WARPED: A Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction

by Jeff Menapace

  It hadn’t always been that way. Tammy had once been a catch. Full-figured—perhaps even a bit more so—but worn with a confident beauty capable of enticing any man. And yet she had chosen John. She was the unmistakable alpha of the two; it was what brought them together. John’s shy nature; his inability to take lead of his own life, happily letting someone else steer him towards whatever destination they saw fit; his virginity—all claimed by Tammy with domineering vigor. And he was eternally devoted to her, delighted that someone had finally given him the time of day, given him an alternative to the loneliness he believed to be his inevitable fate.

  The gradual change began shortly after the birth of Samantha. Their daughter became everything. Whatever attention Tammy had left for John he accepted with gratitude. He loved his wife and he loved his daughter. And he never dared question the direction his wife was steering Samantha. At times he didn’t approve, but a John Kearns simply didn’t question a Tammy Kearns. So his mouth remained forever shut. Forced to watch events unfold that had worried him, frightened him, and then ultimately, vanquished him—destroyed whatever manhood he’d had left. Indeed the precursor for what would eventually become his wife was planted the moment Samantha was born, growing at a terrifying rate where it would reach its incomprehensible pinnacle the moment Samantha was re-born.

  And tonight was a night where that pinnacle would reach infinite heights. It was Princess’s special night after all. A night that came along once in a girl’s lifetime, his wife had said. A night that needed to be perfect, his wife had said. A night he better not screw up, his wife had said.

  John found himself nearly jogging after the boy now. Again, to his delight, John watched the boy proceed deeper into the lot, deeper into the dark. A row of six cars was all that was ahead. One of them had to be the boy’s. John took a quick glance around. They were alone.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me, son?”

  The boy didn’t acknowledge; he was still wearing the earbuds to his iPod.

  The boy reached his car, a gray Toyota, and began digging for his keys. John waved his arms about, hoping the boy’s peripheral vision would catch him now that he stood sideways. It did. The boy removed one earbud and afforded John only a turn of the head.

  “What’s up?” the boy asked.

  John smiled, inched forward and held out a twenty dollar bill. “You dropped this.”

  The boy looked down at the twenty, then back up at a smiling John. He hadn’t dropped it of course, but John knew he would take it. They always did.

  The boy stepped away from his car, went to take the bill. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t realize—”

  John released the twenty, letting it flutter to the ground. The boys eyes tracked it, did not see John’s other arm pulling the Taser from behind his back. A crackle of blue light, a groan, and the boy dropped. John knew the boy would be stunned, but not out. So he removed the syringe from his coat pocket, crouched beside the boy, and plunged it into his arm. He then fished inside the boy’s pockets for his keys, his head periodically popping up from his task, checking his surroundings.

  Still alone. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Keys found, trunk open, John braced himself for labor. The boy was only a teenager—seventeen or eighteen he guessed—and was still at that gangly age where a young man had yet to grow into a man’s body. He was tall and lanky and limp, like trying to lift a giant Slinky.

  But John managed. The boy was tucked into the trunk, and John was now in the driver’s seat of the gray Toyota, engine idling. He removed a handkerchief from the inside of his coat pocket and wiped his brow, removed his glasses and sopped up the sweat that had trickled further down and stung his eyes.

  It was done. The hard part at least. John then dropped his head into his chest and shook it, closed his eyes, thought of what was ahead. Who the hell was he kidding? This had been the easy part.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed home to tell his wife and daughter that he’d found him and they were on their way.

  4

  Tammy Kearns picked up the phone on the first ring. “John,” she answered, although the antique phone held no Caller ID. Her lack of pleasantries was irrelevant: telemarketers and the odd wrong number were the only people who contacted the Kearns farm anymore. What little friends existed before had stopped trying years ago.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” John Kearns said.

  “Well?” There was anxious anger in her tone, as if her husband dared not blurt his news intentionally.

  “I found him.”

  Tammy threw her head back, slapped a hand to her heart, started to laugh with relief. “So what was it then? Car trouble?”

  “That’s right—car trouble.”

  “I knew it. I knew it had to be something like that.” She put a hand over the receiver, looked at her daughter, mouthed the words: “He found him. Car trouble.”

  “Why didn’t he call?” Samantha asked.

  Tammy Kearns frowned. Her daughter had a good point. “John?” she said. “Why didn’t he call?”

  A brief silence.

  “John?”

  “He says he tried. He couldn’t get a signal.”

  Tammy Kearns smiled, closed her eyes and nodded. Cell phone reception was often erratic on the farm. She put her palm over the receiver again. “He tried, Princess. He couldn’t get a signal.”

  Tammy watched what was left of her daughter’s apprehension melt away.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Tammy said to her daughter. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Samantha smiled and nodded.

  “John?” Tammy said. “John? You still there?”

  “Still here.”

  “You did good. Sam is so relieved. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Well, we should be there any minute. Can’t you just wait until—”

  “John.” If she could, she would have slapped her husband through the phone.

  An obedient sigh, and then: “Okay—put her on.”

  Tammy Kearns did not hand the phone to the girl in front of the mirror. Instead, she simply switched the receiver from her right ear to her left. Her face and voice then changed. Became bubblier. “Hi, Daddy,” she said to her husband.

  Another sigh before: “Hi, Princess.”

  “Mommy said he had car trouble? That he tried to call but couldn’t get a signal?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tammy Kearns smiled. “I’m so glad. I was starting to freak out.”

  “Well you can relax now, Princess. We’re going to be there very soon. You should probably start getting ready.”

  Tammy Kearns now grinned. She sat on the corner of the bed and started to bounce. “Okay, Daddy, I will.”

  “Okay, Princess. See you soon.”

  Tammy Kearns hung up and immediately removed the blonde wig from the mannequin sitting in front of the mirror. She began unzipping the back of her daughter’s prom dress, began undressing the mannequin completely. Began getting ready for the prom.

  5

  “Get out.”

  “Please.”

  “Get out.” John Kearns shoved the gun in the boy’s face.

  The boy, tied by the wrists and ankles, wormed his way out of the trunk and fell to the ground.

  “Put this on.”

  The boy looked up at the tuxedo as if he’d never seen one before. “What?” he said.

  John Kearns shoved the material in his face. Then the gun again. “Put it on.”

  The boy nodded frantically, pulled at his binds, then looked back up at John, his helpless face and futile struggle saying it all.

  John Kearns nodded, felt a little silly for the glaring oversight, and began untying the boy with one hand, gun on him the whole time. Finished, he said, “Now put it on.”

  The boy was still on the ground, head going in all directions, eyes wide from both fear and to accommodate dusk. Except dusk was no obstacle in gathering one’s precise whereabouts out here; the task for virgin eyes was a
n impossible one, even in daylight. It was a farm. And it went on forever. The end. All dusk added was a celluloid quality to a frightening panorama of isolation that needed none. And, John thought, given what had become of his life these past few years, such a locale of unnerving isolation was a good thing. No. Good was a poor choice of words. Convenient. That was better. Nothing good about any of this.

  “Son,” John Kearns said, “are you going to put it on, or am I going to have to dress you myself?”

  “I don’t get it,” the boy said.

  “And you don’t need to. Now put the damn thing on.” John Kearns pressed the tip of the gun to the boy’s forehead.

  The boy began doing what he was told. He fumbled and struggled in his panicked state, even toppled over after getting caught in a pant leg. But he was completely dressed in five minutes, right down to the shiny black shoes.

  “Looks fine,” John Kearns said. “Need to get you a corsage now.”

  “Please,” the boy said. “I don’t understand what you—”

  John Kearns spun the boy, shoved the gun into his back, and began marching him towards the house. “Need to get you a corsage.”

  * * *

  “Daddy?” A voice from upstairs the moment John Kearns brought the boy through the front door. “Daddy, is that you?”

  “Yes, Princess,” John called up. “But we’re not ready for you yet. I’ll let you know when.”

  “Is he there with you?”

  “Yes, Princess—he’s here.”

  “Hi, Josh,” the voice upstairs said. “I was so worried about you.”

  The boy turned and looked at John.

  “Answer her,” John said. “Tell her you had car trouble.”

  The boy’s face was wrought with confusion. He did not say what John told him to, only whispered, “My name isn’t Josh.”

  John showed the boy the gun. “Yes it is. Tonight it is. Now say what I told you to say.”

  The boy turned back towards the staircase, cleared his throat and said: “I had car trouble.”

  John whispered, “Now tell her everything’s going to be okay from here on out.”

  “Everything’s okay…from here on out.”

  John nodded once. “You go back to your room now, Princess,” he called upstairs. “I’ll call you soon.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  John Kearns grabbed the boy’s shoulder and stuck the gun back into his spine. “Corsage is in the fridge. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  6

  The mannequin was now wearing Tammy Kearns’ clothes plus a brown wig. All makeup had been removed.

  Tammy Kearns was now wearing her daughter’s prom dress and her daughter’s blonde hair. She wore too much makeup. Too much perfume. Too much jewelry. The pink prom dress was several sizes too small.

  The mannequin in Tammy Kearns’ clothes was in a seated position on the bed.

  Tammy in her daughter’s prom dress was far too nervous to sit. She paced the room, biting her lower lip, smiling, giggling. Occasionally she would look over at her mother seated on the bed. She would see her mother smiling back, bursting with pride, admiring the exquisite beauty that was her daughter.

  “Breathtaking,” her mother said. “Absolutely breathtaking, Princess. Didn’t I say you were second to none?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “The most beautiful girl in the county. Always have been.”

  “Because of you,” Samantha Kearns said.

  “Oh, now stop,” her mother said.

  “But it’s true, Mommy. I owe everything to you.”

  “Princess, you’re going to make me cry.”

  Samantha joined the mannequin on the bed. She saw her mother welling up, raised a thumb and wiped away tears that weren’t there. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’d be nothing without you. Where do you suppose I get my looks?”

  “Certainly not from your father.”

  They shared a naughty giggle.

  Samantha then watched her mother’s face change. It was nothing dramatic, just a ruminating furrow of the brow, as if trying to decide how to broach a tricky subject.

  “What is it, Mommy?”

  Samantha watched her mother’s expression change again. She looked at her daughter with soulful eyes that carried both love and concern. “You know that tonight is a very big night. A special night.”

  “I know, Mommy.”

  “Do you know what I mean by special?”

  Samantha blushed. “Mommy.”

  “Well, Princess, it’s important we talk about this. Joshua is a good boy; I’m sure he’ll be prepared. But if he isn’t…”

  Samantha followed her mother’s eyes downward. A solitary condom had been placed on the mannequin’s lap.

  Samantha blushed some more. “Won’t it be unladylike if I’m the one who has the protection?”

  Samantha watched her mother shake her head. “Just shows that you’re careful. Responsible. The future for someone like you is limitless, Princess. We don’t need to spoil that by being a teenage mommy.”

  Samantha nodded and took the condom.

  “That’s my good little Princess.” A pause and then: “Now I have one more surprise for you.”

  Samantha smiled. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you now. Only that it’s out in the barn. In fact, I better get out there now—make sure everything is as it should be. You know how I am with detail.”

  Samantha nodded knowingly. “It’s why you’re the best. Why we always won.”

  “Samantha Kearns, you’re going to give me the biggest head.”

  They laughed. And then Samantha suddenly stopped. “Wait,” she said. “You’re leaving now? What about walking down the stairs? Josh seeing me for the first time in my dress? You’re going to miss that?”

  “Well I can’t be in two places at once now, can I, Princess?”

  Samantha hung her head and nodded.

  “Oh don’t you start moping on me, missy. Losers mope. And you’re not a loser, are you?”

  “No, Mommy.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ll be waiting for you and Josh after the prom. I’ll be there for your big surprise.”

  Samantha bit her lower lip, fought a grin. “What is it?” she asked again, not expecting, nor wanting an answer, just playing the game.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Samantha hugged the mannequin. “I love you, Mommy. With all my heart.”

  “I love you too, Princess.”

  A male voice, loud and clear calling from downstairs. “Princess? We’re ready!”

  “Well go on,” her mother said. “Best not to keep your prince waiting.”

  Tammy Kearns, in her daughter’s prom dress, smiled lovingly at the mannequin. She then left the bedroom and headed for the stairs to greet her prince.

  7

  The boy stood at the base of the stairs, corsage ready for his date. John Kearns stood behind the boy, leaned into his ear and said, “She’s coming. The gun is in my pocket. If you try anything I will shoot you dead. No hesitation. Understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I will coach you as best I can. Be polite; be respectful; and do what you’re told. It will all be over soon.”

  “You’ll let me go after?” the boy said.

  “Keep your eyes on the stairs.”

  “Will you let me go after?”

  “Shut up and keep your eyes on the stairs.”

  The boy turned and faced John, his face frightened yet adamant. Ordinarily, fear provided John with cooperative, yet appalling thespians. And understandably so. It was absurd to think they could perform up to standard (whatever that standard even was) in such a frightening carnival, even with—or likely because of—the threat of death shadowing them. They would go on stage, take direction, but the performance would be dreadful. John’s saving grace was that his wife never seemed to notice. It was about her, after all. Had always been about her. This particular night, even when it was the real
deal five years ago, had always been about Tammy.

  Except now something new had fallen into John’s weathered lap. The boy was obviously afraid, and that was of course good, but he was also being defiant, a wrong word shy of refusing to go on stage. A poor performance was acceptable, but refusal to go on? Unacceptable.

  John’s next words were hisses through gritted teeth. “Yes…if you do as you’re told, you will walk out of here when it’s all over.” John stuck the gun into the boy’s stomach. “Now turn around and watch the fucking stairs.”

  “You promise?”

  “On my daughter’s life.”

  The boy nodded, then turned and faced the stairs. When Tammy Kearns finally appeared on the landing, the boy looked up and smiled. And it was genuine.

  But no theater behind that smile, John thought—fearfully obedient, defiantly assured, or otherwise. He’s smiling because he now thinks it’s all a joke. Of this John was relatively confident; the boy’s smile, which soon became a hearty grin, seemed telling of this assumption. A bit odd that a young man tased, drugged, cuffed, and then forced at gunpoint to put on a tux would not, instead, be furious at this dawning realization and the extremities to which it needed playing out, but what the hell did he know about kids today? He was a tired, beaten man who lived on a farm that was another planet.

  When Tammy Kearns began descending each step with the delusional grace of a swan—the reality a lumbering bull—the boy’s grin took on a juvenile quality, a ‘Ya got me, ya bastards’ quality.

  Because he thinks it’s an elaborate joke. Maybe one of those reality TV shows starring that kid married to Demi Moore. Yes, that would explain his willingness to embrace such extremities for the sake of a good laugh.

  When Tammy Kearns hit the final step, and when John watched the boy’s eyes go over the worn material of the pink dress, the frayed edges, the stains (food and sweat and soil), the fact that it was several sizes too small, he saw the boy’s grin slowly dissolve, saw his eyes go from pleasant, smiling slits, to confused, frowning slits…because this part of the joke—the dress—doesn’t make any sense, does it, son?