HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  It was made of heavy plastic, not glass, so it didn’t shatter when it hit the floor, but it did made a loud noise, and the water began pouring out of the open end, forming a rapidly spreading puddle at my feet.

  Carol let out a high-pitched scream that drilled into my eardrums like an ice pick. She pushed Terri away and started running for the water cooler. Terri looked confused for a moment, but when she spotted the overturned water jug, she too screamed and ran for the cooler.

  “What’s going on out here?” Mr. Griswald said, stepping out of his office. He was naked from the waist down.

  “The sonofabitch knocked over the water jug,” Joel said, on his knees next to Carol and Terri by the puddle. He was actually crying.

  There was a wail from inside Mr. Griswald’s office, and soon the threesome had joined the others by the spill. They were all crying and cursing me. Vic snatched up the now empty water jug and cradled it to his chest.

  When all six of them leaned forward and started lapping up the spilled water from the floor, I took the opportunity to make a hasty exit.

  Mark Allan Gunnells holds degrees in English and Psychology and is the author of the Sideshow Press titles A Laymon Kind of Night, Whisonant/Creatures of the Light, Tales from the Midnight Shift Vol. I, the Darkside Digital short “Dancing in the Dark,” and the novella Asylum from The Zombie Feed, an imprint of Apex Books.

  Like Riding a Bicycle

  Marianne Halbert

  Morrison stared slack-jawed from behind his desk at the coffee stain. It was blurred around the edges. Café-au-lait colored. He knew that aside from that stain, the proposal was impeccable. No typos. Formatting was beautiful. Even the placement of the staple was aesthetically pleasing.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” came the growl.

  Morrison raised his eyes. Rich Dickie’s imposing frame filled the doorway. Scarlet blotches had bloomed on the man’s cheeks, and were now spreading across his thick neck. On some level, Morrison was aware that his new boss was berating him, belittling him, and ordering him to provide a fresh copy of the proposal prior to the two o’clock board meeting. The floor vibrated as Mr. Dickie stomped away.

  Morrison’s gaze drifted back to the stain as it glared at him. Accusing him of sloppiness. Slovenliness. After he heard the door slam down the hall, he finally spoke out loud the words that had been swimming around his mind since the report had been flung onto his desk eight minutes ago. With only his pencil holder as a witness, he uttered his proclamation.

  “But I don’t even drink coffee.”

  ***

  “Second day on the job, and you’ve already managed to piss off the boss.” The matronly woman from accounting pushed past him in the break room and reached into the freezer. She peeled the plastic off a portion of her meal, and popped the tray into the microwave. The crusty glass plate embarked on a lazy spin, uttering a distant hum. What was her name? Beth? Bess?

  “Someone must’ve reviewed the proposal without telling me,” Morrison said, sounding more defensive than he wished. “I don’t even drink coffee,” he mumbled, gleaning a slight satisfaction from the fact that human ears had now heard his defense.

  “Well, watch yourself. Jack Ziegler got fired a few months back for the same thing. Mr. Dickie’s not a fan of slop.”

  The microwave pinged, and the woman moved her lunch onto the table. While she was distracted, mixing a gray blob of goo into a measly helping of mystery meat, Morrison stole a glance at the ID badge dangling from a frayed lanyard around her neck. Betsy Adkins. They ate in silence. A couple of times, he thought about making conversation, but she had such an absent, glazed look in her eyes, he didn’t think it would be worth the effort. Come to think of it, that’s how all the employees here seemed. Vacant. After Morrison finished off his turkey on rye, he stood up from the table.

  “What is that?” Betsy asked, white plastic fork in mid-air. She was staring at his shirt, shooting a scolding glance at it.

  Morrison glanced down. He’d worn a butter-cream long-sleeved oxford with a royal blue and gold paisley tie. His jaw dropped when he saw the stain running in a diagonal across his torso. There was a nostalgic pattern to it, but he couldn’t quite place it. He touched it, and a dark, oily, greasy smudge discolored his fingertips.

  “My Lord,” said Betsy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that looks like it came from a bike chain. You do know bikes aren’t allowed around here, right? Not since Drew Beamer’s fell over and ruined the new office carpet.” She whistled. “Whoo-hoo, did Mr. Dickie ever have a cow over that one. Took it out of Drew’s pay. Poor Drew. Now he’s traded in twenty miles a day on his hybrid for donut-laden train ride.”

  Morrison’s mind was racing. He’d washed his hands right before coming to the break room. Surely he’d’ve noticed this in his reflection if it’d been there then. Blood rushed to his head, and all sound became a distant echo.

  “. . . in your office.” Betsy was talking.

  “What?” he asked, willing himself not to pass out. Her mouth was full now, her jowls bouncing as she chewed. It seemed as though she were speaking in slow motion.

  “I said, I hope you have a spare in your office.” She laughed, sending gray droplets showering over the table.

  ***

  The next morning, Morrison hung two fresh shirts and a new tie from the coat rack next to the silk fig tree behind his desk. Just in case.

  He sat down and powered up his computer. He’d lain awake in the night, pondering how a coffee stain could appear on his report, and a bike chain track on his shirt. Around three a.m. he’d come to the conclusion that someone was trying to sabotage him. But who? And why?

  At least no one can stain my emails, he thought as he read them and began sending out responses. He was halfway through listening to his voice mails when that bony blonde from HR swooped into his office, her horse-shaped jaw jacking away.

  “What were you thinking? Mr. Dickie is going to have your head on a platter over this.” She shook her head, and as she began to walk out the door, he could practically see the thought balloons floating about her. Disgusting. Completely disgusting. She paused, resting one hand on the frame. “I never figured you for a porn guy. You seemed so normal.” There was a sense of betrayal in her eyes, like he’d made her a promise during the interview. I’m always on time. I’m a people person. And I’m so normal.

  The increasingly familiar tightening of his chest sensation overcame him. Porn? Morrison’s fingers hesitated as he searched for his sent emails. He scrolled through them.

  7:57. Subject: Next Quarter’s Projection. To: S.Levine@...

  8:01. Subject: Brainstorming mtg pushed back to 11:30. To: A.Peters@..., M.Knoble@...

  8:04. Subject: Fuzzy dice meet Tu-Lips. Who wants to play!!?? To: All@...

  Don’t click on the attachment. Do not click on the attachment. But his hand seemed to have found a mind of its own. The uber-megapixel detail would have been impressive had the image not been so utterly revolting as it unfurled across his monitor.

  To: All.

  All.

  Everyone in the office. In his mind’s eye he could imagine everyone in the firm opening the attachment. Even those who hadn’t received the upgraded monitors would be in for quite a show. Big-bossomed Betsy, playing with the strands of her lanyard, after placing her three-hundred calorie lunch in the freezer. Drew Beamer licking his donut-glazed fingertips as he leered at the fuzzy dice, leaving a glazy smudge on his cordless mouse. That red-headed vixen, Amy Mc’Something, would never agree to lunch with him now. And Mr. Dickie…

  Morrison tried to delete it. Delete ALL. To take it back.

  The screen politely disobeyed him. Internet is not responding. The little hour-glass figure, sexy, sassy little vixen that she was, hovered. He could touch her, but he’d never reach her.

  I’ve got to hide. Hide, and figure this out.

  Morrison stepped into the hallway, the few people gathered there whispering conspiratorially
, averting his gaze. He took the stairs two flights up, to the balcony. He kicked the cigarette urn, scaring away a few pigeons, and then gripped the railing. He was now seven stories above ground level. Traffic was slower now than at rush hour, but was still at a steady stream. He tightened his grip so much that his knuckles whitened. What to do?

  Morrison leaned over, wondering if he would vomit. Pretty sure based on the clenching in his gut that he would. Imagining how his half-digested sunnyside-up egg and blueberry bagel would look splattering onto the heads of the pedestrians below. He knew this feeling. The helplessness. The anxiety. The hopelessness.

  He watched people swarming in and out of the corner coffee shop. The barista was surely smiling. Cha-ching! He watched bike messengers and cycling commuters zipping up and down the street. An arm out to signal a turn. A helmeted head tucked to signal a speed burst. He watched for twenty minutes, but couldn’t discern the signal for I’m going to drop my chain across your shirt. Can’t shout that one out!

  Morrison closed his eyes. His voice was pleading. “I don’t drink coffee. I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was ten.”

  “And you’ve n-e-v-e-r looked at porn.” The voice was in complete agreement with him.

  He spun and saw the waif-like girl looking over the railing about ten feet away. She was people-watching, her dark shaggy hair blowing in the breeze. “Although,” she spoke, as though debating with herself, “Jack Ziegler drank coffee.” She paused, squinting her eyes a bit, focusing on the coffee shop. “Got it from that place right down there. Every day. Extra crème. Always extra crème. Poor Jack couldn’t stand anything bitter. He gave his heart and soul to this place. I tried to convince him to use a coaster, but…”

  A sideways grin spread across her face and her gaze slid to Morrison. “I guess we both know how that worked out.”

  “But Ziegler was fired. What’re you saying? That he snuck back in and damaged my report?”

  The girl threw her head back and giggled.

  “So you think he’s in cahoots with Beamer?” She might as well have said, Silly Boy. “Beamer sold his bike in a garage sale. Needed the money to make up for what Dick Dickie was scalping from his check to pay for the carpet.” She let that comment float between them for a moment. A few blocks away, someone honked their horn. Her voice was softer, less sarcastic when she spoke again. She tilted her head slightly forward, her dark gaze boring into him. “Beamer gave his soul to this place too.”

  Morrison knew how they felt. He worked his first job out of college for nine years. Up the ladder. Was loyal. Did things right. Then his boss called him in one day, and patiently explained about the economy. How it had nothing to do with the quality of his work. How he was sure Morrison would bounce back and get scooped up right away.

  “I’d given my heart and soul to that job,” he whispered.

  “I know.” She stood, facing him now, one arm on the railing. Her eyes were beautiful. She understood.

  “I found out, in the months following, he did it to a lot of us. Firing us before our ten years. Hiring in college grads for half the salary. It wasn’t fair. We didn’t do anything wrong.” He moved closer to her, within arms’ reach. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No,” she said. Complete empathy rippled from her voice. “But you suffered. The pointless interviews. The disgrace of cashing those unemployment checks. And finally, two years later,” her free arm swept over the building rooftop, “this.”

  “Someone’s trying to sabotage me,” he said, the desperation in his trembling voice palpable.

  “No,” she said, raising a delicate finger and hushing his lips. “Even they don’t know it, but they are trying to warn you. Ziegler moved his family to Sandusky after getting a new job. I’ve no doubt he’s leaving his coffee stains all along Lake Erie, from Toledo to Cleveland. He hasn’t touched your report. But this place,” and at this, for the first time her confidence seemed to waiver. She shuddered, loathing thick in her voice, “this place sucks the spirit out of people. Jack’s long gone, but his spirit remains.”

  “But Beamer,” Morrison muttered, “he’s still here. His office is four doors down from mine.”

  The girl’s fawn-colored skirt fluttered in the breeze, revealing a tattoo’d anklet. She shook her head patiently. “Drew Beamer still comes to work, each week gaining another pound or two. But his spirit, his soul, belonged to the guy who did the Hilly Hundred six years running. He may be four doors down, but his spirit haunts this place.”

  He didn’t want to accept it, but it was beginning to make sense. “If this place is so awful, that it drains the life and soul, what are you doing here?”

  The waif smirked. “Dick Dickie caught me one morning. Thought I was alone with my vice.” She bit her rosebud lip as though stifling something that wanted to fly free, but that she didn’t want him to hear. “Anyway, I couldn’t tell my parents I’d lost my first job. Especially since I’d lost it to porn. So, I ran up here, and jumped.”

  Morrison drew in a breath, looking her up and down. She looked so…unscathed. “Jumped? From here?” His gaze was drawn to the traffic seven stories below.

  “My bad luck. Didn’t realize the fruit vendor was delivering to the juice bar downstairs. The crates of mango and papaya in the bed of the truck broke my fall.” She waivered. “Somewhat. I’m in a coma, hooked up to a bunch of tubes in Mercy Hospital half a mile away.” She seemed a little put out. “You know, I don’t think those nurses have even washed my hair? My mom swears I still smell like a tropical smoothie every time she kisses my forehead.”

  Morrison looked across town. Past the quad apartments and the art district, he could see the hospital rising against the mid-morning sun.

  “So what do I do?” he asked.

  “What did you do last time?” She tugged on the hem of her sleeveless emerald lace shirt, a move that seemed modest for a girl who fancied fuzzy dice and tu-lips.

  Morrison threw his hands into the air. “I spent about a year fantasizing about murdering my boss. All sorts of creative ways. Over and over.” He looked at her, but saw no judgment in her dark eyes. “Then moved past the anger and depression. Eventually got this job. Was so excited, and incredibly nervous.”

  “Nervous because?”

  “It had been a long time. But I got right back in the flow of it. I drew on my experience.”

  “Just like riding a bike,” she said. She raised her eyebrows. “And those dreams you had over and over. The whole boss-killing scenario.” Normally Morrison wasn’t a fan of air quotes, but when she did them, they were kind of adorable. Especially when placed around boss-killing scenario and her lower lip got a little pouty. “You’re pretty experienced at that, too?”

  Morrison took a step back.

  “No, that was just fantasy.”

  “So was you getting another job—until you got it.” She crossed her arms in front of her. So determined, for such a little thing.

  “But this is different, I couldn’t begin to imagine—”

  “Dicky Dickie always comes up to smoke a cigar after his ten o’clock constitution.” She looked at her vintage watch. “Which means he’ll be here in about four minutes. And the fruit vendor won’t pull up for at least another ten.” She tossed a glance down the street. “Trust me, I know. Draw on all your experience. All your fantasies. You won’t forget. You’ve done it before. I promise. It’s just like riding a bicycle.”

  ***

  The fruit truck smashed into a light pole in its attempt to avoid the body, spilling everything from grapefruit to guava into three lanes. Morrison was surprised the next evening, strolling around the balcony at sunset, at the scent that still lingered in the air. And as he looked out over the shimmering skyline, he envied the waif’s mother, who was able to smell the fruit smoothie with every kiss.

  Marianne Halbert is an attorney from central Indiana, her practice focused on advocacy for clients with mental health diagnoses; in that capacity, she helped develop the firs
t mental health diversion program in the U.S. in 1996. Her stories have appeared in Thuglit, Midnight Screaming, Coach’s Midnight Diner, Necrotic Tissue, Bedlam at the Brickyard, numerous Pill Hill Press anthologies (Love Kills: My Bloody Valentine, Silver Moon Bloody Bullets, Haunted, Patented DNA, Back to the Middle of Nowhere, Flesh & Bone: Rise of the Necromancers, Bloody Carnival, Daily Flash 2011, and ePocalypse), as well as the Wicked East Press anthologies Ransom and Hannibal’s Manor.

  A Hundred Bucks is a Hundred Bucks

  Will Huston

  “Had to lay off two more of my guys last Friday. Didn’t want ta do it but times are tough,” old Melvin says. “I don’t know.” Old Melvin is always stating the obvious. He also always follows up on the obvious with the same self-doubting phrase of “I don’t know.” He feels this lends balance to his observations. Either that or he really doesn’t know. He always says it the same way, too, trailing off at the end.

  Yes, times are tough. Fuzzy knows this all too well as he finishes blocking the back of the old man’s gray head. “Yes they are, Melvin, indeed they are,” he answers back. He grabs the big hand mirror on the shelf behind the barber chair and steps in front of Melvin, holding it so the customer can admire Fuzzy’s tonsorial talents.

  “That’s right nice. There’s not a better barber in all of Clarksville…I don’t know…”

  Fuzzy unfastens the snap on Melvin’s smock and with a fluid sweep removes it to shake the hair onto the floor.

  “On that note,” Fuzzy says, “I’ve got to close early this evening.”

  “Ya’do? Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got extra work, a special client. And I need to be there as soon as I can. Tell you what. You sweep up for me and it’s no charge.”