front window. No cruisers at his front step.
Hunter Derrickson, you're under arrest.
Hunter answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Hello, I'm calling on behalf of MacCaffety Realty," a chirpy woman said.
"No thanks." Hunter slammed the phone down. He cradled his cell in his hands. Was he a murderer? Maybe it was an animal. A deer would have done too much damage. There were backroads, could have been a cat or a dog. The idea didn't exactly please him but better than a person. Better than a child.
He called Corey.
"You're up early," Corey said.
"It's past noon. How's it going? How are you? Anything happen last night?" Hunter asked.
"Just you projectile spewing. And you decided which tattoos we should get."
"That's all?" Hunter asked.
"It seemed like a huge deal last night," Corey said with chuckle.
"Funny how three or four Jell-O shots will do that."
"Or ten shots. We had to hide the rest from you."
Hunter could taste the liquor on his tongue and his stomach rolled. "Anything, you know, bad happen?"
"You really did black out. Um, I can't really think of anything noteworthy."
"Good. Good. No news is great, right?"
"Sure. You all right? You still coming over for games today?"
"Just hungover. I need to shower and stuff. I'll call you later or something."
"All right. Peace."
Hunter dropped the cell on the couch. If they came for him, he couldn't act guilty. What did normal people do? Normal people took showers, ate lunch, and followed through with plans with their friends.
Normal people don't ride by the same backwoods route they drove home the night before looking for signs of murder.
Hunter hurried into the bathroom and turned the shower on. He stripped and jumped into the scalding spray.
There's no murder. Maybe manslaughter?
He grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed it over his body, the white goo collecting on his hands. The soapy smell stung his nostrils.
I'm never going to drink again. Never. Screw that. I'm smarter than that.
Hunter imagined the sirens and the cops knocking at his front door. He turned the shower off and listened. A dog barked in the distance and nothing more. He turned the water back on and washed the soap off of his shaking body.
He turned the shower off again and listened. Blissful silence.
It's too early. They won't come until tonight.
Hunter toweled off and put his clothes back on. He ran back into the living room and looked out the window. No cops.
He returned to his room and dealt with the puke in his trashcan and then he opened his laptop. He checked for obituaries in the city but couldn't find anything from last night.
It's too soon. Hey, maybe your victim lived. He'll come after you himself.
Hunter pictured a limping hitchhiker with bloodshot eyes and a butcher knife held high.
You left me to die!
He ran into the living room and locked the front door.
? ? ?
COREY texted, asking if he was still up for hanging out, but Hunter knew he couldn't relax outside the house knowing he could miss the cops arriving. He pushed it off every time Corey contacted him. As long as Hunter sat in the living room in his boxers and a stained T-shirt, he could be sure no one was coming for him.
He spent two days watching TV and thinking about drinking, just to ease his nerves. But his parents would know. They'd also know when he was arrested. He tried showering but could only stand to be isolated away from the living room for five minutes before he shut the water off, toweled dry, and resumed his vigil waiting for his life to end.
His phone rang. An unknown caller. He breathed slowly and answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's Julia. You said I should call sometime."
"Cool." Hunter barely recognized the girl's voice. They'd gone to school together since they were kids, but they'd never hung out. Since when did she even have his number? Blackout horny Hunter must have made a pass. He didn't even remember Julia being there.
"How you feeling? You were so trashed when you left Melissa's house."
Great, a witness.
"Came down with something. Not really feeling up for talking."
"Oh. All right. Well I guess I'll see you at the next party?"
Or during the trial.
"Looking forward to it."
"Bye, Hunter, feel better."
On his third day of solitude, Hunter checked Facebook and froze when he spotted a memorial page for Bart Gregory.
War vet fallen on hard times crossing the country on his way to family in Sylvanville, New Hampshire.
Hunter's blood ran cold. It had to be a coincidence. He licked his lips and read on.
Sergeant Gregory's body was found in the woods just off Birch Street. Exactly halfway between Hunter's house and Melissa's. Hunter pictured the curve in the back road.
Someone crying out. A body flying through the air into the woods. Tires screeching.
He read the memorial post again and the following fifteen comments.
It was almost a relief to hear the news. No more wondering. It happened. Hunter knew.
I killed him.
He shouldn't have been out there that late!
He found a steely resolve that carried him to his parent's liquor cabinet. One corkscrew later and a glass of red wine stilled his shakes.
The wine tasted like home as he swallowed his second glass.
His phone vibrated.
"What's up?"
"Hey, you coming out tonight?" Corey asked.
"I completely forgot." Hunter clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Innocent men went to parties, but wasn't there a lesson in all of this? "I've been pre-gaming, man, I can't drive."
"I'll pick you up. Throw in a couple bucks for gas? If that's cool."
"Sure. Mom and Dad left me two hundred while they're gone and I've only spent half on pizza."
"Cool. See you in a few."
Hunter ended the call and downed the last of his wine.
Everything's fine. If they do come for me, I'll look completely innocent. Carefree at a party for three or four blissful hours. No murderer could pull that off.
Hunter poured himself another glass of wine while he waited.
? ? ?
HUNTER pounded beers as Corey joked with their old classmates.
Don't worry. Relax. Big smile. Everything's all right. There aren't cops getting a warrant at this very minute.
He gritted his teeth and rummaged through the refrigerator for another beer.
"Can you believe we finally graduated?"
Hunter jumped. It was only Julia. She twirled a finger through her long black hair. Was she prettier than normal? Better makeup? Bigger boobs? Or was he just that buzzed?
"Yeah. Like twelve years of schooling finally over."
"Until college."
"Uh, yeah. 'Till then."
"Sorry, are you not going?" Julia asked.
"Taking some time off first."
"Guess I assumed you'd be rooming with Corey at Prescott."
"Maybe next year." Hopefully there'd be another year. His next year could be spent in state penitentiary going to classes online. "Did you hear about that dead vet over on Birch Street?"
"I heard the animals got to him. Probably passed out drunk and got mauled by a bear."
"What do you-I mean, is that, like, official?" Hunter asked. "Like the CSI guys think it was an animal attack?" He tried to play it cool. He leaned against the countertop and slipped, nearly skidding to the ground. He caught himself and smiled stiffly.
"You okay?"
"Sure. So animal attack?"
"My uncle works for the sheriff," Julia said. "My cousin said they're ruling it an accident. It's not like they're going to drive in some forensics expert to waste money on a victim with no family who was most likely killed by wildlife."
"Damn wildlife. They're a menace!" Hunter had to stop himself from pumping his fists in the air.
"You're really into this case, huh?"
"No, no. I mean, I just assumed it was a hit and run. That road is real dark and twisty at night. Like maybe his body was hit on the road and thrown into the brush where the animals screwed around with it afterward. Or something. I should go. I mean, Corey is probably looking for me. Later!"
Hunter scrambled away from Julia. He couldn't let himself succumb to the relief.
Julia sounded confident, but what if her intel was off? What if the cops were lying to lure the killer into a false sense of security? What if they were springing a trap on him at that very moment?
She could be a spy. Plain Jane Julia, international woman of mystery.
What had he told her? Did she suspect him now?
He pictured Julia testifying against him. He told me he thought the vet was run over and that he thinks Birch Street is very dark at night. He was super specific.
Guilty!
Hunter couldn't focus on finding Corey. There was the Julia problem to deal with.
She's buzzed now, so she won't piece it together, but by the light of day it'll be a different matter.
Hey, Hunter was awfully interested in that dead hobo. He sure had a great theory on the murder. What if Hunter was involved?
He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Julia had to be taken care of. She couldn't wake up remembering what he'd said.
What could he do? He'd committed murder but he wasn't a murderer.
This all happened because he'd drunk too much. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. Hunter returned to the kitchen and mixed a Post Nap Funk for Julia.
"Drink up!"
"But I never drink this much."
"We're celebrating!"
"Ok." She looked dubious, but she still tilted the mixed drink to her lips.
"You and me, let's have a chugging contest. Three beers to win."
"I don't know. What's the winner get?"
"You name it," Hunter said. Julia giggled and blushed. He had to go for it. "How about the loser pays for dinner sometime next week?"
"For three drinks?" Julia asked.
"You're right. Four would be better."
Julia gulped but nodded. "Okay."
Goodbye incriminating memories.
When Julia finished her drink, they lined up four beers each and faced off. Hunter knew he could have smoked her but he didn't want Julia to give up. She had to down the drinks. She had to forget everything he'd said to her-blackout wasted.
He barely cracked open his fourth beer as she slammed her last one down on the countertop with a burp.
"Nice," he said.
"Uhhhhhh." She swayed and Hunter had to grab her shoulder to keep her upright.
"You need to rest or something? Maybe get a little sleep and forget about the night?"
"When are you paying up, bitch?" she asked through a fit of giggles.
"Paying up?"
"You, me, dinner."
"Oh right." Damn her memory's still sharp. "Next Saturday, I'll take you someplace decent?"
"It's a date, Cute Buns."
He'd never seen Julia like that before in the twelve years he'd known her.
Am I really doing this? You have to. Sometimes you just have to buy a weird girl dinner to stay out of jail. Age old story.
? ? ?
AT least half of the kids had left. Hunter couldn't find Corey. Someone had mentioned wanting to watch GhoulBashers 2 even though everyone knew the original was so much better. Corey had screamed that he wanted to watch Supernatural Exertion but that was the last Hunter had heard of him.
"We should watch that movie with the serial killer who tattoos his victims," Melissa said as she thrust the last of the Jell-O shots at the remaining guests.
"No killers," Hunter said.
Hunter stumbled through the house. What time was it? Did he even know anyone there? Something like fireworks exploded outside, but he couldn't focus to get out there and enjoy it.
The fun was over. His spirits had died. It was time to shore up and channel his remaining energy on not spending the next twenty years in prison.
Melissa made her way through the halls collecting trash and putting people to bed.
"Time for lights out. You sleeping over, Hunter?"
"Naw. I'll walk back. It's only twenty minutes."
"Really?" Melissa asked. "I'm, like, proud of you or something."
"No more drinking and driving," Hunter said. "I have so learned that lesson."
"Yeah?"
"It's nothing, forget it." Hunter sighed. He didn't know if he could get Melissa blackout drunk, too. If he did, Hunter would probably end up swimming along the ground driving everyone crazy.
"One more Jell-O shot!"
Hunter counted to ten. He breathed in, he breathed out.
"I'm going home," Hunter said. There were boos and awws but he didn't care. He'd learned that driving drunk was stupid. That it led to murder and trembling hands.
Or it made you promise dates to girls hoping they'd pass out.
Everyone can pass out. Julia's no exception. The cops don't care. It's just a homeless bum. No one cares.
? ? ?
HUNTER snapped to and realized he was walking back toward his house along Birch Street. Melissa's place was far behind him.
The woods were a black wall, too dense for any light at that time of the night. Hunter's legs carried him on autopilot through the back roads toward home.
Ok, that was the last time drinking.
He pictured Bart Gregory out there in the woods bleeding to death. Scavengers clawing at the body, tearing the flesh apart. What would the dead hobo think of him at the moment? Would he laugh, would he taunt him, or would he scrape at his flesh?
"Hunter?"
He turned around and asked, "Someone there?"
His skin tingled. It wasn't even windy. There was just the open road and the woods.
His feet felt sore. Why hadn't he driven? Right, no more drinking and driving. He stifled a yawn and forced his feet onward. He'd be home in ten minutes and snoring in bed in twelve.
Bart Gregory had been walking the same stretch of road. Where was he going? Where had he been?
"Hunter?"
"Who's there?" Hunter peered through the dark. "It's not funny."
He picked up his pace. He needed to get back home, back to the safety of a ceiling and walls.
"Hunter?"
There was no denying it any longer. Hunter stumbled away from the woods and started running. The sobering adrenaline rush overpowered him and he stumbled and face-planted on the rough sand. He shoved himself back up to his feet and made sure his stalker hadn't reached him.
He was still alone on Birch Street.
Hunter spotted the bend in the road up ahead. Something told him that was the spot he'd hit Bart Gregory. His head pounded and he threw up.
Keep moving.
"Hunter?"
Something sparkled just behind him in the moonlight. Was that what he'd tripped over? He approached it and picked up. A necklace. No, a military dog tag. Bloody.
Hunter read the name. Gregory, Bartholomew C.
He forced his legs to carry him past the bend. His chest felt tight.
"Hunter," the voice in his head whispered.
A light shone in the distance. The curve in the road behind him. Hunter had just enough time to turn around and recognize Julia's drunken face behind the wheel as she ran him over.
As he lay dying, Bart Gregory's outline hovered over Hunter in the vanishing car lights.
12. IT'S DIFFERENT WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR OWN
Rosie Fletcher, England