Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection): Eighteen suspenseful short stories

by Susan May

  “What the hell are you—? Benito!” cried Eli Kahn, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Suddenly he knew the question’s answer. Out of his shirt pocket, Benito pulled the silver Zippo he knew would be there. Where did he get the lighter? He didn’t smoke.

  One small flick of his fingers and a flame flared. He threw the glowing, lighter into the air; it sailed in a fine arc to land at their feet. Instantly, flames pawed at the men’s legs as they screamed and clawed at themselves with more energy than men half their age.

  Bill Baster ran screaming down the hall, flames crawling up his legs, the fire too well fueled to be doused by mere sprinkles of water. He didn’t get far, falling to the ground, rolling about, while those around him stood back, afraid of the fire catching them.

  Someone came running from behind. Catherine, the night manager, ran past Benito, to the other man, Eli, a blanket in her hand.

  “Get down. Get down, Eli,” she shouted as she hurled the blanket over him, pushing him to the floor, beating at the flames attempting to escape. His screams had taken on the tone of steel against steel, high and painful, even against the backdrop of the alarm.

  Smoke, billowing up the passage, filled the hall. Dark and gray, it traveled; consuming those it touched as though seeking victims to smother.

  Benito turned away from Catherine and Eli, and Bill who now lay still on the floor, the fire eating away at his body, now turning a mottled black and red. Benito walked back to the closet, unhurried as though he was simply carrying out another chore. He pulled open the door and slipped inside to the relative calm within.

  Inside it was dry. No sprinklers; perhaps an oversight considering the nature of fluids stored in the room. The enclosure felt magical filled with the bright, almost fluorescent colors of the cleaning fluids. The matches in his pocket itched at him again, speaking to him. He drew them from his jacket’s inside pocket. Still dry enough, protected as they were by the lining.

  Last one. Very last one.

  He spied several oil containers on a shelf to his right. Polishing oil. Turpentine. Something blue, labeled with a skull and crossbones. They would do very well. He pulled the beautiful things from the shelf. The caustic odor rose around him, as he spilled them onto the floor, splashed them against the walls. The cloying smell, strong enough to momentarily cloak the smell of smoke seeping beneath the door.

  In a corner, he spied more bags of cleaning cloths. Benito emptied them onto the floor, swirling them through the oil with his foot. The smell, so intoxicating, he wanted to swim in it, to die in it.

  He held the match above the soaked material, taking in the moment.

  A sudden banging on the door interrupted.

  “Benito, what’s going on in there? There’s a fire! For Pete’s sake get out.”

  It was the night manager, Catherine.

  The door flew open. Smoke whirled into the room with the force of the displacement of air. Catherine stood in the doorway, startled. Her gaze traveled over the room, over him, to his oil-soaked pants.

  “Shit, Benito. You? What’re you doing?”

  He reached for her, pulling her inside. The fifty-something woman, probably too surprised to react, screamed as she slipped and fell to the floor at his feet, her body resting on his mound of rags.

  “Benito, please … whatever you’ve done. Please, we’ve got to get out. Please—”

  When he smiled, she screamed: “Why? Why?”

  He knew why, but couldn’t say. Destiny had arrived. Catherine would have a ringside seat.

  The match tingled maddeningly, wonderfully. The time had come. Catherine groped at his legs, pleading with him, attempting to raise herself. Benito didn’t look away from the match, he now held in his hand, the match that seemed to spark even before it was struck. He anticipated the tiny swish of the head against the matchbox’s roughened side. Musical, delightful.

  He wanted to smile, to say, “It’s alright. We’re witnesses to fate,” but he couldn’t speak. He did try, but nothing came, the words trapped inside his head, just as Catherine was trapped inside this room with him and destiny. All he heard was the voice. Straight and true. Straight and true. In the end, she’d understand. His actions would speak louder than words.

  Benito Tavell struck the match.

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  A Favor

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  Stories by Susan May

  NOVELS

  Back Again

  Deadly Messengers

  NOVELETTE

  Behind the Fire

  COLLECTIONS

  Behind Dark Doors (one)

  Behind Dark Doors (two)

  Behind Dark Doors (three)

  Behind Dark Doors (the complete collection)

  SHORT STORIES

  The War Veteran

  Back Again (the short story)

  Scenic Route

  ANTHOLOGIES

  From the Indie Side

  Contact Susan May

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  COPYRIGHT

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the appropriate copyright owner listed below, unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal and international copyright law. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners as identified herein.

  The stories in this book are fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead; to any place, past or present; or to any thing, animal, vegetable, or mineral; is purely coincidental.

  However, I’m quite the people watcher, so if you have crossed my path, I may have stolen some particular quirk from you for a character. It means you’re memorable.

  All stories in this volume

  BY SUSAN MAY

  Copyright 2010-2015 Susan May