Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  The camera wanders past more old Victorian houses, with more broken gingerbread trim. I know the neighborhood, down by USC. A lot of once-cool and fancy houses have been turned into student boarding houses, the rooms chopped up to make smaller rooms to hold more people. I know what he's saying too. I don't like the frats either.

  "Come with me," Kevin whispers. We see his, or at least his camera's, point of view as he walks down the block. "I have to make sure no one's watching. I'll give it the 360." The camera sweeps around, 360 degrees. "I don't think anyone's around. Don't see anyone in the windows."

  The camera moves down a driveway, one of those old-fashioned driveways with a strip of grass down the middle and two cement runners on either side.

  A dog barks.

  "Jack!" Amanda shouts. "Turn it off."

  The camera deliberately heads for the yapping dog.

  The camera stops. Idle, as if it's been set on some kind of perch. A hand opens the latch on a gate. A little yappy dog barks. The hand reaches down, picks the dog up.

  Shakes it.

  Harder.

  Shakes it some more.

  The dog squeals.

  The hand opens, let's go.

  Drops the dog to the pavement. It squirms. A booted foot comes down on its head.

  No more squirming.

  No more squealing.

  Amanda sprints from the room.

  I was ready to run too, but I couldn't. It was as if the phone had a magnetic hold on me.

  "The guy who owns this little turd lets it shit on my lawn every day when he walks it. Never cleans up. Both of them got what they deserve," Kevin's voice says, off screen.

  The hand picks up the camera, stretches out the full length of the arm, turns the camera to Kevin's face.

  "Angel, Angel told me to." Kevin grins.

  Day 8

  "What do you mean?" I say, sitting in my car with Amanda outside her parents' house.

  "You know what I mean. I think we should take a break from each other." A tear forms in the corner of her eye. It stays there.

  "Why?"

  "Because you're possessed..."

  I laugh. "By a demon from hell?" I make scary faces, probably more silly than scary.

  "By that phone."

  "What're you talking about?"

  "You can't stop watching. And that Kevin is crazy."

  "Neither one of us can find anything in the news about him. It's probably all a joke."

  "I don't think killing a dog is a joke."

  "It's probably just staged. He's just doing this for kicks."

  "I don't care. You won't stop watching. You're more interested in that than me. Now just let me go." She slams open the passenger door.

  "Amanda, wait."

  She turns back, unhappily. "You know what they say, murderers, serial killers, they often start out with small fires or torturing animals."

  "It's just a joke, " I say, exasperated.

  "That phone, it–"

  "It what? I'm not crazy. I'm not Kevin."

  Amanda grabs her purse and is out the door. Fuck her, there's lots of fish in the sea.

  The phone rings. But it's not my cell. It's Kevin's.

  Day 9

  I hold the phone in my hand, turn it to my face. Speak into it, as the sun sets outside my apartment window.

  "My name is Jack. I don't know why I'm doing this–"

  It's night, I can see that the neighbor's house is dark. I walk out of my place, go next door. I know where they keep their spare key. I don't even have to break in. I just open the door with the key, go straight to the master bedroom, take a jewelry box and about fifty bucks in cash from the dresser. And a Glock .40 that they keep in their nightstand.

  I could have resisted. I tried, a little. But I thought it might be fun. Transgressive, to break into the neighbor's house.

  A rush.

  A thrill.

  An adrenalin blast.

  I sit in Mr. Wheeler's armchair. Wait till I see their lights come down the driveway, then I get the hell out, back to my house, over the fence, with my booty. Videoing it all on the phone.

  I didn't want to do it. But it was fun. I might even do it again. I grin into the phone.

  Day 10

  Angel's voice is so seductive and Amanda's out of my life. I miss her. I want her, but right now I'm getting too high on adrenalin. But fuck her anyway. She doesn't want me she can go fuck herself, right.

  Angel tells me softly, gently, what to do.

  I tell her no.

  But she cajoles me. So I grab the phone and walk out of my house. Across the street to the house where the neighbors leave their dog outside all day long, barking.

  Barking.

  I set the phone down. It watches as I strangle that fucking mutt to death. It feels good. Feels right.

  I'm not a dog killer. I've never even killed a spider, I put them outside. Oh yeah, maybe I stepped on an ant or swatted a mosquito. But this dog was driving the neighborhood nuts. I did everyone a favor.

  I trot back across the street. No one's the wiser. I had put some junk mail in their mailbox so if anyone sees me, if anyone says anything I'll just tell them I got the neighbor's mail. No, I don't know anything about a dead dog.

  But it's quiet now.

  I can breathe.

  And Angel's very appreciative.

  It's nice to be appreciated.

  Amanda never appreciated me. Not the way she should have.

  Day 11

  I can't get Angel's voice out of my head. Even when the phone is turned off. It comes to me in my sleep – what sleep? In the shower. I haven't been to work in two days. It won't stop.

  Now she's telling me–

  * * *

  I'm in your house. Nobody's home. I hide in the dark. My lust rages.

  I hear your footsteps coming up the stairs. Light and airy, as always. A happy bounce in them. Why should you be happy now when you've made me, us miserable?

  Your bedroom door opens. There's only the slightest creak in the hinges, better get some WD-40 on that. I listen to your breathing.

  Door closes.

  I hear the click of the light switch. But there's no light, as I knew there wouldn't be, since I removed the bulb. It's sitting on your bed.

  "Damn!" you say. And I know you're about to open the door again, go downstairs to get another light bulb.

  I wonder if the phone's camera can pick up anything in this near total darkness. Moon shadows moving across the floor. Anything at all as it sits on the dresser in a good position to enjoy the show. It's pretty good in low light. I guess we'll see.

  The doorknob turns. I grab your hand. Yank you backwards.

  "I want you," I say.

  "Jack..." Skeptical Look Number–, well I don't know what number. Maybe it was more a look of fear. Or horror?

  I put my lips on your mouth. You jerk away.

  "Get out of here before I call the police."

  Smack! Now you're down on the bed.

  I rip your top off. You struggle. But I hold you down.

  I...

  Day 12

  The newspaper carries a story about Amanda Holmes's rape and murder. Attacker unknown. It sounds silly to say a phone possessed me. Or even talks to me. I don't think I'm crazy. I don't think I did it. I think what I did was a hoax. So who did do it?

  What reason would I have? I liked Amanda. Loved her even.

  Angel won't talk to me anymore. I tried. Got nothing.

  I left the phone on a table in a Starbucks for some hipster working on a screenplay to pick up. Everybody in Starbucks in L.A. is working on a screenplay.

  Time to move on. LMAO.

  Day 1

  "Hey, Carlos, look over there," Daniela says into the phone's camera. "A phone. Lucky we came to Starbucks today."

  "Looks like it's watching us, seems to be on." I pick it up. "Finders keepers, mi amor."

  B4N

  Author bio: Paul D. Marks is the author of the 2013 SHAM
US AWARD-WINNING MYSTERY-THRILLER NOVEL "WHITE HEAT," which PUBLISHERS WEEKLY calls a "taut crime yarn." His story HOWLING AT THE MOON appears in the November, 2014 issue of ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. He is also the author of over thirty published short stories in a variety of genres, including several award winners – and of LA LATE @ NIGHT, a collection of five of his short stories. He also has the distinction, dubious though it might be, of having been the last person to film on the fabled MGM backlot before it bit the dust to make way for condos. According to Steven Bingen, one of the authors of the recent, well-received book "MGM: HOLLYWOOD’S GREATEST BACKLOT": "That 40 page chronological list I mentioned of films shot at the studio ends with his [Paul D. Marks’] name on it." He also blogs every other week at http://7criminalminds.blogspot.com Find out more at: www.PaulDMarks.com https://www.facebook.com/paul.d.marks

  The Anniversary

  By Sonja Thomas

  Case #BF8291835670

  Journal transcribed from newspaper articles hidden in a series of high school notes.

  My nose smothered in smoky bacon, I dragged myself into the kitchen. Dark shadows seeped through the window as the morning sky drowned in torrential rain, the constant tap-thump-splat against the blurred glass poking at my foul mood. The tiled counter and floor were dusted with broken eggshells, flour fingerprints and berry bloodstains.

  Babbo’s mourning was in full effect.

  My mind wandered, imagining how the scene had appeared ten years ago. Dad Jaime bound to a chair, tortured beyond recognition and wondering why his family hadn’t rushed to his rescue. For some reason his face always looked the same, conjured up that same night by my first grade self. Eyelids flipped inside out. A mouth gaping beyond possibility. And two deep slices carved across his elongated right cheek, a la Freddy Krueger.

  Shaking away the image, I carefully extracted three greasy slices from the towering stack. Crunch in the middle, fatty on the ends, just the way Dad had liked his dead animals. I snatched two muffins, tossing one into my backpack and devouring the other in seconds. Warm, goo slithered down my throat.

  “I’m out,” I said, heading towards the front door. I shook my head at Babbo hunched on the sofa. Every year on the anniversary of Dad Jaime’s death the same routine: scraggly beard and bedhead with record-breaking couch squatting interrupted only by bursts of stewing in the kitchen, making enough food to last us for weeks.

  Guess we all have our own ways of dealing.

  “Only on WESH 2 News,” the TV blared. “Today marks the anniversary of the most notorious hate crime tragedy in Central Florida history. Ten years ago today, thirty-two year old James Monroe was brutally murdered in his Orange County home, leaving behind his partner Anthony Quinn and their then five-year old foster son. Police state that the killer or killers are still at large, but—”

  My thumb squashed the remote’s power button with enough force to execute a scurrying palmetto bug. The news reporter and his ratings-hungry smile were snuffed in a blink.

  Babbo flashed his infamous ‘Mommie Dearest’ scold—arched brows, taut lips, and flared nostrils—that obviously read I was watching that. But he only said, “Love you, Scottie,” his ending to every conversation. Disgustingly mushy, but better than Dad’s last words: You ungrateful piece of shit. Get that attitude and narrow ass out of my sight and don’t come out of your room until you’ve repented.

  I still didn’t feel sorry for whatever bad thing I’d done, but the guilt for hiding in the closet in response to his spine-twisting screams still haunted me.

  Hiking up my backpack, I snuck one last look at Babbo, his bloodshot eyes already glued again to the television screen, the sound muted, I was guessing, for my benefit. Words dangled on the edge of my tongue—get your moping ass off the couch…move on, already…it wasn’t your fault—but Babbo would’ve only received my concern as further punishment. So I simply said, “Love you too” and closed the door behind me.

  Canvas sneakers squeaking on the slick sidewalk, my normal stride was assured and steady despite the downpour. Maybe the rain would wash away my sins or swallow me whole. Thunder boomed. I cringed, but continued on to the school bus stop at the end of the block. Lightning cut across the darkness, shining a momentary spotlight on the cloned ranch homes hunkered under shivering palms and Live Oaks, the neighborhood completely deserted as if the whole world was on lockdown.

  I plopped onto the first empty seat, avoiding eye contact with my classmates, and stared blankly at the fogged window. Droplets streaked sideways, rolling backwards like anxious amoebas, breaking apart and dashing off in opposite directions.

  I moved through this day the way I’d done every anniversary, in a frozen haze of distrust and denial. The one bright spot was soccer practice with Coach Lahm, or Coach Beast as us soccer players fondly referred to him due to his massive build and snap tirades when we didn’t deliver a hundred and ten percent on the field. He was the only adult at Union Park High that treated students like actual human beings rather than talking down to a horde of sniveling, ungrateful idiots.

  Roaring thunder muzzled the bustling noise and laughter, declaring my only reprieve a no-go.

  Once inside the dark, musty halls of Union Park, I wrung out my Marlins jersey and cargo shorts and shook out my hair like a dog done swimming in the river. I kneeled on one knee to reach my bottom locker, the brick concrete digging into my wet skin. The red metal door swung open and a note fell to the ground.

  The college ruled paper was free of any markings. I pulled out the arrow-shaped flap peeking from two side folds. This had to be from a girl. No guy would waste his time on meticulous origami. Unless it was a prank. My soccer mates did enjoy their share of hazing, but today of all days? Even they had standards, no matter how low.

  My head spun around, but no one was watching. I opened the note.

  Inside was a torn newspaper article. Do You Want the Truth? It was God’s will - He deserved it bled diagonally across the page, right under our family portrait. A gaping hole had replaced Dad Jaime’s face, his arm gripped tight around Babbo, his other hand resting heavy on my shoulder, my face blurred to protect my identity except for a strained jack-o-lantern smile exposing two missing front teeth.

  I became mesmerized by Dad’s severed head.

  Warmth radiated through my body, the pressure building under my freckled skin. I hurled my foot against the locker like a striker set on shooting a goal, crumpling the door. Startled gasps and hushed chatter erupted. Screw ‘em, I thought. Fuck everything. I crushed the newspaper with my fist, shoved it inside my soggy pocket and stomped off to class.

  But halfway through American history, morbid curiosity took over.

  I tuned out Mr. Hine’s rant on equality and suffrage and removed the note from my pocket, smoothing out the damp wrinkles. The article was dated Monday, April 27, 1998, just two days after Dad’s murder. I had no interest in reading it. Hell, I lived it. But why would someone do this? Gift such a grim reminder of the most horrific moment in my life.

  Not like my thoughts needed any help.

  My gaze traced over the vile message, the windowless classroom closing in on me. He deserved it. That was God’s will? Just because my dad preferred the company of men? Who made this judgmental ass the executioner of God’s law and order? Homophobic tendencies aside, why would anyone believe that my dad had deserved to die? I scratched at one of the many water stains, ripping a small hole in the newspaper, paused, and then squinted.

  They weren’t all wet blotches courtesy of rain soaked shorts. Some of the letters were faintly underlined.

  My disgust at some twisted joke morphed into a desperate need to know the truth, just what the note supposedly promised.

  I quickly circled each underlined letter and punctuation mark scattered throughout the page and wrote the final tally on the bottom. Dry air hissed from the A/C vent. I shifted in my seat, inhaling hard through my nostrils to loosen the phlegm clogged in my throat. Although my eyes darted over jagged word
s in the article—tied, sliced, stabbed, screaming, dead, blunt force trauma, mangled—my concentration remained solely on the jumbled nonsense:

  F L A T G L O B E . N I G H T M A R E B E F O R E C H R I S T M A S , F L O R I D A

  I made a slash after every word.

  F L A T / G L O B E . N I G H T M A R E / B E FO R E / C H R I S T M A S , / F L O R I D A

  My chin dug into my shoulder, as I slyly peered behind me. Mr. Hine’s prized 18th century globe stood atop a stack of books. Books of maps. Flat globe equals world map! My skin tingled with proud delight.

  The next chunk was an animation flick, but what the hell did ‘Map. Movie, Florida’ mean? Not a damn thing. Maybe it wasn’t nightmare, but ‘night’ ‘mare.’ Was there a dark horse in the film? Or could the movie title refer to Thanksgiving, when families and drama collide around lethal carving knives.

  This was ridiculous. Here I was allowing some lunatic to fuck with my emotions, when I—

  Wait.

  The punctuation. Why thrust the period and comma into the mix? A period was a complete thought. Then a movie title, pause and state. Usually a city precedes a state. But what kind of city is Nightmare Before…well, duh. Christmas. Christmas, Florida. Then why include the extra words? My pen tore against the paper, brainstorming nearby Florida city names: Orlando, Daytona, Oviedo, Kissimmee, Bithlo…

  Trailer parks, confederate flags, rusted cars on concrete blocks, and broken beer bottles littered under graffiti defiled trees. Bithlo, the shithole that squatted right smack on top of Christmas. Where Dad was born and raised and the craphole he’d tried so hard to forget. The ‘Nightmare Before Christmas.’