“SUSPENSEFUL TALES”
Brandon Massey
“A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR”
AFTER THE PARTY
THE STING
GRANDAD'S GARAGE
THE MONSTER
DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL
DEAD TO THE WORLD
NOSTALGIA
GHOSTWRITER
PRESUMED DEAD
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Of all the questions that writers hear, one of the most frequently asked is: where do you get your ideas? This can be a difficult question for me to answer. I honestly don't know where some of my ideas come from. Often, I use a personal experience as the launch pad for a story, but once an idea is airborne, anything can happen. I only try to follow the story to its natural conclusion.
Did that explanation make any sense? Probably not. So I'll give a little background on a few of my personal favorites contained within Flyboy707’s collection. Sort of a “where I think these stories in this were born” perspective.
Dead to the World
When I was in my early twenties, I worked in customer service at a life insurance company. I answered a large number of calls from customers (we called them "insureds"), and some of these people could become irate when they believed they were getting jerked around. It was so bad that the employees in my department used to share customer service horror stories. I wanted to try my hand at writing the "ultimate" customer service horror tale. When I published this story in Tomorrow Speculative Fiction back in 1996, my co-workers were giddy. "This is exactly how we feel sometimes!" they said. I took some satisfaction in knowing that I had tapped into a realistic background—and given it a terrifying twist.
Daddy's Little Girl
This story that didn't draw upon any particular experience of mine. Sometimes, a writer likes to create a tale for the sheer fun of it. I'd always wanted to write a story about werewolves, but the downside of writing about them is that so many stories about the beasts have already been written. You run the risk of your story sounding stale and unoriginal. To avoid that pitfall, I tried to play with the conventions a bit by making it blatantly obvious that Mr. Payne and his daughter were werewolves, and keeping the focus removed from Nathan, the hero—who turns out to be a special kind of werewolf himself. I wanted a twist ending here. Whether I succeeded is up to the reader.
Nostalgia
This is easily the most personal of the three stories. Rick, the protagonist, is—I must admit it—a fictionalized version of myself. I moved away from Illinois after living with my grandmother for several years, having been charged by my family for taking care of things after my Granddad passed. When I relocated to Atlanta, it was a stressful experience for both myself and my grandmother. I wrestled with the guilt that I'd abandoned her for my own selfish reasons. Writing "Nostalgia" was therapeutic for me; it helped me handle the guilt. I think it wound up as an absorbing, original story, too. By the way, my real grandmother is alive and well.
Oh yes, you may have noticed that in all three stories, I adopted a first-person, male viewpoint. This really wasn't intentional. I just try to tell a story in the manner that fits best. I think it's sometimes hard for a male writer to write convincingly from the viewpoint of a female. Matter of fact, it would probably be easier if all of my stories were told through the eyes of a man. But I try to challenge myself. For an artist to grow, he must step outside his comfort zone, even at the risk of stumbling.
Enjoy all the stories collected so far …
September 2011
AFTER THE PARTY
When Terry was halfway along the twisting, dark country road, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw a frightening sight: the flashing blue lights of a police cruiser.
"Damn, I don't believe this," he said. "He better not be coming for me."
But at two-thirty in the morning, his was the only vehicle on the desolate road. It was a pretty fair bet that the cop was coming for him, and him alone
Terry took one of his hands away from the steering wheel, blew into it. His lips curled. The sour smell of alcohol was thick on his breath.
"Shit," he muttered. But he wasn't surprised. At the Halloween party, he'd had a lot to drink. Three Heinekens . . . two rum-and-cokes . . . two Hennesseys . . . and more. His memory of exactly what he had drunk was foggy- as it always was when he was smashed.
On the stereo, an Outkast song thumped at a bone-jarring volume. Listening to loud music was one of his tricks to make it safely home after he'd had too much to drink. It kept him alert.
But the music wasn't enough to save him tonight. He should have known better to be out on the road in a drunken daze on Halloween night. Johnny Nabb (his uncle referred to all cops by that dubious name, and Terry picked up on it) would surely be out in force, cruising for suckers like him.
He'd fallen right into the trap. Shit.
The cop car veered up to his rear bumper, and bleated a sharp horn that made Terry jump. The beacon's blue light whirled around inside Terry's car, like some crazy disco strobe light.
Biting his lip, Terry slowed his Nissan Maxima. He drifted to the shoulder of the road.
With a trembling hand, he shut off the stereo.
The last time he'd been pulled over was two years ago, for speeding. He'd gotten away with a fine and slap on the wrist from the judge. He'd never had a DUI, in spite of driving home drunk at least a dozen times. DUI was a serious trespass in Georgia.
But if you got away with it once, you always thought you could pull it off again. His apartment was only twenty minutes away, after all, and the country road was a short cut, and it wasn't as though he were falling down drunk. He floated in that dreamy, slow-motion world that existed somewhere between Tipsyville, and Truly Wastedland.
But he was definitely over the legal limit, and he knew it. He should have accepted Nikki's invitation to stay at her place for a while, to sober up. But she'd gotten on his last nerve at the party, following him around as if she were a lovesick puppy and getting all in his mix while he tried to hang with his boys—and she even had the gall to act pissy when he casually talked to another woman for a few minutes. He couldn't tolerate another second of her company. Clingy females like her made him sick. They reminded him of his mother.
Still, her company would've been better than his upcoming date with Johnny Nabb.
Behind him, the police car waited like a hungry beast, headlights glaring. The cop was probably running his license plate through the system. He wouldn' t find anything, but the thought didn't comfort Terry. Driving While Black was enough to land your ass in jail for something, anything Johnny Nabb could dream up to nail you. And his being drunk didn't help his case at all. Although he was rapidly sobering up.
The worst part was that he still dressed in his costume. He'd gone to the party as Blade, the vampire hunter. He had the long black leather jacket, the shiny boots, the gloves—all the gear. Instead of a real sword, a fake plastic blade hung inside a sheath on his back, attached to his torso with a nylon strap.
He could only imagine being hauled to the county lock-up dressed like this.
He never should've gone to the stupid party in the first place. He should've rented some horror movies and stayed home. But he'd been excited about showing off Nikki, who, for all her clinginess, was fine as hell, and looked great in her tight, black leather vampiress outfit. The fellas had asked him about her all night, and it had stroked his ego to respond, "Yeah, man. She's mine, I've got that girl strung out on me . . ."
"What the hell's taking that cop so long?" he asked himself. The asshole still hadn't gotten out of the car. He was probably sitting back there chomping on a doughnut, knowing that he was making Terry sweat and enjoying every second of
it.
God, he hated cops.
Not a single vehicle had passed since he'd pulled over. Thick, dark woods crowded both sides of the road. There were no streetlamps out here, and a cape of purple-black clouds concealed the moon. The only light radiated from the police car's lights.
Anything could happen out there, between him and the cop. And no one would know.
Okay, don't think about stuff like that, he warned himself. You're freaking yourself out. There's still a way out of this.
He remembered the Certs in his cupholder. His hands shook so badly it took three tries for him to pop the mint into his dry mouth.
He might not fool Johnny Nabb into thinking he was sober, but he had to try.
Behind him, the cruiser's door finally swung open. A tall, beefy cop climbed out. He strutted toward Terry's car, as if he had the world on a leash.
Remember, be respectful, enunciate well, Terry told himself. You can talk your way out of this. You've got to convince this cop that you're sober.
The police officer tapped on the glass with a thick finger.
"Mister, please roll down the window, will ya?" The cop had a thick, Georgia accent.
Terry pressed the button to lower the glass. Chilly air swept into the car, like an invading spirit.
"Yes, sir?" Terry asked.
"I spotted ya weaving over the line back there." The cop hooked his thumb behind him, then bent closer. "You been drinkin, buddy?"
"No, sir. I'm only tired, it's late."
"Where ya comin from?"
"Urn ... a party."
The cop's penetrating blue eyes raked over him. "Costume party? What you got on there?"
"Uh, I'm supposed to be Blade. You know, the vampire slayer from the movie?"
"The flick with Snipes?"
"Yeah, that one."
The cop grinned. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "Gimme your license and registration, Blade."
Here we go, Terry thought. I'm fucked. First, I hand him this stuff, next he'11 be asking me to get out of the car to take a Breathalyzer test, which I'll fail, and after that, I'll be riding in the back of his cruiser on the way to the Clayton county jail.
Terry dug the registration out of the glove compartment, and slid his driver's license out of his wallet.
The cop snatched the items out of his grasp and stuffed them into his pocket without so much as a glance at them.
Something isn't right here, a voice cautioned in the quiet, sober part of Terry's mind. Something about this policeman isn't quite right.
But when the cop stepped back and commanded Terry to get out of the car, Terry hesitated only a second before he obeyed. He was a law-abiding citizen, and the policeman was an authority figure. No black man in his right man resisted arrest or caused conflict with an officer. Look what had happened to Rodney King.
"Wait by the car, Blade," the officer said with a smirk. He strolled back to the cruiser.
Terry stood beside the car. He didn't feel drunk any more. Nothing sobered you up as much as knowing that you probably were going to jail.
Beyond the circle of light cast by the cop car's headlamps, the night seemed to shift, like a living thing. Terry found himself staring at a spot in the dark woods, maybe a hundred yards away. He had the oddest feeling that something was out there, watching him, just as he was watching it. He felt the weight of a sentient creature's gaze, like a pressure on his forehead.
It's an owl, he thought. Or a raccoon. Something like that. The forest is full of living shit.
But he shuddered.
He was almost relieved when the cop returned.
"Okay, tell it to me straight," the officer said. "How much did you drink at the party?"
Terry shrugged. "A couple of beers. Not much."
"That's all, eh? The punishment for DUI is stiff in Georgia, buddy. But there s worse things than a DUI. Much, much worse." His pale lips twisted into a strange smile.
"I've never had a DUI," Terry said. "You pulled up my record, you know it's true."
"You mean, you've never been caught," the cop said.
Terry didn't respond. Why had he thought he could fool this guy? Johnny Nabb put the hook on suckers like him all the time. He wasn't special.
The cop threw open the door to Terry's car. He removed the key from the ignition, then slammed the door.
"Are you taking me to the station?" Terry asked. "Aren't you supposed to give me a sobriety test first?"
Without answering, the cop pressed the button on the keychain to activate the door locks. The locks snapped down.
"Do I have to get someone to tow my car?" Terry said.
The cop wound up his arm like a baseball pitcher. He hurled the keys into the woods. They tinkled somewhere in the darkness.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" Terry asked.
A deep laugh bellowed from the policeman. Laughing, he turned to Terry, and in the bright light, Terry saw the purplish bite marks on the side of the cop s thick, milky neck: two small puncture wounds positioned on the jugular vein
Terry didn't believe his eyes. Surely, he wasn't as sober as he thought he'd become. He had to be imagining things.
"You never know who you'll meet on the road on Halloween night," the cop said He smiled. "People ain't always what they appear to be."
Something about his words made Terry check out the cop's uniform. He didn't have any official insignia on his brown shirt. He wore a generic, shiny gold badge.
I don't believe this shit. This guy isn't even a real cop . . .
"The master will be pleased with you," the man said, in an oddly formal voice as though he were repeating words that he had memorized. "Quite pleased indeed."
"What are you talking about? What's going on? Is this a joke?"
Chuckling, backing away, the phony policeman shook his head. "Good luck out here. Blade."
"Hey, where are you going, man?"
Still laughing, the fake cop hopped in his vehicle.
"You can't leave me out here!" Terry ran toward the car. The vehicle roared forward. He jumped out of the way and grabbed at the passenger door handle. But his sweaty hands slipped away.
He got a clear look at the car. It wasn't a police cruiser. It was a plain, white Chevy sedan with a blue beacon that could be bought at any electronics store.
The car shot down the road. Soon, the red taillights dwindled into darkness. Deep silence fell over the night.
"Help!" Terry shouted. "Someone help me!"
His shouts echoed into the woods, uselessly. There was no one out here to help him. He was alone.
Well, not quite alone.
His gaze shifted to the dark patch of forest that had claimed his attention earlier.
Something had been out there watching him. It was still watching him. He felt it as surely as he felt the cold October air on his face.
"Who's out there?" he asked, in a slightly hoarse voice.
The darkness did not reply. But something out there—a large shadowy shape that was even darker than the surrounding forest—edged closer. He heard a stealthy rustling sound.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
"Don't fuck with me," he meant to say in a threatening tone, but his voice came out as a cracked whisper.
Within a heartbeat, the thing was rushing toward him.
I don't believe what I'm seeing, but it's got to be real, because now I'm pissing my pants.
Weak-kneed, he reached behind his back, and drew his flimsy plastic sword . .
THE STING
There were only two things in the world that really frightened Anthony Morris: snakes, and winged insects with stingers, like wasps.
When Anthony reached the outside entrance to their hotel room, he spotted a wasp as long as his index finger batting against the top of the door. With each soft bump against the wood, the insect emitted a loud buzz, as if grunting from its efforts to get inside.
Anthony's first impulse was to spin around, race across the walk
way, plunge down the stairs, and wait in the car until the wasp flew away. His wife, as slow as ever, was still in their Mercedes, fiddling around with her camera, purse, and who knows what else. They had spent all day under the merciless Mississippi sun at a family reunion picnic; he could use the excuse that he wanted to find an ice cream shop, to get a cool respite from the heat, and she would never know the true reason why he'd returned to the car. Although they had been married for three years and had known each other for five, Anthony had managed to conceal his embarrassing phobia. Letting Karen discover how deeply he feared wasps would be as bad as getting stung.
Well, not quite as bad. As a child, he had been stung several times by wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, bumblebees—all of them had gotten him at least once. Nothing matched the agony. He believed that his admittedly paranoid fear of the insects intensified the pain of being stung, too. The last time a hornet had attacked him, he had nearly passed out.
In the parking lot below, a door thunked shut. Karen was on her way.
Wings fluttering, the insect had attached itself to the door. Anthony could not believe the sheer size of the wasp. Maybe insects were bigger in Mississippi, because the thing was huge. Its stinger—he thought he could actually see it—seemed to glimmer in the twilight, like the tip of a deadly needle.
From his readings about wasps, he knew that once they plunged their stinger into you, they would still survive. Unlike honey bees, which left their stingers in your skin and soon died, a wasp retained its weapon, and could return to punish you again.
And again, and again.
He shivered.
Okay, be a man about this, he told himself. I'm thirty years old, a successful lawyer, admired, respected, envied. It's only a stupid bug. Kill it.
Keeping his eye on the quivering wasp, he slipped off one of his Nikes.
In a furious burst of energy, he hammered the shoe against the door.
Got it! The wasp crunched underneath the shoe sole and drifted harmlessly to the pavement.
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