Dark Avenues Page 9

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  His cheeks grew hot when a tall cherub-faced brunette pointed at the tiny black speck on the front of her strapless pink dress; the same tiny black speck he’d flicked off of his fingers not two second ago. The air grew thick, pressing down on him and all he wanted to do was run as far away from her as he possibly could. Instead, he fell back onto the pavement and stared up at her pale robust build molded nicely under her dress.

  He took a napkin from his coat pocket–he always kept a supply of those on hand–and wiped the speck of blood from her dress. When he opened his mouth to apologize, he stopped in mid-sentence and felt his brows creasing with confusion. She sighed and scowled, her thin-fingered hand clutching the top of her brown leather purse; a network of bright blue veins streaked the tops of her swollen pale breasts like the lines on a road map.

  He saw neither a Betty Boop lookalike but something else entirely different. The blue sky morphed into a plaster-white ceiling; the parking lot shifted into a rank of gunmetal-gray lockers and bright Formica floors; the vehicles in the lot became the students of Logan Middle School who enjoyed his mental demise at the hands of the upper echelon.

  He stared down at the front of his jeans and saw that they were still in place, but the sound of their laughter gnawed at the marrow of his bones and tore at the threads of his soul. Something pushed on the top of his shoulder and snapped him out of his trance.

  He scanned the parking lot and began the breathing exercises that Dr. Hammond had taught him. The nightmare faded, and the real world shifted back into its proper place; the laughter was replaced by the sounds of afternoon traffic and the odd tree shadows bleeding across the curbs.

  Although the vision had ended, he felt himself slide back into that other part of his brain. It scrubbed the bright red blotches away from his cheeks and filled him with a malicious nirvana he hadn’t felt since he left the elevator.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, checking his clothes for any rips or tears. “I don’t usually act like this around a beautiful woman.”

  “What?” She blushed, pressing a hand against her chest. “You think I’m beautiful. My boyfriend tells me I look like a pig.”

  “ Why would he say such a thing? He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  A smile crawled up the right side of her mouth, spreading bright red dimples across her cheeks.

  “Would it be okay if I asked you out?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name’s Anthony.”

  “Trisha. You know like the country singer.” She extended her hand for him to shake. “I’m work as a tax—”

  “I like country music, too.” He flashed his best but fake smile.

  They exchanged phone numbers and set a date for tonight at seven-thirty.

  *****

  THE date had gone off without a hitch. They chose a fancy Italian restaurant located on the north end of town nestled amongst a chain of shopping malls and other fancy restaurants. He chose a booth in the back for privacy and ordered the chicken parmesan while she chose the fettuccine Alfredo with stuffed crabs; he’d eaten until he was comfortably full and watched her eat like she hadn’t ate in weeks.

  He waited until she left to use the bathroom before dropping the pill into her Diet Coke. He slipped the empty pill packet into his pocket just in time for her to slide back into the booth and smooth out the wrinkles in her dress; instead of the bright pink number she’d worn that day she chose a tight magenta-red dress with ruffled sleeves and a V-shaped slit that accentuated her breasts.

  “Do you want to go back to my place for some coffee?”

  “That sounds like a good idea to me.”

  He flashed a wink and she blushed from one cheek to the other. After she finished the stuffed crabs, her eyes became

  heavy-lidded and droopy. He flagged down the waitress to get her food to go and, amongst a field of glances from the other diners, carried her out to his car. He drove away from the heart of the city, tossed her food into a nearby dumpster and drove away with her face resting against the window, pressing her nose up into a wide piggish snout.

  “Come one, come all.” He mumbled jokingly under his breath. “See Trisha The Amazing Snoring Pig in her own habitat and awe in the wonders of her giant smelly ass.”

  It didn’t take him long to get her back to his house but getting her in was a different story altogether. Instead of escorting her through the threshold like a newly-married couple, he dragged her into the house by her arms and shut the door before anyone saw him. He stripped off her clothes and shoes, tossed them into a black garbage bag and chucked it into the closet where he would remember to bury her along with it.

  He considered using the hooks on her as he’d done with Whitney, but he was afraid she’d rip them out of the ceiling. He set her up inside of his latest contraption, leaned against the wall beside of the doorway and held the dice in his right fist.

  When she opened her eyes, the mixed torrent of hot lucid tears, snail trails of snot and flop sweat glistened off of her big doughy face. She scanned the room until she finally saw him, her eyes shone with terror and brimming with tears. The straps of his latest contraption pressed against her body like a wrap dress with the sides slashed open, pockets of thick white flesh sagging over the side; a pins-and-needles sensation tingled across her arms.

  “I damn near pulled a muscle getting your fat ass in here.” He said. “Your boyfriend was right about you. You do look like a pig in that dress, but I was thinking more along the lines of a giant zit.”

  She closed her eyes and mumbled, her head flinching from each sob; a line of saliva and snot cascaded down the front of the rag stuffed into her mouth. She jerked her head around and fought to free herself from the straps but she eventually gave up and accepted her fate. He paced across the room, braced her shoulders in both hands and braced her shoulders in both hands.

  “It’ll only hurt if you fight it. This is what I call The Peeler. The straps hold you in an upright position and when I press a button you will start to spin and then the blades on both sides will slowly begin peeling you like an onion.”

  A sound of applause echoed in his ears like a television audience; they were praising him for a job well done. All of the hard work and years of preparation had now lead to this.

  “If you roll an odd number and you get to live but if you—don’t—you.”

  His awareness suddenly dulled down to a light-headedness.

  A white light snapped across his vision; his eyelids grew heavy and listless. The room tilted to one side as his knees trembled uncontrollably until his body sunk to the floor. He rolled over and onto his back in time to gaze up and see her gnaw at the top of her wrist until she pinched something between her teeth and slid it out of the skin. She stuck the foreign object into the lock and picked at it until it snapped apart with a metallic snap.

  She flung the straps away from her body, her skin still pale and sagging, and stepped out of the trap. The light glowing in the corner of the room traced the contours of her body as she stood over him, hands bunched up at her side.

  “Sleep aids are for amateurs.” She whispered and kicked him in the side of the head.

  *****

  WHEN he opened his eyes, he found himself inside of an old barn. Thick shafts of moonlight poured through the cracks in the walls, streaking the hay-strewn floor in bright bands of sickly-white neon.

  The mingled odors of sweet-smelling oils, wood smoke and skunk piss stung his nostrils and stung the back of his throat. His arms had been pulled up high and over his head so that his feet dangled three inches above the floor. His head lolled around on his limp flaccid neck, dragging his chin back and forth across the middle of his chest.

  The drug began to wear off and his eyes became more clear. The rope that bound his hands together dug a network of intersected lines into his skin.

  “It’ll only hurt if y
ou fight it.” A familiar voice bellowed from across the room.

  Something clicked, filling the room with an explosion of harsh amber light.

  Trisha sauntered toward him in nothing but a clear-plastic apron and a pair of goggles. A bright mischievous smile spread across her round pale face and her hips jutted out from the sides of the apron. He glanced down at the neatly shaven tuft of dark pubic hair between her thighs and failed to keep his cock from twitching. She approached an old dark-green blanket (the words PROPERTY OF U.S. ARMY stamped across the side in big block yellow letters) draped across a scarred wooden table and tossed it aside.

  He felt his heart skip a beat when he glanced down at an array of knives, saws, a comb, a can of oil, two scalpels, a pair of shears, wire cutters, a small pair of scissors, tweezers, three different kinds of needles and a claw hammer.

  “I’ve got to admit.” She said, shifting her gaze from the needle to him. “You were much easier than the others.”

  “Others? What the fuck do you—”

  She spun around on her heels, walked back to where she’d come from and flipped a switch on the wall. A string of recessed lights bursts open like frantic eyes, pouring discs of brass colored light onto the floor. He scanned the room, his mouth and skin quivering with fear, and stopped at the opposite side of the room.

  A rank of floor-to-ceiling glass containers stood along the left-side wall with six motionless wax figures nestled inside. Some were cute, and some wouldn’t have bagged a woman to stop a bullet. She’d placed them in a neat order amongst several different poses. The first one, a chiseled dark-haired freak, was dressed in a dark-red football uniform minus the helmet. The one after that wore a golfer’s outfit but the last one had caught his attention: a medium-built man with pale skin and the name MELODY tattooed on his chest.

  Chilled realization seeped into his bones, prickled his skin and raised the hairs along the back of his neck. They weren’t wax figures at all; there was nothing waxy about them at all even if you were to count the golfer who’d obviously drowned his hair in too much hair gel. They were...were...

  Actual men. From where he was standing, their ages had to be somewhere between mid-twenties to late thirties.

  He then remembered she wasn’t going toward the mental health facility that day but that she was running away from it because of whom she’d realized was in the waiting room. They would’ve remembered seeing her and put the kibosh on whatever this was; he wished they had.

  The only thing I regret is letting him get that tattoo of his mother’s name on his chest

  “Look, Trisha.” He pleaded. “I was just playing a—”

  She pressed a finger to her lips, cutting him off.

  “Do you know how long it takes to be a good taxidermist? A beginner like me must endure a lot of time and patience to make a person look more life-like. Sometimes you have to–”

  “I thought you were a country singer.” He said in a mewling voice.

  “I’m a taxidermist.” She said, then shrugged him off and continued. “Sometimes you have to freeze the specimen before removing the skin so it can be tanned and preserved for a later time. Then of course, there’s removing all the organs like the liver, the kidneys and such.”

  She walked back, snatched a bright red bandana from the far right corner of the table, stuffed it between his lips; the knuckle of on the middle finger on her left hand grazed the top row of teeth. She raised the scalpel, held it under the light and smiled when it winked back at her; it was like seeing an old friend. He felt his eyes bulge inside of their sockets and pulled on his restraints, tears streaming down his face.

  “I’m going to start with your legs and then go up from there.” She said, kneeling in front of him. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. I’d do the same if I were in your shoes.

  WHEN YOU MARRY THE DAUGHTER

  My mother and I went to a consignment store and I saw this strange painting of a tall skinny figure walking toward a dark dilapidated barn sitting at the end of a snow-covered meadow. I didn’t know the metaphor behind it but it was a wicked fucking painting and I wished I’d bought it.

  But I didn’t.

  The image still stayed with me though.

  MY wife Laura kept bitching at me about the damn shed again today.

  I told her I fixed the damn thing yesterday so there was no way it had to be done again. She says the walls are rattling and the roof was in bad shape. I love her to death but after seven years of marriage she can still push all the right buttons.

  When she stepped in front of the television, she blocked my view of the television. The state police were still searching for the three college students went missing while hiking through the woods along Lake Michelle last week. Laura and I never got the chance to be a parent but I couldn’t imagine either one of us not going a little crazy over something like that.

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  “Not until you fix that fucking shed.”

  I can’t stand that fucking shed; I hear noises coming out of there day and night and no matter how hard I try I can’t ignore them. They’ve roused me out of a deep sleep a few times and once I’m up its hard for me to go back. For all I know it’s the damn cats getting in the trash cans again. I’m not a chicken shit or a couch potato like Laura and her family like to think I am as but I know when I’ve done something and when I haven’t.

  I put in my nine-to-five just like everyone else. Don’t I deserve to drink a beer and watch a football game?

  I rolled my eyes and sighed, knowing that she would never shut about it. I threw my hands in the air, leapt off the couch and slipped on my good camel-colored Carhartt jacket. I went to the garage to grab a hammer, a box of roofing nails, a half a box of shingles, my good aluminum ladder and closed the door on my way out.

  When I stepped out and peered across the yard, the shed was veiled by the fallen snow. I peered through the curtain of whiteness beyond, rolled my eyes again and cursed under my breath. She was right, like all wives usually are.

  My footsteps murmuring against the snow, I made my way toward the shed. I was halfway across the yard when I felt something roll under my right foot. My heart skipped a beat as I flung my arms out from my sides to steady myself; the supplies fell from my grasp and fell into the snow with a soft whispery thud.

  My hammer went one way, the box of shingles the other and the box of roofing nails fell down by my feet. The ladder was nearly swallowed by the snow but the abnormal imprint it left behind told me it hadn’t gone anywhere special.

  I glanced down at my feet and cursed at the mess I’d made. I could still feel whatever it was under my foot so I knelt down to investigate. I brushed the snow away, the harsh cold air scratching my cheeks, and shifted my foot to the side.

  I flinched, my body shaking with a mix of fear and shock, and looked away. I took a few deep breaths until I could gather the courage to look back down and plucked the severed finger from the jade-white snow. The stench of rotten flesh was overpowering; the skin had been peeled back and the soft pink flesh underneath had been gnawed down to the bone.

  I cringed, its very presence giving me a case of the heebie-jeebies, and tossed it into the thick green forest standing behind the shed like a backdrop in a feature film. I shook my head, winced through my teeth, blotted my hands across my thighs and retrieved my supplies.

  When I reached the shed, I sighed and took note of all of the damage. The two slats on the right side flapped at half-mast like the flags above City Hall; a few shingles had been blown away, leaving a hole in the roof big enough for the wind to whistle through. A cold sense of dread twisted my stomach, churning my innards and made my throat feel raw and ragged; beads of sweat cascaded down my forehead, dampened the back of my head and neck and trailed down my cheeks only to freeze midway.

  I took a hesitant step toward the right side of the shed and set to work. It took me more than ten minutes to nail the slats back into the place and replace the shingl
es on the roof when I heard a loud wet sound. I perked my ears to the wind and heard it again only this time it was coming from inside of the shed.

  I slid down off the roof, dismounted the ladder and set all of my supplies off to one side. I dug my keyring out of my left pocket, unlatched the privacy lock and flung the door open. The wind rushed through the open doorway and sent spirals of snow whirling into the shed; it spun thick coppery demons around my face and stung my nostrils.

  I stepped through the doorway, avoiding the long yellow extension cord that we’d run from the house. A series of low humming sounds came from the massive baseboard heaters hanging from the far right corners of the shed; bright red coils beamed like branding irons, spreading odd shadows across the hay-strewn floor.

  “Well, well.” A familiar but mocking voice replied. “It’s about time your lazy ass came out here and did something.”

  “Good afternoon, Evelyn.”

  There are times when I can’t even look at her. Her black hair fell across her massive pale shoulders like an opera curtain during intermission; her penetrating blue eyes pinned my feet to the ground.

  After she ate the old couple next door, we decided to put her in the shed for safekeeping. She’d gone from a hundred and ninety pound bag of bones to a thousand pound slab of pale fat; her bruised purple skin was streaked with bright blue veins. Her fingernails were the color of the flesh she loved to consume; two teeth in the far right corner of her mouth went missing last week so Laura and I filed them down until they were sharp, jagged and just right.

  The bodies of the three missing hikers hung upside down from the roof, their ankles cinched to a network of wooden rafters by thick bands of braided white rope; blood cascaded from the gaping red bite marks dotting their corpses and splattered across the hay-strewn floor. Her eyes still boring down on me, she plucked the left leg from a skinny ginger-haired woman like she were snapping the drumstick from a Christmas turkey. She gave a loud purring sound and sunk her sharp canine incisors deep into her pale waxy flesh and grounded the slick virginal (at least I thought) meat between her lips; a river of juice slid down across her mouth and dribbled off the tip of her chin.