Treasure Chest

by Adam Bennett

  “How far from town now?”

  “Less than a mile. What will you do once I drop you off?”

  “Not sure. Find a B&B for the night, take the first bus to anywhere in the morning.”

  “You won’t find anywhere open in Blengarth at this time of night, and all the pubs will be closed too. Tell you what, you can sleep on my sofa. Us girls must stick together.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Don’t be silly, what else you going to do? You can get a bus in the morning.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but won’t your husband mind?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I caught him with his dick in the bacon slicer.”

  “Eaurgh!”

  “So I sacked her too.” Mira lets out a chortle, slapping the palm of her hand against the wheel.

  “Oh I see...”

  “No, I’m sorry, it’s a butcher’s joke. Still want my sofa?”

  “Yes, please.”

  ***

  In the warmth of her apartment, over the butcher’s shop, Mira pours them each a glass of red wine and then crouches to light the gas fire with a match. Click, click, click, whoomp. Blue flames dance over the ceramic heating tiles covered in mesh. She tosses the dead wood into a saucer on the hearth.

  Janet sits on the sofa that will be her bed for the night. Her bag rests in the corner of the small room. Mira has already found a blanket for her to sleep under.

  Mira sits opposite and Janet sees her properly for the first time. Large round eyes look back at her. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Both corners of her lips rise in a suggestive smile, before looking away. She fiddles with a heavy piece of stone jewellery around her neck. Even wearing a thick sweater, the shapely outline of her body cannot be unnoticed.

  What is she telling Janet? Is she imagining the signs? Even so, this is too close to home; she needs to be far away from John. If she gives into base instincts, she might stay another night and then another. It wouldn’t be difficult for John to find her.

  “It’s been a long day, Mira. Would it be okay if I turn in?”

  “Sure. I’m just across the passage if you want anything,” she says, running the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Relax, I’m teasing you… just a little. It’s been a while since anyone was in my apartment, let alone my bed; I’m not sure that I’d know what to do.”

  Mira finishes her drink, leaving a lipstick imprint on the rim, and stands to leave. She smiles with her whole body.

  “Sleep well.”

  And then she leans down and leaves a lingering kiss on Janet’s cheek.

  Now Janet knows all she has to do is tap on Mira’s bedroom door and she won’t be turned away.

  Janet also knows her hostess is a strange one. Her jokes are a bit too sick or off kilter. Laughing about her ex-husband having an affair, who does that?

  And surely she’s a little too keen. They’re complete strangers; is she really that easy?

  But those eyes.

  Janet drains her glass, savouring the warm fuzzy glow filling her. Still clothed, she stretches out on the sofa. The blanket doesn’t cover her feet.

  She hears the shower running.

  It’s only one night, Jan. You’ll be gone in the morning. Grab the nettle and explore that side of your nature you’ve denied for so long.

  Janet’s need forms a knot at the pit of her stomach. She’ll go to her. After all, they’re both consenting adults and can deal with things in the appropriate way.

  ‘Would it be wrong to want to share your bed for the night? After all, what harm is there in two lonely people bringing a little happiness to each other, even if it is only for one night?’ These words are fine inside your head, Jan. But when you say them out loud you’ll sound like a silly twat from a bad romance novel.

  The shower comes to a trickling stop. Now or never, Jan.

  She steps into the passageway as Mira, loosely wrapped in a towelling robe, opens the bathroom door.

  “Sorry,” she says, all bravery gone in an instant.

  “Don’t be, I usually read for an hour or so. Don’t worry about disturbing me. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

  Mira’s dark eyes peer deep into her soul, reading her heart, and understanding her needs.

  All Janet has to do is make the move. She takes a step closer; she has an ache which needs rubbing.

  “Well, I was wondering… ah… if… well…”

  Janet can smell honey rising from Mira’s warm body.

  “Yes, Janet? What is it? What do you want?”

  The doorbell rings, long and shrill, making them both jump a little.

  “Ignore it,” Mira says, stepping closer. “Ask me.” Janet reaches a hand forward, their fingers touch. Janet’s eyes close, her lips tremble.

  The doorbell rings again, followed by loud insistent banging.

  “I’ll get rid of whoever it is,” Mira says.

  ***

  The first thing Janet is aware of when she wakes is the pain at the front of her head. Her right eye, throbbing in time with her forehead, refuses to open. She tries to touch it, only to realise her wrists are tied to the arms of a wooden chair. She can feel ropes biting into her torso and legs, making it impossible to move. Nonetheless, she rocks the chair from side to side.

  “Help!”

  It occurs to her that the darkness is not due to her inability to open one eye and surely she shouldn’t be cold enough for her teeth to chatter. She pauses in her rocking to assess the situation.

  She can feel the rough wooden slats of the chair pinching her naked behind.

  “Oh, God.”

  The memory surfaces. She and Mira were seconds from embracing. Mira had gone to answer the door and then Janet heard her call out. The door slammed shut and by the time she got to the top of the stairs, John was already halfway up, Mira slumped by the front door with blood pumping from her head. Janet was too stunned to say anything as his baton struck and darkness descended.

  The rope cuts into her wrists, grating on her nerve endings with every convulsive shiver.

  “John?” Her voice cracks.

  Clunk. The door opens. She blinks her good eye as the light of the walk-in refrigerator winks into life. Warm air rushes in, causing the motors of the cold box to engage with a whining, whistling drone.

  John stands before her, tapping his extendable baton in the palm of his left hand. He has taken off his bulkier outerwear; jacket, body armour, and helmet.

  One of his cheeks is splashed with blood.

  “Please stop this, John.”

  “Did you really think you could ever leave me, Janet?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll come home. It won’t happen again.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re sorry now because you’re scared, but what about later when you’re feeling strong? If you come home, you’ll soon return to your old habits, because ultimately you’re weak and without moral fortitude.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  “You will. Thinking impure thoughts, imagining unnatural acts, and looking at girls like this one tonight.”

  “Nothing happened. She gave me a lift, that’s all.”

  “Liar!” The crack of the steel baton on the inside of the door reverberates around the box, sending a jolt of fear right through her. “What were you doing in her flat?”

  “She was only letting me sleep on her sofa. Because the weather is so bad. That’s all.”

  “You are a liar.” John steps inside, turns her face with the cold steel of the baton under her chin. “Her lipstick betrays you.”

  “What? No, no, no it wasn’t like that— Arghhhh!”

  “I think you may have broken your arm on my trusty truncheon, Dearest. Keep lying to me and I’ll be forced to find other ways to hurt you.”

  Janet nods her head, tries to still her rattling teeth. Tears and snot mingle
with sticky blood.

  “You realise you’re in the refrigerator at the back of a butcher’s shop. No one can hear you scream.”

  “Please, nothing happened.”

  “Of course,” he continues, “being a butcher, they have lots of very sharp knives here. What fun can we have? Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.” He backs out of the box, leaving the door open.

  She can hear John grunting as something heavy is dragged and moved. Then a loud heavy thud followed by a whimper and groan. Despite the cold, her forehead prickles with dots of perspiration.

  John returns to the doorway, a cleaver in one hand and something small in the palm of the other.

  “I found this cleaver. They have hammers and pliers too. And big machines for slicing and mincing. So tell me what happened, before I feed her to you, piece by piece.”

  “Nothing happened. I promise. I just wanted a bed for the night.”

  “What happened?” John steps into the fridge, dropping the cleaver and grabbing her face with his left hand.

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing. God’s honest truth.”

  He forces Mira’s severed finger tip into her mouth, pushing her jaw closed around it.

  “Swallow it! Swallow you bitch.”

  He pinches her nostrils closed. Blood fills her mouth, the fingernail tickles her tonsils. She can’t breathe and gags as she tries not to swallow.

  She loses control of her bladder and warm liquid floods the chair, dripping onto the floor. John steps away, his lips curled in a cruel smirk as Janet coughs and spits the digit onto her bare thighs.

  “You need help, John. I’ll help you find it. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

  “She was in her robe. What did you see?”

  “Nothing.” She was still spitting to try to clear her mouth of Mira’s blood. “I saw nothing! We did nothing.”

  “Liar. You wanted to, didn’t you? Admit it,” he says, once again withdrawing from the torture chamber.

  “Please stop, John, please. Remember you’re a policeman.”

  John returns holding a knife with a long pointed blade.

  “Now, let’s make sure you never see anything again you cheating, lying deviant,” he says.

  Once again, he grabs her face with his left hand and begins to lower the point of the knife towards her left eye. She closes the eyelid tight in a feeble attempt to protect her sight.

  “Please. Don’t. I’m begging you. No. Arghhhh!” The sharp point easily cuts through the thin skin of her eyelid, making contact with the orb underneath. He drags the tip across to the outer edge and finally releases her face from his tight grip. Blood pumps down her cheek. Her breaths are short, quick, and filled with sobs.

  The pain is exceptional; she knows agony like this cannot be sustained for long and that she will die from the pain alone. She doesn’t see or feel anything as John wipes his thumb over her exposed and bloody eyeball. But she endures the shooting tearing pain as he tugs at her eyelid, which dangles by a few millimetres of flesh.

  “I’ve only scratched the surface, Darling,” he says in soothing tones, while stroking her bloody cheek. “Now, don’t struggle. You’ll only make things worse, although really, I don’t see how things could get much worse for you. I am, after all, about to hack your eyeball to shreds.”

  “P-please… don’t.”

  She can’t see anything, with one eye swollen shut and the other damaged beyond usefulness. But she does hear a sound like an egg cracking, followed by the full weight of John slumping forward against her. The knife he holds slices most of her ear off and then clatters to the floor. She feels her shoulder become slick with blood.

  Mira stands before her. A large crusted bruise has formed in the middle of her forehead. One hand is wrapped in a bloody tea towel, the other holds a heavy mallet, the rigid metal surface matted with blood and hair.

  “Pig!” Mira screams as she brings the metal mallet down for a second time, caving in the front of John’s head. One more blow brings his convulsions to a halt.

  “Oh my God, Mira. Mira, is that you? Please tell me it’s you? Talk to me. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Mira’s eyes shift from the uniformed body on to the floor to the bonds holding Janet to the chair

  “It’s me, Janet.” Her voice has lost all its previous warmth.

  “Untie me, Mira. Then call the police. We need help.”

  “No,” Mira replies.

  “No?”

  “I’ve got you just where I wanted you all along. Human flesh tastes very much like pork meat.”

  Before Janet can fully comprehend her meaning, Mira steps back out of the fridge, shutting the door and silencing the screams.

  The Butcher of Blengarth was first published in FULL METAL HORROR 2: A Bloodstained Anthology along with 22 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  Jackson’s Revenge

  Adam Bennett

  The disgruntled silence of the tavern swirled away with the dust motes as three men kicked the door open and dragged the heat and noise of the street in behind them. Their raucous laughter filled the small tavern but didn't gel with the atmosphere the half dozen other patrons had been cultivating. Only the barman and two other heads turned at the racket, but shoulders tensed on a few others as the trio made their noisy way to the bar, either unobservant or uncaring.

  “Denhe depth charges,” one declared loud enough for all to hear. “Depth charges for everyone! This is a day to celebrate.”

  The barman nodded, the weary motion of his head barely noticeable. “Eight depth charges. Coming right up.”

  The leader of the trio smiled, “There’s nine of us here, ten if you include yourself.”

  The barman shook his head, again barely noticeably. “Gerran don’t drink. And I don’t drink on the job. Eight,” he said with an air of finality.

  The trio looked at one another, incredulous. They began to laugh, as if it were the funniest joke in the sector. “How the hell do you get through a day in this shithole without drinking? And, better question, who the hell would come to this shithole and not drink? Kinda defeats the purpose.”

  The barman said nothing.

  “What if I were to insist? You’ve heard the old-earth adage, I’m sure; the man with the money is always right… Ten.”

  Still the barman didn't respond. He just nodded his grim little nod and went about cleaning out twenty glasses; ten small tumbles, and ten oversized tankards.

  The trio shouted and laughed and shoved one another as the barman lined the tumbles up on the bar all in a row and swiftly poured ten Daxian whiskies in one fluid motion. He drew ten tankards of dark stout beer and lined them up one after the other just as smoothly.

  “Nine silver rounds, or a gold half moon.”

  The leader smiled at the price, surely aware it was inflated. He didn't argue however. Instead he picked up one of the whiskeys and dropped the tumble directly into one of the tankards, splashing beer on the denhewood counter, and pushed it towards the barman. He dropped a second whisky, splashed the bar a second time and dragged this tankard towards himself.

  “Health and hellfire,” he said, raising his glass to his lips, drinking deep.

  For his part, the barman raised his tankard and took a small sip and returned the drink to the counter still full.

  The leader of the trio drank away at his large glass in one long gulp. The smaller glass slid into his face with a painful sounding thump as he raised the tankard past the horizontal. He settled his mostly empty glass on the counter and grimaced.

  Pulling a coin from his pocket, he bounced it on the bar in the general direction of the barman. “Keep ‘em coming,” he said as he turned and made his way to one of the empty tables scattered throughout the small tavern. His two friends charged their beers, sloshing the counter a third and fourth time before following him to the table.

  The bartender looked at the coin as he picked it up off the floor, a littl
e bewildered. It was a full platinum round. Easily forty times the inflated price he’d charged for the first round. He shook his head and carried the six remaining drinks to the introspective patrons. He drew another beer and whisky and carried it to the table the trio had taken as their own.

  “I can't change this,” he said, holding out the platinum coin.

  “I expect not. Keep the drinks flowing and it’s yours.”

  The barman nodded, placed the drinks on the table, gathered up the two recently emptied tankards and soon returned with another two drinks to replace them.

  The other patrons scattered throughout the tavern finished their free drinks and one by one vacated the premises, driven away by the raucous laughter of the trio stationed in the dead centre of the room.

  Finally there was only the one man left, a gruff, scarred fellow with a six day stubble and a dusty old coat made from Denhe leather. The tankard and tumble before him sat untouched, the creamy head on the stout withered to nothing.

  The leader stood as the door closed behind the last patron and made his way into the shadowed corner that hid the grizzled man.

  “You’ve let your drink go flat. That’s not very polite. After I bought it for you and all.”

  “Don’t drink,” the man said without looking up from his contemplation of the whorls in the denhewood table.

  “Little strange to find you in a bar if you don't drink. You wouldn't want to upset me now would you? I bought you that drink in good faith.”

  The man said nothing.

  The leader of the trio sat across from the man and pushed the tankard towards him, “Go on, you know you want to… Jackson.”

  The man didn't react to this name, but the barman did. Behind the bar he made an involuntary squeak.

  “Name’s Gerran. Barman told you I don't drink. Barman told you my name.”

  “I heard him. And I heard him jump when I called you Jackson. So let's just say he’s less reliable than you’re making out.”

  “Doesn't change my name, or the fact that I don't want your drink or whatever you're selling.”