Suspenseful Tales (2011)

by Brandon Massey

  When he opened the door, before stepping out, he checked both ways for bees, wasps, anything like that. All he saw was a monarch butterfly fluttering nearby. Good.

  He reached the parking lot without incident, too.

  Their black Mercedes Benz sedan shimmered in the morning sunlight, the shiny surface pearled with dew. A glance around the parking lot confirmed that he owned—by far—the most expensive vehicle on the premises. It was a reassuring feeling, like finding out that an old, favorite pair of slacks still fit comfortably. He was back in charge.

  Smiling, he pressed the button on the key chain to unlock the trunk.

  He had lifted the trunk lid a couple of inches before he heard the furious buzzing, coming from deep inside. As if a monstrous hive awaited within.

  A chill trickled down his spine.

  No, it can't be. Yesterday was just like an unexplainable, bad dream. It can't be happening again today.

  He quickly slammed the trunk shut. He took a step away from the car, as if the trunk might explode open on its own.

  "What is happening to me?" he muttered. "What in the hell is happening?"

  He remembered what happened last night, after they had switched hotel rooms. They had not found any bees in the room, but he had dreamed of that hag, Sis Maggie; and saw a swarm of hornets erupt from her black mouth.

  And then he had looked out the window and found it completely covered by bees, in the middle of the night. When he looked again a moment later, the insects had vanished. As if he had been hallucinating.

  He would have preferred that the bees had been real. The possibility that he was losing his mind was terrifying.

  "I am not going insane," he told himself. "I'm too smart for that, I graduated at the top of my class from Emory Law, I'm a top notch corporate attorney, I earn over—"

  "Tony, I thought you'd be ready to go. What are you doing?"

  It was Karen. He hadn't realized that she had approached. She stood in front of their car, wearing a puzzled expression.

  He stammered. "Uh, I was—"

  "Come on, we have to go or we'll be late for breakfast." She plucked the keys out of his hand and pressed the button to unlock the trunk. "Why didn't you load the bags in the car?"

  He had frozen, his gaze riveted on the trunk. Karen reached for the lid.

  "Don't do that!" he shouted.

  But he was too late. Karen opened it.

  But the trunk held only a couple of small plastic bags, a pair of Karen's sandals, and an Igloo cooler.

  No buzzing bee hive.

  * * *

  As was their family reunion tradition, the day after the big cookout, they always had Sunday breakfast for those who would be driving out of town that day. His Aunt Janice hosted the gathering at her home in Hernando.

  Tony sat in a quiet corner of the living room, a paper plate heaped with congealing eggs, cold bacon, and stiff grits sitting at his feet. He had no appetite. How could he eat when he was clearly in danger of losing his mind?

  He couldn't wait to get home and lose himself in the comforting, familiar world of his law office, where order ruled.

  Ever the busy hostess. Aunt Janice spotted him and came over, probably to nag him about isolating himself from the rest of the family, most of whom were enjoying breakfast outdoors.

  "I just talked to your wife, Tony," Aunt Janice said. "She tells me you were having nightmares about Sis Maggie."

  He dragged his hand down his face. Karen could never keep her mouth shut.

  "I'm fine, all right?" he said. "I need to get back home."

  Aunt Janice's brow creased. "These nightmares are a bad sign, sugar. You ticked off that old woman yesterday, and I told you that she works roots and holds terrible grudges. She's worked some kinda evil spell on you."

  "Evil spell? Come on, don't tell me that you believe that backwoods superstitious crap."

  Aunt Janice shook her head. "Doesn't matter whether you believe it or not—that old lady's powerful. You'd best find her and apologize, that's the only way you might put an end—"

  "I've heard enough of this nonsense, I'm ready to hit the road," he said, and stood abruptly. "Where's my wife?"

  "She's outside—"

  Anthony marched out of the house. He found his wife on the patio, sipping orange juice and talking to one of his younger cousins, a girl who was only twenty-three, a college drop-out, and had something like five or six kids. Relatives like her were an embarrassment to him. He couldn't even remember the girl's name.

  Karen was probably blabbing to her about his nightmares, too.

  A breeze blew, carrying the aroma of smothered potatoes to him, and his stomach growled, unexpectedly. He hadn't eaten a thing since last night.

  I'll grab a quick bite to eat, he thought. Then we're getting the hell out of here.

  The breakfast food was spread on a long table at the edge of the patio. He picked up a paper plate and reached for the potatoes, which simmered in a lidded, silver pot.

  When he removed the lid, he discovered that the potatoes were infested with crawling wasps.

  He yelped like a panicked puppy.

  Like fighter planes, the wasps launched off the pungent base of smothered spuds and buzzed through the air.

  Anthony stumbled backward, waving his arms wildly, violating every rule of how to ward off angry insects.

  But they didn't attack him. They darted toward his wife.

  "Karen, look out," he said, but his voice, strangled by terror, came out in a hoarse whisper.

  Probably drawn by the sight of him waving his arms, Karen looked up.

  By then, it was too late.

  She dropped her glass of orange juice. It shattered against the patio floor, a nerve-jarring sound.

  But it wasn't as bad as her scream when the wasps attacked her.

  * * *

  At a medical center in town, Karen lay on a bed, pumped up with drugs to counteract the wasps' venom. Her face was puffy, as if her skin were made of self-rising flour. She hardly resembled the pretty woman that he had married.

  Karen was asleep, and had been for over an hour. Anthony paced across the room. Numerous relatives, including his Aunt Janice, were huddled around the bed, speaking in hushed tones.

  In his rational mind, Anthony had dismissed the wasp attack as coincidence. The things just happened to be in the potatoes, and they were drawn to his wife, maybe because of her perfume. It was a terrible occurrence, but there was nothing particularly unusual about it.

  You're lying to yourself, a pesky voice in his mind whispered. Those wasps were the work of the root woman. She sent them to torment you. Admit it. You don't know what the hell you're dealing with.

  He put a lid on that voice. It was nonsense. He was an educated man and ought to know better.

  At least his wife's prognosis was encouraging. According to the doctor, she should be recovered and ready to leave for Atlanta by tomorrow.

  Still, he hated the thought of spending one more night in this wretched place, one more night of bad dreams about that woman—

  Anthony caught a snippet of his family's conversation. He stopped in his tracks.

  "Did you say something about Sis Maggie?" he asked.

  Aunt Janice bobbed her head. "You've got to apologize to that woman, Tony. She did this to you and your wife."

  Hot blood surged to Anthony's face.

  He pointed to the door. "Everyone, get out. Now."

  "But—" Aunt Janice started.

  "Out!" Anthony was trembling.

  His family quietly shuffled out of the room. He shut the door.

  "Apologize to Sis Maggie," he mumbled. "I don't apologize to anyone. Sis Maggie can kiss my ass."

  Karen's eyelids fluttered. He rushed to her side.

  She said something in a whisper. He leaned down closer, to hear her.

  "What did you say, honey?" he asked.

  "This is . . . your fault, Tony," Karen said in a weak voice that nevertheless carried an und
ercurrent of anger. "Do . . . what your aunt says."

  He raised up, his back rigid.

  Karen blinked slowly, but resentment shone in her red-rimmed eyes.

  "Fine," he said at last. "I'll find out where the old heifer lives and get this over with."

  Anthony was deep in the country, driving on a narrow, bumpy road. Aunt Janice had given him directions to the old hag's house. No one offered to come with him. They were scared.

  "Ignorant fools," he muttered. He drew to a halt at a Stop sign, and consulted the directions that lay on his lap.

  He was about to turn left, when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a black cloud rolling toward him.

  A swarm of bees.

  His fingers clutched the steering wheel in a death grip.

  I can't take anymore of this. Why won't they leave me alone? I'm on my way to apologize to the old hag!

  The buzzing sound reached him. It was thunderous. The Mercedes seemed to vibrate in sync with the insects' buzzing.

  He jammed the accelerator. The tires shrieked, and the car swerved crazily to the left. He barely avoided plunging into a ditch.

  The bees chased after him.

  You bastards aren't going to catch me. I didn't spend seventy grand on this car for nothing.

  Teeth gritted, he kept the gas pedal mashed to the floor. The engine roared.

  The swarm receded, and soon became a black dot in the mirror.

  But the bees were still out there, pursuing him. He had to take advantage of his lead.

  Thankfully, Sis Maggie's place was around the next bend. He veered around the curve, and found himself in a long, dusty driveway. An old black Cadillac was parked in front of the tiny house.

  "Let's get this over with," he said. He rocked to a halt beside the Cadillac, and

  hurried out of the car.

  He glanced down the driveway.

  The dark swarm rumbled around the corner. Hundreds of bees.

  He was certain that they would sting him to death.

  He raced to the front door. He twisted the knob.

  He didn't bother to knock. To hell with good manners. He didn't have time.

  The door opened. He plunged inside, slammed the door behind him.

  He found himself in a cramped, dark living room. A shadowy shape sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner.

  The air smelled strongly of exotic spices and herbs. Stuff he couldn't even name.

  The shape across the room shifted.

  "Sis Maggie?" Anthony said, hesitantly.

  "What do you want, boy?" the elderly woman asked. Her voice was brittle. "Did you bring me a plate of ribs from yesterday?"

  "Uh, no." He struggled to find words—a new experience for him. Usually he always knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted from someone. "I've been having, uh, this problem . . . with bees."

  Sis Maggie leaned forward on her cane. "You think I worked some roots to make them bees and such give you hell?"

  He shrugged. "My aunt and my wife seem to think that's the case."

  "I wanna know what you think."

  I think it's a bunch of backwoods, superstitious bullshit, he wanted to say, but didn't. And I think they believe you're some kind of witch, but in reality you're just an old, ugly woman who badly needs dentures. But he didn't say that, either.

  What he said was this: "Honestly, I don't really know what to think. But I know why I came. I'm here to apologize, Sis Maggie. I treated you badly yesterday, and I'm sorry. I hope that you can forgive me."

  Sis Maggie cackled, as if he had said the most humorous thing in the world.

  Her anorexic-looking guide girl appeared in the hallway, glanced at Anthony, and looked at Sis Maggie with concern.

  Wiping her eyes, still laughing, the old lady waved her away; the girl withdrew.

  "I'll take away the bees," Sis Maggie said. She chuckled. "I know they were scaring you somethin' terrible. Everybody's scared of somethin'. Some of us are scared of a whole bunch of things."

  "Thank you," he said. He blew out a deep breath.

  Sis Maggie giggled, like a child. He didn't see what was so funny.

  Maybe she was just plain crazy.

  "Well . . . good-bye," he said. He bowed slightly, and turned to the door.

  She was still giggling when he stepped outside. Old, demented woman. He doubted whether she really possessed any magical powers at all. She was just strange. Here in the deep South, ignorant people probably equated strangeness with someone having supernatural gifts—being able to give the evil eye, work roots, or some such nonsense.

  However, the swarm of bees had vanished.

  He climbed in his Mercedes. He peeled out of the driveway and rolled back onto the road.

  No bees followed him.

  "It's over," he said. He laughed, but it was a stress-relief laugh. "I can't wait to get the hell out of this place."

  He reached to crank up the air conditioner. Refreshingly cool air hissed from the vents.

  Then he frowned.

  Something behind him was hissing, too.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  He immediately felt as though someone had poured ice water down his pants.

  An emerald-green snake was coiled on the backseat.

  Cursing, he wrestled the steering wheel, forcing the car to the shoulder of the road.

  Before he could reach for the door handle, a creature, long, black, and serpentine, slipped out of the dashboard air vent. Hissing.

  Snakes, snakes, oh, shit, there's nothing worse than snakes, not even bees and wasps and hornets can compare to snakes.

  And he knew then, in a horrible instant, why Sis Maggie had been laughing when he'd left. She had not lifted the spell. She'd only changed it. To torment him with his number-one fear in the world.

  Something warm and oily slithered up his leg.

  Another one wriggled under his shirt collar, slid down his back.

  Anthony lost all conscious thought, forgot all his years of fine education and legal training.

  He opened his mouth, and screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed . . .

  GRANDAD'S GARAGE

  "Look at all of this junk," Craig said. Frowning, he stood amidst a jungle of old car tires and warped hubcaps. He kicked a hubcap; it rolled like a giant coin across the dusty floor, struck a paint can, and crashed to the concrete. "Granddad was a damn packrat. It'll take us forever to go through this crap."

  "You know how Granddad was, always collecting things," Steven said. He ran his fingers through his short hair, brushed out a cobweb that had attached itself to his scalp when he'd walked through the door. No one had been in the garage since Granddad had passed three weeks ago, and spiders and who knows what else had begun to reclaim the dank space. If Mama had not asked him and Craig to sort through the garage, months might have passed before anyone had crossed the threshold. Steven would have avoided entering because the garage triggered bittersweet memories; Craig would've stayed out, Steven guessed, because he didn't feel that anything in there was worth his time. Craig had precious little time for anything that didn't make him money.

  Steven swept his gaze across the garage. A mounted deer's head hung from the wall, above a dirt-filmed window flanked by flimsy, ragged curtains. Grey afternoon light struggled through the glass. A pair of naked light bulbs that dangled from the rafters provided additional light. Still, shadows ruled the musty, junk-filled corners of the chamber.

  "What a mess," Craig said, his brown face puckered in a scowl. Walking beside an old, manual push mower, he spat on the floor. "I can taste the dust in here. Can we raise the door or open the window to let in some air?"

  "They won't open," Steven said. "They haven't worked in years."

  "Are you serious? What the hell kind of sense does that make? Why have a garage if you can't raise the door to park a car inside?"

  "Granddad never parked in here. I thought you knew that."

  "I never had time to figure out that
old man's crazy habits," Craig said. "Some of us have real careers and lives to lead."

  Steven opened his mouth to come back with something to salvage his pride--but a chirping sound cut off his response: a cell phone. Like a quick-draw gunslinger, Craig unsnapped the phone from its holster on his hip and placed it against his ear. "Hello? Hey, girl, how ya doing? I ain't doing nothing now, just chilling with my baby brother at my Granddad's place. What's up with you? " Winking at Steven, Craig walked outside, his voice drifting away as he chatted with one of his countless women.

  Steven wondered, not for the first time that day, why their mother had bothered to ask Craig to accompany him to Granddad's house. Although he and Craig were adults--Craig was thirty and he was twenty-eight--in family matters she insisted upon them doing things together, as if they were still children and were unable to function independently. Granddad had served as a father to both of them (their biological father had fled the responsibilities of fatherhood after Steven's fifth birthday), but Craig had seemed to resent the role that Granddad had played in their lives. "You can't tell me what to do, you ain't my Daddy!" had frequently been Craig's answer to Granddad's request that Craig help mow the lawn, rake the leaves, or shovel the snow. If Craig had railed against assisting Granddad when he had been alive, why did their mother assume Craig would want to help now that Granddad was dead? Steven had been prepared to clean Granddad's garage on his own.

  And there was a lot of cleaning to do. Craig was right: Granddad really was a packrat. The garage was large, able to accommodate three cars, and even if the roll-down sectional door had worked, there would not have been enough free space to allow a single car to park inside. The area was filled with two long, wooden tool benches laden with screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, paint brushes, and other assorted items; a chest-style freezer that lay like a coffin against the far wall, the top covered with empty cans of oil and pour spouts; an old-fashioned Speedqueen washing machine with wringers to roll clothes through; a couple of lawn mowers; an old Schwinn bicycle; and a bewildering jumble of auto parts, tool boxes, gardening implements, rusty appliances, pipes, buckets filled with junk, milk crates teeming with more junk, and more. More items than Steven could catalogue.

  He looked toward the ceiling. He saw pipes, fishing poles, and boxes poking out between the rafters, resting on plywood sheets.