AN ATTENDED DEATH
Fifteen Tales of Horror and Suspense
Nirvana
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The darkness has shown him a singleness of purpose; a purity of each moment, and seeing this, he believes the evidence has been around him, his entire life. All beautiful things: art, music, sculpture, literature, and everything creative; come from one place.
Pain.
The Chain Gang
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“Most of the guys in this work detail are doing it as a prison job, get me?” Terry said. “They’re still inside and working this deal to finish up. The OTHER guys, guys like you, come from the real world. Once in a while, back in the real world, somebody smacks their wife or runs their car into a pole after a bender and the judge throws them here as a slap on the wrist. But those guys don’t belong in here, get me? You don’t belong in here. Not with us.”
Summer's End
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His gaze was drawn to the shoreline outside the cabin and the makeshift boat dock just beyond. There in the morning fog was something he had not seen in all his years of coming here. A dark and rounded hump rested just off shore. Its’ details were smudged with atmosphere but it looked mechanical.
Mortal Digs
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Behind me came the creaking sound of a new floorboard. I say ‘new’ not referring to its age but rather its virgin contribution to the noises of my house. It began quietly enough and swelled louder as the floorboard behind my wall, that had never been stood upon, took on sudden weight.
I turned and looked in the general direction but saw nothing. I waited for it to come again.
And it did, louder this time.
Long Distance
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My first thought when the phone rang at 11:30 pm was that something must be wrong.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello,” a voice answered but it was my voice in the receiver. “It’s me.”
“Huh?”
“It’s you too,” said the voice, slightly higher, but mine.
An Attended Death
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​Her body was in the bedroom, and Officer Steve Allen was relieved. Too many times they died in the bathroom, victims of that deadly foe of the elderly, the mighty Number Two and he would find them upside down in front of the toilet, their bare asses high to the wind and their blood pooled faces stuck to the floor.
Sounds Pretty Funny
Doug Stevens sat on the bench and watched his team, the Pittsford Panthers, move the soccer ball down the field. They were playing The Rush Dragons, for the second time that season; all of them, that is, but Doug, who’d been benched. The last time his team played the Dragons, Doug had been caught off guard for two reasons: first, by the size of the school, (who knew there were that many deaf kids in the world – much less the same county!) and second by near-complete silence of the place.
The Rest Stop
A throaty growl cut into the crisp, night air. It scaled upward in pitch, climaxing in a hysterical shrieking then dwindled back to a thin crying, sounding like the whimper of a child. It came again, deeper now and warbling like the purr of a stalking tiger. Steve’s heart felt like a sledgehammer pounding against his sternum. He tried to slow his breathing, drawing air into the panicked thoughts he knew were useless.
The animal’s noises mutated into an aggressive snarling. They drew closer and Steve’s hand blurred, drawing the .38 in a controlled and silent arc.
Therapist of the Wind
The wind whisked into my office, unannounced, whooping its’ wordless pain as it blew open my door.
“I am utterly transparent,” it moaned on my couch, “it’s rare that anyone knows I’m even around.”
It spun in place, sucking dust to form its clothes, and exploded upwards in swelling indignation.
“And when they do notice me, they act like I’m intruding, and, did you know, doctor, sometimes they even run?”
Confession
It wasn't until he was seated inside that he realized he was not alone. The shadow on the other side of the screen was masculine, but small and distorted, as if the booth's occupant was leaning as far away from the screen dividing them as possible.
"I am here, my son," Father O'Brien offered.
"As am I."
The answering voice was a rich, powerful bass. Father O'Brien jumped slightly at it.
"Do you wish to confess your sins, my son?"
Low rumbling laughter filtered back to him.
"To you? I think not, Priest."
Open House
We came back around to the front entrance. It was a massive double door with a hasp lock, shutting out the world. A sign hung from the two handles. The words written there were drawn in crayon, freehand, the scribbling’s of a child.​
NO TRESSPASSING​
There were small marks around the padlock keyhole where the metal had been scratched raw but the lock was in place and intact. I turned to leave.
“Where d’ya think you’re going?” Mike said,
“Back to the car,” I said, “The house is secure.”
“Secure?”
Take Out Order
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“God made you big for a reason and slow for a reason. You’ll find out why in God’s time.” She paused and pointed at him. “Remember this Tom; the big can help the little. So help the helpless. But the big can also hurt the little even if they don’t mean to. Never put your hand in anger on another person, Tom. Let the Almighty handle the rest and everything else will work out. You hear?”
A Bad End
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And that's when he heard the screaming tires trying at the last minute to be anywhere else. A sedan bore down on them and Gary saw its' driver clearly. He was middle-aged and wearing a priest’s collar and his expression was so frozen that for a moment, Gary thought he had died behind the wheel. Sharon screamed and Gary heard the crushing of impact. And then the car was, somehow, skidding past. The priest flipped him off and leaned hard on the horn. Then he was gone.
Chewed
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Bill has not left his closet in two weeks. He relieves himself in glass pitchers and plastic cups he has on the edges of the carpet floor. The odor is abysmal, but he no longer smells it.
Empty bags, cereal boxes and assorted cans litter the floor. His food is gone but the idea of leaving his safe place terrifies him. When his stomach pangs get too insistent, he eats the tongues from his shoes.
The Perfect Grout Line
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At home, Manny stands beneath the fluorescents of his garage; looking, seeing. Trowels and sponges litter the top of his work table. His eyes dart to its’ lower shelf, lingering on the ceramic pots, plant stakes and his dead wife’s gardening gloves.