Dark Avenues Page 10

  “Can you shut the fucking door.” She said between bites. “I’m freezing out here.”

  “You may want to be careful about where you spit your food out at.”

  “What the fuck are you–”

  He told her about the severed finger he found in the yard. She nodded in agreement.

  “Unless you’re wanted to watch,” She said, still holding the dead girl’s thick bloody leg in her right hand. “you might as well shut the fucking door.”

  They’re right, you know.

  When you marry the daughter, you marry her mother, too.

  “Sorry.” I said and did as she asked.

  APARTMENT 13

  A woman I once dated had a friendly upstairs neighbor who was always nice enough to greet us whenever we came back to her apartment. One day, when we realized he wasn’t sitting out there, we found out through a family member that he died of cancer.

  I wrote this story three weeks after his death as a reminder. Jeani Rector, editor of The Horror Zine was nice enough to pick it up for the November 2017 issue and include it in the anthology that soon followed.

  THE smell wasn’t just a nuisance but a reminder of what he kept putting off. He didn’t know what to make of it but all he could think of was the smell of rotten eggs.

  Rob Cross sat on the overstuffed couch, hissed through his teeth and gave a low grumbling sound. The pit of his stomach churned and a sharp bitter aftertaste collected in the back of his throat. An old college football game was playing across the flat screen, filling the apartment with the mixed chorus of cheers and jeers after a game-changing touchdown.

  Earlier this morning, Linda had been quick to remind him about it after breakfast and their usual round of morning sex. She was standing in front of her polished-oak dresser, slipping a tiny blue earring into her left earlobe when she said something that diverted his attention away from a blue jay perched on a tree branch.

  “What did you say, honey?” He’d asked.

  She’d rolled her eyes and sighed. She buttoned the top two buttons on her floral-print scrub shirt and frowned at him in the reflection of the mirror above her dresser.

  “I asked you to go upstairs and ask Mr. Flowers about that god-awful smell.”

  “Why don’t we just call the landlord and—”

  “I don’t want to make a scene, honey. If he says it’s nothing then we’ll call the landlord.”

  “I’ll do it.” He’d said, climbing out of bed.

  In the mirror above her dresser, she said, “Will you do it for me? Please?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  “You said the very same thing last week and we were late for dinner with Tiffany and Mike.”

  “They’re not even my friends.” He’d said, plucking a pile of clothes from his dresser.

  “Sorry I asked,” She sighed, her lip twisted with anger. “I forgot how busy your schedule can get.”

  Her sarcasm stung him deeply. He bit down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something he’d regret later, carried his clothes into the bathroom and jumped in the shower. She didn’t even leave him a “good morning” or even a “goodbye love you”; it was this-that-and out the door Pat.

  He didn’t ask to fall from a twenty-foot ladder and bounce his knee off the side of the company truck and be out of work for the past four months. If he had his way, he’d have been dressed and out the door so he wouldn’t have to hear about it. He loathed being downgraded from “handyman” to “house husband” because it’d attributed to her anger when she realized she would be the primary breadwinner until he was fully rehabilitated.

  They’d struggled over the years, especially when they were just a couple of fresh young faces working minimum wage just to make ends meet and when they thought things were getting worse they never gave up; ever since he got hurt it felt to him like Linda had a holier-than-thou attitude because she’d still had a job.

  He hoped that wasn’t the case. Beyond all the seething anger pumping through him, he still loved her with all of his heart because beneath that all of that arrogance was the woman he still loved.

  How long as it been since we’ve had a date night?, he wondered. A bottle of red wine, a home cooked meal and a good movie is just what they needed to rekindle their marriage.

  The noxious stench dragged him back down to its level and diverted his attention. He’d sniffed his fair share of chemicals in the past but none came close to smelling like this. He’d rather stick his head in a bucket of fresh tar than smell this godawful stench again; had he ever smelled like this after a job, he’d have to burn his clothes before he walked through the front door.

  The microwave dinged, snapping him out of his reverie but he didn’t feel hungry anymore. He inhaled the aroma of chicken flavored rice, snapped the lid back in place and slid the container back into the fridge. He grabbed two bottles of beer from the top shelf, plugged his cell phone in (fucking thing was never fully charged) and shut the front door on his way out.

  Cliff View Apartments was an open H-shaped red-brick building with screened-in patios and a playground on the far end of the property. Neatly manicured hedges were rooted into tiny gravel beds spread out below each window; front porch additions varied from bird feeders to wind chimes and black-iron patio tables with matching chairs or both.

  The carports out front were reserved for each tenant according to the number on their apartment; they lived in Apartment 14, so they parked in the spot marked as such.

  “Good afternoon, Rob.”

  He stopped beside of the staircase and groaned at the sound of Carol Ebner’s voice trailing after him. His shoulders slumped to hide the flustered look on his face, he turned and greeted her with his best fake smile. He raked a hand through his short dark hair, clapped his hands together and set them firmly against his crotch.

  Her bedhead gray hair sticking up from her head in Medusa-like curls, she gave a kind and gentle smile and made her way over to him. She wore a bright blue jacket over a long floral-print dress, ankle-hugging socks and black shoes; the wheels of her walker whined as she skulked toward him.

  “Hello, Carol.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m great thanks for asking.” He nodded. “I haven’t seen Gus in a few days so I thought I’d go up there and check on him.”

  “Thank God someone is.” She said, then breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve called him a hundred times about that god awful smell and he still hasn’t called me back about it.”

  At least someone will get in trouble for, as Linda put it, causing a riff.

  “So you’ve talked to Gus since then?”

  He hoped that she had so she could tell him it was nothing and he could go back inside and appease Linda’s curiosity.

  “I saw him about a week before the smell occurred. He came home from one of his night fishing trips and I was standing out here talking to the mailman. He had something cradled in his arm like a football but he had a blanket draped over it and he looked like he was in a rush. I asked him if he was okay and he said ‘I’m fine. Mother just needs to be fed’.”

  Her words etched deep creases of confusion across Rob’s forehead. Carol could spread gossip like a virus; a crazy unorthodox virus that made no sense whatsoever. Although they were pretending to be friendly, he and Linda had done their best to keep their distance so as to not get infected.

  “Was that all he told you?”

  She nodded. “I heard him arguing with someone last night at about ten o’clock. He kept saying something like ‘I don’t want to do it anymore please don’t make me’.”

  “Do you think he was in some sort of danger?”

  “I hope not.” She said, “I would’ve called the cops by now but I didn’t want to make a big stink about it. No pun intended.”

  They traded a few more pleasantries and went their separate ways.

  He waited for her to wheel herself back into her apartment before he headed upstairs; the smell grew mor
e intense the closer he drew to Gus’ front door. Something kicked up a loud racket from overhead that compressed his lungs with fear and he snatched a quick breath and clutched the twisted black-iron railing in a fierce white-knuckled grip. A blue jay burst from the roof like a pop-up ad and gave a loud squawk, stopping him just inches in front of the door.

  He sighed, his body and his lungs relaxing as he scanned the promenade and watched the bird’s shadow soar across the sidewalk like a floating crucifix. He shook off the smell riding on the sharp October breeze and walked up to Apartment 13. He pressed the bell with his free hand and waited for a response before he decided to knock.

  “Are you okay, Gus?” He knocked. “It’s Rob from—”

  On the fifth knock, the door opened with a loud arthritic groan. He scanned the kitchen and waited for Gus to greet him before he stepped inside and set the beer bottles on the kitchen counter.

  An overstuffed couch sat on the left across from a forty-two inch flat screen television (which displayed a news report showing policemen and doctors in lab coats combing the forest along a vast gray lake, the words SIGHTING AT LAKE MICHELLE stamped along the bottom of the screen). As with all the other apartments, the stainless-steel appliances were new and the countertop dropped off onto a small breakfast nook with two chairs. A horde of flies hovered above the nest of dishes cluttered inside the two-sided sink, buzzing softly in his ears.

  Pebbles of broken glass were scattered across the middle of the living room between the couch and the television, glinting under a large patch of mute-gray sunlight. The breeze whistling through a fist-sized hole in the glass doors and sent the light-blue drapes into an hypnotic dance. His stomach knotted with fear, Rob toyed with the off-chance that he’d stumbled into a home invasion.

  It still didn’t explain the smell. He slid the collar of his tee-shirt up and over his mouth and nose to ward off the stench.

  “Are you okay, man?”

  He cursed under his breath, shut the door and marched down the hallway. When he reached the end of the corridor and peered into Gus’ bedroom, he saw thin shafts of mute-gray sunlight pouring through the blinds; dust motes danced in the air as the smell began to thicken.

  “Linda and I wanted—”

  His heart lurching, he stopped in his tracks and clutched the doorway with hands like suction cups.

  Gus was lying face up in bed in a white shirt and blue striped boxers, his body rigid and motionless. His eyes were closed but his lids gave involuntary twitches as if in a state of REM, his fingers twisting with the rise and fall of his chest. A series of deep breaths escaped his lips in tiny child-like snores that whistled through his nostrils; in the soft sunlight, his soft tan skin faded to a sickly-white pallor.

  Something moved from under the front of Gus’ tee shirt, poking through the fabric. When he approached the bed, Rob noticed a large pink tube protruding from the middle of Gus’ stomach like a trachea; it drooped over the side of the bed and stretched toward the pocket of darkness on the far-left corner of the room. He squinted beyond the tube and, his heart thudding, felt his face and eyes widen under a mixture of fear and disbelief.

  The tube was connected to a giant vulva-pink egg hanging from a tiny pink thread embedded into the ceiling. It pulsated in rhythm with the tube as if it were lapping at whatever it was taking from him; a trellis of red and blue veins crept up the side of the cocoon before stopping at the crown.

  Rob backed away from the bed and, lips quivering with fear, tripped over his right ankle. He gave a childish yelp as he sunk toward the floor and struck the carpet ass-first; the impact jarred his bones and bounced the back of his head off the floor like a basketball. Stars bursting across his vision, the sound of torn fabric rippled across the room.

  He scowled at the dull ache growing in the back of his skull when something hugged his right foot; the pain sat him up and spread rivers of pressure up and down his leg. A long pink tube jutted from the bottom of the cocoon, stretched under the bed and began pulling him across the room.

  There was no explanation for this; he waited for someone to come barraging out from behind a movie camera and tell him the truth behind all of this but all he could feel was pain, fear and the lingering tightness in his muscles. His brain conjured a snippet of conversation from earlier today, something that would (or could) make light of all this.

  “…something cradled in his arm like a football but he had a blanket draped over it.”

  Then he remembered the news story and the men in the sharp white lab coats combing the lake for obviously whatever this was. And whatever it was, it wasn’t human.

  How could he have brought it here in the first place?

  Couldn’t he have just left it in the lake with all the other garbage?

  Rob pulled his foot back, bending his knee and filled his ears with the sound of slow-tearing cartilage. He felt the tube sliding away from his ankle and waited for it to give away before kicking it across the room; his knee gave an ear-splitting tear, filling him with the undying need to scream. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward the bathroom when he felt something wrap around his left thigh and stop him in his tracks.

  He hissed and yanked his left foot back but the tube held, pulling him farther and farther away. Before he could kick it away, the first tube made a second encore and wrapped around his right ankle.

  If he could just reach the bathroom door, he could use it for leverage and free himself. He pulled his arms out from underneath him and slammed his body against the floor; air burst from his lungs as shockwaves of pain jarred his bones. He rolled onto his side and braced the doorway with both hands.

  His fingers pressing into the wood, his stomach and sphincter clenched as he pulled himself into the bathroom. The same rotten egg smell coming from Gus’ bedroom now seeped into Rob’s clothes as he felt something burrow into his skin like a corded camera during a colonoscopy. His palms grew sweaty as his fingers began to slide off from the doorway one digit at a time.

  He felt something (a third tube, obviously) cold and slimy slither across the contours of his spine and lash him across the back of his head. He tried to shake off the pain and, reaching for the doorknob now glinting in the sunlight pouring through the bathroom window, gave a loud strangled cry as the darkness consumed him.

  *****

  “HE’S so hot.” Linda Cross said, cell phone pressed against her ear. “He’s a got a job with the state department and everything. He makes more money than the lump of shit I'm with now."

  It was seven o’clock and she wanted nothing more than to kick off her purple scrubs and relax. The once soft gray sky now had the gas blue glow of dusk with a bright pink horizon; tree shadows bled across the promenade.

  “Wasn’t I right about him?”

  The voice on the other end belonged to Linda’s best friend and co-worker Tiffany Grant. They’d worked the emergency staff at Becker Memorial for five years; now they were about to become in-laws.

  “He’s that and much more.” She whispered, her eyes darted around for witnesses. “After lunch we went to that motel on—”

  When her fist slightly tapped the door, it creaked opened. She gritted her teeth, mumbled under her breath and slammed her fist against the side of her purse.

  “What’s going on?” Tiffany asked.

  “He left the goddamn door unlocked. I swear sometimes I think his head is so far up his ass that all he sees is brown.” She said and stepped inside. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Take it easy, babe.”

  “You, too.”

  She killed the call and set her purse on the countertop next to Rob’s I-Phone and called his name. After three tries, it dawned her that if he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could still be. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket, noted the time on the oven and headed out and upstairs to Apartment 13.

  NOTIFICATIONS

  I’m not one to dabble in politics because that’s my brother’s job. At times, I just feel
like it’s one area that’ll cause me more stress than I need or can afford.

  When Donald Trump was elected, I was one of many who thought America didn’t exactly have their “thinking caps” on. When I was a part of what I call “the social media trifecta”–Facebook, Twitter and Instagram–I couldn’t believe the praise he was getting from everyone.

  I still see it today and it amazes me that they’ll go to great lengths to stick with him. I wrote this story because I can, because I want to and because if they’re willing to do that then why should they stop there. Why not cut off a finger or maybe even a toe?

  MY phone sits on the coffee table in front of me but it hasn't gone off yet. I'm waiting for my next notification but instead it just sits there like the space age piece of junk it was before I took it out of the box. I can't wait to get my next notification so I know what to do next.

  As the song goes, waiting is the hardest part. I posted my last one ten minutes ago so why haven't I heard from anyone. Maybe they're just too busy to respond to it, running here and there doing this and doing that, living their own lives and—

  Bullshit.

  If they've got time to post their own shit then they've got time to respond to mine. They're just jealous that my selfies look better than theirs. They can try all they want to but my selfies will always be better than theirs; always.

  Better luck next time, fuck tards.

  Here's another one of me in the kitchen you can carry around in your pocket. It's a nice kitchen, huh? Oak cupboards, tiled countertop with nice stainless steel appliances; the place itself is in one of those red-brick apartment buildings that overlooks the city.