Fishing in Brains for an Eye with Teeth (Thirteen Tales of Terror)

by William Markly O'Neal

  “Hell—” his voice cracked, “o.”

  The final sister introduced herself, “And I am Lucia.”

  “You already know me,” said Clara, stepping inside. She took Jack's arm, leading him into the house. “Come, Sheriff. Let's help your goddaughter.”

  ******

  Four of his five senses— taste, touch, sight, and hearing— were stripped away.

  Existence was reduced to nothing but smell.

  Sweat— overpowering waves of rank body odor—

  Hints of urine and feces—

  Fried chicken— catsup—

  Mold— dampness— must— concrete— earth—

  And very faintly: lilacs—

  Finally, there was a smell overlaid on top of all these others, a kind of non-scent that was distinctive nonetheless.

  It was the stench of female fear.

  ******

  Swimming up through darkness, returning to himself, Jack gasped like he'd been underwater. Rolling off his dusty dining room table, he looked from one sister to the next, demanding to know, “What the hell was that?”

  Slumped in a chair, Clara appeared to be in some kind of trance. Her mouth was half open, her eyes half closed, an expression of neutral bliss on her face. To Jack, she looked like a heroin addict who just got her fix.

  “Is she okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Evata, using a handkerchief to wipe drool off Clara's lips. “Facilitating the visions takes a toll on us.”

  Again Jack asked, “What just happened?”

  Ivona sighed. “I thought Clara explained all this to you last night.”

  Jack nodded. “She did but...?” He tittered nervously, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  Flora explained, “Each of us channels a different sense.”

  “So what I just smelled, that really was...”

  Evata quietly finished the sentence for him, “That's what Laura is smelling right now.”

  A sob nearly broke out of his mouth with the words, “She really is alive!”

  “We told you that,” said Ivona.

  “I want to make some notes,” he informed them. Then, pointing at Clara, he asked again, “Are you certain she's okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go record your notes, Sheriff.”

  “We'll be ready for the second sense when you are through.”

  Jack hurried into his study where he grabbed a pen and notebook to write down all the smells that he/Laura just experienced.

  ******

  Twenty minutes later, Clara was herself again.

  Jack stretched out atop his round dining room table, his feet sticking off it. The Sensora sisters surrounded him, with Evata now next to his face. The women formed a circle, linking hands, the two sisters next to Evata clasping onto her shoulders.

  Gently, Evata placed her fingers around Jack's head.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Carver?”

  “Which sense will it be this time?”

  “Taste.”

  He wished they could skip right to sight but Clara explained last night that they need to build up to the more difficult senses by conquering the less complex first.

  Unfortunately, Jack wouldn't be seeing or hearing as Laura until tomorrow night.

  On the agenda for tonight were smell, taste, and touch. Evata asked again, “Are you ready, Mr. Carver?”

  “Yes,” said Jack, surrendering his mind.

  ******

  Once again, his identity was stripped away.

  Senses were again robbed from him— all but taste.

  Crispy French fries, drenched in salt and dipped in catsup—

  The fries were followed by a drink of Coca-cola (spiked with vodka!)

  After a brief pause she (he) tasted her favorite food: fried chicken breast (and Jack recognized the unique taste of the breading.)

  The meal continued— chicken, French fries, and a Coke— until finally....

  ******

  Jack Carver returned to his own head. The sudden flood of additional senses caused him to gasp.

  “The Red Brick House!” he immediately shouted with excitement.

  Clara looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “It's a local mom-and-pop restaurant. Very popular around here.” Sitting up, he unconsciously licked his lips, tasting phantoms of the food. “They have the most distinctive breading on their chicken.”

  Clara smiled. “I take it this information is helpful?”

  “Yes!” Jack was so thrilled, he nearly laughed. “I couldn't tell if it was hot or cold but it certainly tasted fresh. And that confirms that Our Boy— the Cornfield Killer, I mean— he's still gotta be holed up someplace close to Middleridge.”

  Jack hopped off the table, even as Evata flopped down in a chair, droopy-eyed and drooling, to be attended by her sisters. Seeing him look at her, Clara said, “She'll be fine. Do you wish to take more notes, Sheriff?”

  “Yes.”

  “We'll be ready again when you're through.”

  And they were.

  ******

  The next clairvoyant contact was so disturbing to him, Jack would eventually suppress all memory of it. Later in his life, during times of extreme stress, the experience of becoming a helpless woman who was being raped by a powerful man would gurgle up into his nightmares and invariably cause him to wake up screaming.

  Laura's hands were tied together and secured above her head. The coarse rope had cut sharply into her wrists, causing them to bleed.

  She (Jack) was sick to her (his) stomach, her (his) head throbbing from the effects of the vodka. She/he was alternately hot, then cold.

  She was naked, as was the beast on top of her (the animal who was inside her.)

  She hurt. He was rough and he was hurting her.

  A wet tongue was shoved into her mouth.

  Jack felt it all, for as long as it lasted, which seemed like an eternity.

  He took away virtually nothing of value from the trauma. He already knew Laura was alive— from the moment he shared her first sense (smell.)

  All this third connection garnered him was the horrific knowledge that his poor helpless goddaughter was being used as a sex toy.

  ******

  Jack scrambled off his dining room table and raced for the bathroom, barely making it in time to vomit into the toilet.

  It was several minutes before he was able to stop trembling.

  After dousing his face with cold water and toweling it dry, Jack returned to the dining room.

  When Clara saw him, she reminded Jack, “I warned you it would be distressing.”

  I don't think you ever once used the word 'distressing,' lady, was what he thought. What he said was, “I know. It's okay.”

  Snidely, Ivona said, “You look white as a ghost.”

  Clara declared, “We have to stop now anyway.”

  “We do?” asked Lucia.

  The sense of touch was brought to him by Flora, who was now half-comatose and slobbering like an over-heated hound.

  Evata assured him, “We'll be back tomorrow night.”

  “If that's what you want,” added Lucia.

  Clara asked, “Is that what you want, Sheriff?”

  “Yes,” he said emphatically. “But—”

  “What?”

  “Will she last that long? Laura will still be alive by this time tomorrow night, won't she?”

  Snappishly, Ivona responded, “We're clairvoyant, not precognitive.”

  Clara said, “We can't be certain, but we suspect the odds are good.”

  Evata smiled. “Perhaps what you've learned tonight will be enough to save Laura.”

  “Right,” said Ivona, in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe you won't even need us anymore.”

  Jack actually had hope that, Maybe I won't.

  “You look tired, Mr. Carver,” said Evata.

  He admitted, “I'm exhausted.”

  “We'll say goodnight then,” said Lucia. She and Ivona helped Flora to her feet, d
ragging her out of the room.

  Clara gave a little bow before exiting, saying, “Until tomorrow night, Sheriff. Good luck.”

  Jack nodded. “Thanks.” He ushered the women to his front door, gushing, “Thank you very much.”

  As soon as they were gone, he hurried to take a long hot shower.

  Under the steaming spray, unwillfully reliving the assault that he and Laura just went through, he wept like a girl.

  ******

  The next day, Jack was a changed man.

  After the mandatory morning meeting with the Suits— in which he questioned nothing Coopersmith suggested— he pulled aside his two best men: Deputy Lortz and Deputy Trojanowski. Outside the station in the back parking lot Jack told them his lies: “I got a tip last night. Phoned in directly to my home. I think it's credible and we need to pursue it. And I'm thinking we'll just keep it between the three of us... so the credit for getting Our Boy stays local.” He looked at Lortz, the more difficult of the two. “If you know what I'm saying.”

  Trojanowski responded, “We do.”

  Lortz only nodded, but he did it while looking Jack squarely in the eyes, and that was good enough for the Sheriff.

  Jack instructed his men to question employees of The Red Brick House about men who came in yesterday— especially near closing time last night— to purchase carry-out fried chicken and fries (presumably for two.)

  The only benefit derived from being brutally raped was that Jack could now call the maniac “Our Boy” with utter conviction the killer was male.

  Later, just after 4 p.m., Jack made a statement to the press. For the first time in his life, he went before television cameras feeling confident. He told the representatives of the world that his men were actively working promising new leads. He also stated, emphatically, “At this point, we still believe Laura Eaton is alive.”

  After the press briefing, back in his office, Jack had an unpleasant conversation with Agents Coopersmith and Creasey.

  Creasey began with an accusation in the form of a question, “Are you holding back on us, Sheriff?”

  Jack tried to look surprised. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Coopersmith said, “If you have any ideas about Our Boy— any additional information— it would be counterproductive not to share it with us, Jack.”

  Carver didn't like the Suits calling him by his first name. “I'm aware of that, Trent.”

  Trent Coopersmith frowned. Apparently, he wasn't crazy about his first name being used either.

  Creasey oozed with suspicion as he said, “You're different today.”

  “Oh?” said Jack. “How so?”

  “Your attitude has changed,” said Creasey.

  “Are you certain there isn't something you'd like to share with us, Sheriff?” asked Coopersmith.

  “Nope,” said Jack.

  “Okay,” said Coopersmith.

  Creasey scowled.

  ******

  Shortly past 7 p.m., Jack received a call on his cell-phone. His ring-tone was the theme from the television show: Hawaii 5-0. As was his habit, he answered the phone by saying, “Book 'em, Danno.”

  Ed Eaton didn't bother with any opening pleasantries. “I saw you on the news earlier. What's this about new leads, Jack? What's going on?”

  The Sheriff reminded his best friend, “You know I can't discuss details of the investigation with you.”

  The dentist whined like one of his drills, “But Jaaaaack!”

  Jack winced. “I know how hard all this is on you and Joanie. Believe me, I do. Just hang in there, okay?”

  “You seemed so different on the news tonight. Everyone is talking about it. I was just wondering what changed. These must be some pretty significant new leads, huh?”

  Jack wanted desperately to give his friend hope but he didn't think it was a good idea to mention that his new informants were psychics. So he told Ed the same lie he told his deputies, after soliciting a promise from his friend that he would keep the information Top Secret. “Someone called in a tip to my house last night. She claimed that—” he shied away using the words 'Cornfield Killer,' “the person we're looking for ate chicken at The Red Brick House last night.”

  “You're kidding me!” Ed sounded stunned. “That's great news, right? Doesn't that give you leads to track?”

  “It sure does,” said Jack. “We're talking to everyone who works at The Red Brick House. We're getting close, Ed.”

  After a long pause on the phone... “That's great news, buddy.”

  “I've probably said too much. Keep this under your hat, okay?”

  “Okay. I understand.” Ed's voice cracked as he asked, “So you really think— Laura is still alive?”

  “I do.”

  “And this informant who called you? You said it was a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  Ed whimpered, “Who can it be?”

  “I don't know. But I'll find out.” Jack asked, “How's Joanie holding up?”

  “Not great. She's all drugged up on Valium most of the time. Or sleeping. She sleeps way too much.”

  Jack flashed suddenly on what it had felt like to get raped the previous night and he was shaken by the viciousness of the recollection.

  “Jack?”

  Sweating, grimacing, Jack swallowed, his eyes closed. He fought against the memory.

  A pulse of static interrupted the conversation, loud enough for Jack to pull his cell-phone away from his ear.

  He regained control of his emotions as the connection cleared.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah. I'm here.”

  “I know you're doing everything you can, my friend. I'm grateful.”

  All the insecurities of the previous days threatened to break down a dam just recently built around his heart. So Jack ended the conversation by asking, “You're not working, right?”

  “Hell, no! I can't work. The office is closed indefinitely.”

  “I'll call you if I learn anything else,” promised the sheriff.

  “Okay,” said the dentist.

  When he hung up, Jack whispered, “Hang in there, Laura. It'll all be over soon.”

  He thought of the Sensora sisters and had hope.

  ******

  Jack Carver sat at home at his kitchen table in front of a new bottle of Jack Daniels, a filled glass, and two empty microwave dinner containers. His appetite had been enormous.

  Once again, he drank to take the edge off. He found it hard to sit still; he paced a lot, thinking about Laura.

  Jack knew that this evening he would see through his goddaughter's eyes and, with any luck, the identity of the Cornfield Killer would finally be revealed.

  The cuckoo clock in his front hallway chirped twelve times.

  As a new day darkly began, there was a tapping on his front door.

  Jack Carver hurried to greet his saviors.

  ******

  He rolled onto his dining room table, lying flat on his back, with his head pointed west. The Sensora sisters encircled the table. With a discernible lack of tenderness, Ivona Sensora placed her hands over Jack's ears.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Before he could answer, four of his five senses were blasted apart by a thunderclap.

  ******

  Moaning, coming from Laura, her (his) breathing a raspy accompaniment to a hammering heartbeat—

  A snap and rattle— creaking hinges (a heavy door swinging open) — all of this coming from above her. The creak was reversed (the door shut) — whump.

  Heavy footfalls descended a wooden staircase. The approaching person was whimpering louder than Laura was.

  His goddaughter (Jack) began to cry.

  “Pleash.” She slurred her speech because of drugs and alcohol. Her voice barely audible, she pleaded for him to “Stop!”

  “I can't stop, Honey,” said the sniffling Cornfield Killer. “I mustn't stop.” His voice was strained from holding back sobs. “This has to be done.”

>   “Please, please, please!” said Laura, getting louder with each repetition. She heard the thunk-scuttle of two shoes (boots?) being kicked off. “Nooooo!”

  “Why do you fight me, Baby?” asked the monster, sounding terribly sad. “Don't you know how much I love you?”

  The sound of a belt buckle being unhitched— a zipper being pulled down— the soft fluttle of clothes hitting the floor—

  “Don't you see how much I love you?”

  “Please, Daddy! No!”

  (The-Jack-inside-Laura was so shocked, he nearly became himself again.)

  “Daddy has to, Laura. Daddy needs you.” (There was no mistaking the voice this time. Once again, Jack's mind popped to the top of their pooled identity, like a hot fishing bobber on a cold lake.)

  In a very clear voice, Laura said, “I can't feel anything anymore!”

  Doctor Edward Eaton DDS sighed heavily. “Perhaps that's for the best.”

  Bed springs squeaked as additional weight was added to them.

  Laura quietly wept.

  In a husky voice, very close to her (his) ear, Ed declared, “I adore you, Sweetheart.”

  Sheriff Jack Carver had heard more than enough.

  ******

  He bounded off the table, nearly knocking both Evata and Flora over. “Oh my God!” he shouted. “Oh my God, no!”

  “What—?” began Clara.

  He cut her off, wailing, “Ed is the Cornfield Killer!”

  Jack dug into his pockets for his cell-phone and realized he didn't have it on him. “You have to go,” he said to Clara. “I'm sorry but I need to go.”

  Clara looked over at Ivona, who was slack-faced and sluggish. “It will be a few minutes before my sister regains her composure. Do what you have to do, Sheriff. We can lock up behind us. I take it you know this 'Ed' person?”

  Jack laughed shrilly, tears springing up in his eyes. “He's my best friend.” He dashed to his china cabinet, where he had put both his gun and his cell-phone. He picked up his weapon first, checking to make sure it was loaded. Pushing a lump of emotion deeper down his throat, he told Clara, “He lives next door!”

  Flora exclaimed, “How horrible!”

  “Exactly,” Jack agreed with her.

  He flipped his cell open and called the station. Connecting to Deputy Shawhan, his man on the night watch, Jack gushed, “I know who Our Boy is.”

  Of course, Shawhan wanted to know, “Who is it?”