“That must have been frightening!” Sister Rose was on the edge of her seat.
“Anyway, on the second floor, the doors opened and this man got in.”
“Which man?”
“I didn’t know him, Sister, but he was very nice. Anyway, now there were two of us. I wasn’t scared anymore. At least, I wasn’t scared until I realized the lift wasn’t behaving as it should. The doors weren’t opening even though it was stopping at every floor. When it reached the top floor, it went all the way to the bottom again without stopping, and still the doors wouldn’t open. I started to cry.”
Sister Agnes and Sister Rose were beside themselves at this point.
“Oh, you poor thing, so what did you do?”
“As the lift started to ascend again, my hero put his arms around me and said I shouldn’t be afraid, that he would look after me.”
“Oh that’s nice.”
“So, I said thanks and as we stopped at the second floor and the doors didn’t open, he gave me a kiss for courage.”
“Did that work?”
“Well, it did something, Sister Agnes. So we decided that every time the lift stopped without the doors opening, we would encourage each other a little more.”
“How long were you trapped?”
“Three hours. We kept starting at the bottom and going all the way up, then going down again, encouraging each other all the time.”
A cough in the background alerted me to the fact that Mother Superior had entered the room.
“Young lady!” she barked. “I have heard enough of your stories. Going up and down, top to bottom in a lift alone with a man! That is surely sinful on so many levels, I can’t begin to think about it.”
CHAPTER 15
Ripley’s Headache
By Raymond Terry
Mild mannered Ripley Bernard fidgeted in the actors’ lounge, while waiting for the writer Frank Weller. Ripley wasn't nervous so much as undecided after reading through today's script. Of course an actor had little in the way of choices when it came to scripts, stand here, move there, say this, make a gesture. Ripley couldn't even fart unless it was on cue. No, Ripley Bernard was a puppet at the writer's whim, nothing more, and an actor could never even snatch a peek behind the curtain of what was coming next. Depressing, that was it, and so unlike his character Dalton Drake, the bold, wild, undiminished, don't take any shit hero. And then there were the headaches. Pounding headaches, like the one he was experiencing just thinking of what Dalton would do in this situation. A door opened.
"Come in Ripley. Was there something?"
Ripley, still conflicted, said, "Yes, Frank, there was, is, actually."
"Spill it, man. I've a rewrite deadline, and you're due on set."
"Yes…Dalton is in scene two. Look, Frank…word on the set is you're killing off Katherine."
"Word huh? Well, Ripley that's closely held, but since we're shooting today, there's no harm in telling you. Katherine is history. She'll simply disappear down that deep well on the back lot like a drowned rat."
"But Frank…Dalton is invested in Katherine…emotionally. I mean…."
"Don't worry about Dalton, Ripley. He's a survivor and besides, this is all under control. I'll write him some other bitch interest for next season. He'll cope. He always does. I'll write that too."
"Cope? It's not that simple. Dalton loves Katherine. This will destroy him."
"What's with you Ripley. Katherine is a problem. It's that simple and the producer has ruled. She's out, or at least Meagan Crowder is, the demanding bitch. Now get back to the set. The director will be shouting. Go."
"You can't do this, Frank…"
"Can't? I already have. That's the rewrite I'm working on, Ripley. All I need now is to determine the suffering I want her to endure before drowning."
The headache swelled. This was monstrous. Sweet delicate Katherine shouldn't suffer. She couldn't. The headache said so as Ripley turned to leave but it was Dalton Drake who closed the door.
It was Dalton Drake who plunged a knife into Frank Weller and it was Dalton Drake who burned the damning rewrite before returning to the set where his lovely Katherine waited. Ripley Bernard was a pussy. Dalton Drake didn't need him any more
CHAPTER 16
The Pursued
By WiSpY
Trip stared at the woods as though they ought to explain themselves for the last sound they had emitted.
He silently cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he knew this damn track as well as he knew to an inch the exact place to set the gunstock to his shoulder when he hunted game; something he’d done time without number growing up in this northern Michigan bush. He’d dearly like to have his Winchester with him right now. There was something deeply not right about that sound.
Trip felt like he might do himself an injury as he strained to catch the slightest murmur that would confirm his notions that something unusual was nearby. A chill went up his spine as he realized that it was what he didn’t hear that was the problem. The towering forest was as deathly quiet as a charnel house. Nocturnal beasts usually filled the night with their hunting; that silence just wasn’t proper.
The sudden sharp snapping of a branch to his left nearly froze his heart, as it tried to disgorge itself from his throat. He forced himself to take stock of his situation.
The full moon was bright enough for him to discern a long row of dark cedars that separated him from whatever moved in the deeper woods.
Without properly realizing it, Trip found himself running; a headlong dash along that dark hedge, his reason and woodcraft abandoned to the primal instinct that movement meant survival. Equally intuitive was his assurance that something large was easily keeping pace on the opposite side of the hedge.
His terrified gaze traveled down to the more sparsely limbed trunks of the cedars and he instantly wished he had kept his sights higher. In the gloom he could make out the twin legs of his pursuer. Silver haired and lupine they looked, the large feet were feral, the toes tipped with vicious claws. His terrified mind registered vaguely that they were running sideways as the thing kept stride with his unchecked sprint towards … towards what?
He realized that he had no idea where he was going. Leaking adrenaline, his brain grappled with the understanding that safety lay not deeper into the wood. With Herculean effort he altered his flight from this cedar brake and veered from the tree line, the cacophony of rending timber joining the nightmare shape cast in vivid moon shadow on the ground in front of him as the last sensations he would ever know.
CHAPTER 17
Death Always Collects
By Jeremy Rodden
Death Always Collects
It is my turn to die next. I don’t want to die, but when one makes a deal with Death, He always comes to collect. Death doesn’t care if the deal was with a couple of scared housecats trying desperately to save their owner’s life; He has a quota to maintain. The Church will tell you that animals don’t have souls. Death disagrees.
# # #
It began when my owner became depressed and decided a few bottles of pills would solve all his problems. That night, Death came for him. We saw Death standing over our master’s body, preparing to retrieve his essence for his collection. Popular culture says that animals can sense evil, such as dogs barking at ghosts.
We cats can sense ghosts as well, but we aren’t as noisy are our canine cousins. Death is no ghost, however. Nor is he particularly evil. We found Death to be unwaveringly neutral. He was there to collect a spirit–nothing more, nothing less. Death waits for no man or beast, so we had to think quickly.
“Take us, instead,” I offered.
Skye shot me a sideways glance. She was never particularly fond of our male owner like I was. At the same time, she sensed my desperation. We were middle aged. Our owner was barely more than an adult. He had one kitten–I mean, kid–to look after and his mate was expecting another.
>
“Yes,” Skye assented. “Two instead of one, Death.”
Death turned his cloaked head and saw us: two small Siamese cats. We stared right back into his beady red eyes. He nodded and responded, “Agreed. Soon.” His voice was a raspy whisper. My tail twitched and puffed at the sound of it. Death left our owner barely breathing but alive. It worked. We’d saved him from death.
We spent the next year on edge, not knowing when Death would return for us. He returned on the one-year anniversary of our owner’s suicide attempt. Skye and I braced for his icy touch but, inexplicably, he only took Skye. The owners cried as they buried her in the backyard, seemingly unaware of how close our male human had been to being in Skye’s place.
# # #
It is fast approaching the second anniversary of our inverse Faustian deal. I know that Death will be here for me very soon. I await him like any other cat would: calm and stoic. I hope my owner makes our sacrifice for his life worthwhile. It is my turn to die next.
CHAPTER 18
The Chair
By TRM
Look! There he goes.
Down the aisles bursting with bric-a-brac, towards the so-called antiques huddling in embarrassment in the shadows at the back of the shop.
Look at him! A proper dandy, this one. Dressed to the nines, a touch of bling ... and that fake tan. Sorry mate, that’s an epic fail. Who ever told you you’d look good with that on?
Uh – oh, he’s seen it. Yes! He’s spotted our crowning glory tucked away in the dustiest corner. Bargain hunter, eh? Think yourself a specialist? Well, you’ve scooped the jackpot here, my friend.
Sure, you can sit on it. Go on! No-one’s looking, except us of course. So inviting, isn’t it?
Proper antique Gainsborough, that armchair. The deep buttoned leather’s a little cracked here and there. A little threadbare on the underside, maybe. Well, we’ll see about all that won’t we, now? But it’s an original, that one.
Well!
Almost.
Yes, it’s comfortable isn’t it? There! A moment’s shut-eye, like all the others before. Why not?
Watch carefully, now. You’ve never seen the like, I’m sure.
He’s trying to get up. But he can’t. He’s stuck to the leather. His arms and legs have become leaden, strangely drained of all their strength. He strains and struggles now, but can barely raise a squeak. His eyes are sealed shut, and his lips seem glued together too.
He’ll feel sucked into the chair by now, heaved in like a strand of linguini into a glutton’s fleshy lips. And stretched and stretched. Already his face distends and widens, the features vanishing. His skin is heaved over a growing portion of the backrest with a cracking of bone and sinew.
You won’t see this from here, but the springs have punctured his back and the undersides of his thighs, worming their way in, splitting and hooking into flesh to stretch and stretch even more, heaving all his vital organs inwards, within their bouncy structure. The suit is ripped off his contorted body, sucked away with a machine’s voracity to add to the stuffing, revealing how his chest and belly have been pulled out, stretched and stretched to the very sides of the chair.
Now the buttons burst through the front of the distended skin and then heave back in with appalling strength.
There you go! Freshly upholstered with a nice new sheen, a nice burnish to the leather. All smooth and blemish-free, if a little orange for my taste. How about that?
Can’t wait for the next one!
CHAPTER 19
The Dawn Of A New Day For Ima Spatz
By S.C. Thompson
As the sun rose over the valley below, Ima Spatz felt GOOD. Better than she ever had as far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go. Truth was, Ima had never, ever felt . . . good. About anything. All she had ever felt was shame, and fear, and . . . hate. As far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go.
But now . . . now she felt SO GOOD. So RIGHTEOUS. Sometimes good does come from bad things.
And sometimes . . . BAD THINGS must follow from good, Ima thought.
Yes, one shouldn’t shy away from business that needs to be done. Needs to be done like bad teeth need to be pulled. And sometimes, there just aren’t any pain-killers to be found. Doesn’t mean the tooth shouldn’t be pulled, though. Oh, no. Gotta pull that sucker regardless of the pain. Pull it right out. And if the roots don’t come with it, then you gotta dig for those, too.
Newfound power flooded through her like some alchemical elixir.
Looking forward to the dawning day with an ecstatic glee almost impossible to control, Ima felt like she had butterflies in her stomach, but she knew it was the beetles she had been swallowing whole – so as not to kill them - all through the long night.
Relaxing her throat, she let a few crawl up into her mouth, just to be sure she would be able to regurgitate them when needed. Giggling at the staccato stampede of their many tiny feet racing up her windpipe, she sipped a bit of water, swallowing hard.
“Not yet, little darlings, not yet.”
Short, fat, and displeasing to the eyes, Ima Spatz was unwanted at birth, unloved in childhood, kicked and tripped and had food hurled at her in middle school, ignored and ridiculed all her adult life. A life she hated as she hated the beautiful people.
But now, after hitting her head in that fall down the stairs, things were different.
Yes, she would have her revenge. She was going to pull quite a few rotten teeth.
As the sun rose over the town below her, she raised her arms as she opened her mouth, letting the beetles escape. The huge flock of blackbirds she had called descended upon her, snapping up the treats she produced, then lifted her off the ground, and flew with her grasped gently in their talons toward the town that would never forget her name.
CHAPTER 20
416
By EM Delaney
It’s 4:16 P.M. I’ve but four minutes to live. At 4:20 the state of Georgia is going to execute me by lethal injection and I don’t know why. I’m not guilty of the heinous crimes by which they accuse me.
“It’s time, Emmett.” I recognize the voice as it has echoed through my holding cell many times over the last twenty-four hours. If I hear it again I’m going to go simply mad. I cannot think of a more cruel end to a life than waiting to be killed in a supposedly humane fashion.
I’m told the cocktail burns from the inside out. For months now it seems I’ve been taunted by the hollering of the other death row inmates on ‘C’ Block about it. Their voices are echoing in my head even now as I look at the clock in the corridor that reads 4:17. As I wriggle to free myself from the two bulky guards that are pulling me toward the death chamber I lose myself in the irony of thinking, ‘Where the hell would I go if I were to break free?’
I continue to struggle as they drag me in a door and there it is…the gurney! Another clock on the wall. 4:18 is what it reads. Why must there be so many clocks? My throat is so dry I can’t breathe but in two minutes I’ll be dead. ‘Oh God…why wait!” I scream as I’m thrust around the make-shift bed where I’ll sleep for the last time.
The doctor is a lady. She turns as I am being strapped onto the gurney. I see her eyes…they are cold and have no life in them. Her hair is silver, I guess her age at fifty or so.
“Please don’t kill me,” I beg. “Please…I don’t even know what I did.”
She ignores my pleas, pointing the end of a large needle up in the air and studying it as if it makes some difference.
One of the guards knocks me back as I try to rise up, then I notice the people outside of the window; my family, my son and his wife. There are others but I don’t recognize them.
A voice comes over the intercom in the small room. “It’s four-twenty, Doctor.”
I’m about to die. What will that feel like? Will I simply cease to exist…how bad will it hurt…”ouch!” She has stuck me with the needle.
“Honey…”
I bolt
from bed.
CHAPTER 21
Diamonds
By Sammy HK Smith
Sparkling, coveted, beautiful and always, always a girl’s best friend. She sighed longingly and placed her forehead against the glass of the display as the pendant glinted back at her.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” the amused voice behind her remarked. She snapped her head around and a merry grin on the face of the manager greeted her. Hesitantly, she nodded.
“There’s a way you can wear it you know.”
She furrowed her brow in confusion and then raised her eyebrow questioningly.
“I’m asking the prettiest of girls to model my pieces upstairs for the new catalogue,” her face must have betrayed her concern, for he added. “It really is exquisite, it will only take a few moments.”
Glancing around the shop she could see several assistants frosting women in diamonds and jewels. They fawned and cooed over the potential customers, exclaiming in delight at the cut, the quality and clarity of the jewels. That unwanted emotion wormed into her core. Envy.
Against her better judgment she nodded and followed him up the narrow staircase to the office. Dust and dirt assaulted her nose and she sneezed several times hearing the manager chuckle as she did. The large room was cluttered and filthy – but a tray of jewels drew her attention away from the dirt. She sighed and ignored the mutterings and banging from behind her, drawn to the twinkling she stepped forward and touched the stones.