Apartment 7C

by David Bernstein

  Beth grinned.

  Using both hands, gripping the weapon’s handle firmly, Beth dragged the knife up Carl’s shin, scraping the bone and leaving behind a trail of widening blood.

  Still, Carl slept.

  Beth wiped the blade clean using the bed covers, then returned it to the dresser top.

  She went back to the living room, plunked down in Carl’s chair again and decided to watch some television while she waited for the asshole to wake up. A few minutes later, Beth nodded off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She awoke sometime later a bit confused and wondering where she was. Then as her eyes flew open, she remembered. Carl! Beth stood fast, but remained in place. Relax, she told herself, seeing the time displayed on the cable box. Two hours had passed since she’d sat. If Carl had escaped his bonds she’d be the one tied up, or worse—dead. But still a twinge of worry ran through her like a mouse running around in a five-star restaurant.

  She hurried to the bedroom, stopping just before the doorway, and peered into the room.

  Carl was awake.

  Seeing that he was still secured to the bed, she stepped into the room.

  His eyes grew large, almost seeming to protrude from their sockets when he saw her. He began trying to yell, but the gag did its job. He was furious, veins popping out along his neck and forehead like trapped worms.

  Beth shook her head slightly.

  “Now Carl. You know I can’t understand a thing you’re saying, right? And didn’t your momma tell you it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full?”

  Butterflies fluttered in Beth’s stomach, but she quickly sent them away. Grimacing, she walked up to Carl and slashed the knife across his right cheek, just missing the tape holding the gag in place. He muffled a scream.

  Within seconds Carl’s face was glistening in red. The gash was deep. He was screaming, staring at Beth in disbelief and anger. He was cursing her now, she was sure of it. Oh, he looked so very angry. She imagined what he was saying—that she was dead; a dead bitch. No, not a dead bitch, a dead cunt. Yes, Carl would call her a cunt because that was what disrespectful assholes like him called women.

  “The only one that’s going to suffer, Carl, is you,” she told him.

  Beth put the knife down and picked up the hacksaw.

  Carl went quiet for the first time since seeing her.

  “Wait,” she said, holding up a finger. “I have an idea. And it just came to me from out of nowhere. A suggestion from beyond the grave, perhaps?” She put the saw down and left the room.

  In the bathroom, Beth began looking for the item that had popped into her mind, Marcy’s curling iron, but it was nowhere to be found. Maybe Marcy didn’t have one. No, every woman had a curling iron. The fucker must have thrown it out. Damn, she must really have lost it to be using such foul language. In fact, Beth saw almost no feminine products. Carl had gotten rid of everything that was Marcy’s. Well, not everything; there was still one thing left in the apartment that represented Marcy.

  Five minutes later, Beth walked into the bedroom holding a teapot full of boiling water. Carl’s face, right lower leg, and the bed covers were caked in blood. He mumbled something softly, but Beth still couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  She walked over to him, held the teapot over his exposed stomach. Steam came from the spout like smoke from a sleeping dragon’s nostrils.

  “Marcy sends her regards,” she said, then placed the scalding metal pot onto Carl’s stomach. He bucked and writhed, causing Beth to have to hold the kettle in place as her nostrils filled with the aroma of burning flesh.

  Finally when the sizzling stopped, she lifted the pot up, skin coming with it. A large, glowing, teapot-bottom wound tattooed Carl’s muscled stomach. The burns were beyond third degree and were already blistering.

  “That looks bad,” Beth said, hardly hearing her own voice.

  Carl continued to scream, tears streaking his face, cutting through the blood.

  Beth, still holding the teapot over Carl’s abdomen, tilted the kettle, pouring the scalding liquid over his crotch. Carl continued to scream, the sounds pitiful due to the gag muffling them. When the pot was empty, Carl’s shorts soaked and steaming, Beth flung it over her shoulder.

  She then picked up the hacksaw. “Hack…saw,” she said, admiring the tool. “Hatchets hack. Saws saw. Why do you think it’s called a hacksaw, Carl?”

  Carl continued to scream.

  Beth leaned against the bed and grabbed Carl’s right foot, securing it. Then placing the saw against his big toe, she began to cut. Blood gushed, making the foot slippery, but she managed to hold it steady as Carl bucked and kicked. Beth had no doubt that if the man wasn’t securely tied down he would’ve thrown her across the room. The toes came away easily: some winding up on the bed while others scattered onto the floor. Carl would never walk properly again.

  Beth got up, her apron covered in crimson, and started for the other side of the bed. Carl, between cries and screams, was begging her to stop. “Mo, mo, mo,” he said as she made her way to the other foot. “Ease. Mo more.”

  Beth grabbed a hold of his other foot and off came the rest of the piggies. One by quick one they fell while Carl screamed his brains out.

  When she was done with the toes, Beth stood. She looked down at herself, then went over to the dresser with the mirror. She was covered from head to toe in Carl’s blood.

  Carl was now whimpering, breathing heavily through semi-clogged nostrils.

  Beth continued to stare at the woman in the mirror. She didn’t recognize her. She’d been numb until now. She turned to look at Carl and saw his eyes. They were red, glassy and pleading. Something clicked in Beth then. It was her humanity. Somehow the look in Carl’s eyes had brought a piece of the “good” in her out. She’d buried it, hoping to keep it so until she was done with her deeds. Done with Carl.

  Beth ran to the bathroom and heaved her guts out and into the commode like some underage teen that had drank too much. The toilet’s rim was filthy with pubic hairs and dotted with dry piss, but Beth didn’t care, and hugged the porcelain shrine.

  Finished, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and sat against the wall, breathing heavy.

  Realizing she couldn’t remain there, she slowly got to her feet and shuffled to the sink. She turned the cold-water knob, allowing chilled water to cascade over her hands. She bent over the sink, cupping handfuls of water and drinking it down. She splashed her face a few times, the frigid water like a slap to the face.

  Turning the water off, her face dripping, Beth straightened up to look in the mirror.

  She gasped at the sight before her, the sight where her reflection should’ve been, but was not. Instead she saw Alice and Marcy, bruised and beaten, as they had been at the time of their deaths.

  “You’re almost done,” Alice said.

  “You just have to make sure Carl can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Marcy said.

  Beth started to cry, and through sobs she told the ghostly reflections that she didn’t think she could do anymore.

  “You must stop him,” Alice demanded. “We’ll help. We’ll be there with you, guiding you, giving you the strength you need. Now go.”

  Beth bent down and dry-heaved into the sink. When she was done she felt different, cold, like a switch had been flipped. She stopped crying and stood up, looking into the mirror. She saw only her own reflection.

  She looked into her double’s eyes, and for a second, she thought she saw Alice’s baby blues. She blinked and they were her own brown eyes again. Beth smiled, knowing Alice was with her now.

  She walked back into the bedroom. Carl, bruised and bloodied, met her eyes. There was fear in them, but also anger. She imagined that no matter what she did to him, he’d always be angry, and that was why she needed to make sure he couldn’t hurt any more people. Looking at h
im, she saw the fear disappearing and the hate for Beth growing. Even after all that she’d done to him, he wanted to hurt her. To kill her. She supposed someone else in his situation might just wish to be released, be thankful they were still alive. Maybe change something about themselves. Strive to be better. But not Carl. Never Carl.

  “I’m truly sorry, Carl,” she said. “Well, to be honest with you I’m not sure if I am totally sorry. But I admit that I could’ve and should’ve handled the situation better. I should have put you on your stomach and simply broken your spine.” Beth pointed to her own back, and said, “Here, just below the neck. That would’ve ensured you being a good boy. But I screwed up. Probably lost it a few times. So, it has to be this way. I hope you understand someday, although I doubt you will.”

  Beth walked over to the dresser, picked up the hammer—Don’s hammer—and began smashing Carl’s right knee. He started screaming again, writhing around in agony. She worked hard, using both hands, bringing the hammer down over and over, feeling and hearing the bones and cartilage break. If she was younger, she would’ve been able to accomplish her goal quicker. Less suffering for Carl.

  “I’m sorry, Carl,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Finally when the crunching stopped and it felt like she was hammering jelly, she moved to the other knee and repeated the process. By the time she was done, Carl had no knees left, only a jumble of mashed cartilage and bone fragments held in place by broken flesh. The skin was plum-purple and swelling, as if being pumped with air. Carl would never walk unassisted again. Maybe never walk period.

  She hadn’t noticed, but sometime during her task—a very strenuous one it was—Carl had passed out. Better that way, she thought. Maybe Marcy would pay him a visit. She hadn’t thought about that—had Marcy visited him too? It didn’t matter, Carl wouldn’t have been bothered. Beth could tell that he wasn’t a man who believed in ghosts.

  There was more to do before she was finished. Picking up the blood-caked hacksaw, Beth began removing Carl’s fingers, cutting them at the point where they met the hand. There would be no stubs.

  The fingers were harder to get through, and if Carl had been awake it might’ve been impossible, for she had to hold each one separately and saw, unlike the toes which fell off one after the other. Carl stirred a few times, seeming to come in and out of consciousness, but never did completely wake up. And by the time she was done with the other hand, Beth was exhausted, her left arm aching.

  But there was still work to be done.

  Beth’s stomach churned at the thought of what she had to do next. She closed her eyes and thought about Alice’s killer. She saw Jim, imagined in detail how he killed her daughter. She saw Marcy, her dead eyes staring into oblivion, skull and brain sticking to the wall like some kind of sludge. A kernel of angry heat grew in Beth’s belly. The more she thought about Alice, about Marcy, the more the anger grew. Her kindness, her tenderness for humanity, her Beth-ness, was gone, shoved somewhere deep down in her soul.

  She opened her eyes.

  Reaching out, she grabbed the hunting knife, the one with the serrated edge. Breathing deep, calming herself, she brought the knife to Carl’s right eye and stabbed. Just a quick, but forceful, jab. She felt the juicy sphere give. Blood and fluid leaked from the socket. The eyelid sagged inward, like a deflated beach ball. She did the same to the other eye.

  When she was done, she stood, finding it hard to draw in breath. She dropped the knife to the floor, and picked up the hammer. Teeth were dangerous; they could be used to hurt and maim.

  Using her right arm, the left now numb, Beth raised the hammer and let it fall to Carl’s semi-open mouth. The two front teeth broke like brittle pre-cooked noodles. She brought the hammer up again and continued to smash Carl’s mouth, knocking out teeth and pulverizing his lips, which when she was done looked like bloated, red, bleeding garden slugs.

  Finished, Beth stood up, feeling as if something heavy—a piano maybe—was resting on her chest. The hammer dropped from her grasp, landing on the bloodied bed. Unable to breathe, she fell to her knees, then to the floor. She’d done it. She’d taken care of Carl. Her heart finally gave out, and as Alice promised, she and her daughter could now be together.

  Epilogue

  Two days passed by before Carl was rescued. Growing concerned when he didn’t show up for work or answer his phone, his long-time partner, Detective Sanders, went over to the apartment to check on him. When Carl didn’t come to the door, his partner jimmied the lock and entered, discovering a gruesome scene in the bedroom.

  Barely alive, Carl was rushed to the hospital where over the next couple of weeks he went through multiple surgeries. His legs couldn’t be saved and were amputated well above the knees. He was kept in a medically induced coma for weeks.

  Six months since his torturous encounter, Carl—sightless, legless, and with no fingers or teeth—lay in an assisted-living home for severely handicapped people. Every day was a nightmare. He was no longer the man he knew himself to be. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive. Maybe he was in Hell. And if he wasn’t, then he’d gladly trade his soul to be there if it meant he could leave the world and his decrepit body behind.

  He’d been a detective. All that power now gone, taken away by the weakest of opponents, an eighty-two-year-old woman. A subject more pathetic than the dreck he arrested in back alleys.

  Carl had had it all: stolen drug money he’d been storing away, whores—including his wife—whenever he wanted them, and power. How he loved the power.

  Now he was powerless, too weak to even off himself and end his living hell. He thought it ironic how he had wanted to be served, to be taken care of, waited upon by his bitches like a king. Now it was all true, just not in the way he had intended. Nurses were now his bitches and they did little to nothing to give him what he truly wanted.

  He didn’t understand how the doctors could let him live. He begged to be put to death and when that didn’t work he prayed, but those prayers went unanswered. And the kicker was, he had been too damn healthy, the doctors telling him that if he hadn’t been in such great shape he would’ve surely died.

  Every moment was hell. He could no longer hurt anyone. His power was gone. His wrath, his hate, was now internal and always would be.

  Night and day, he asked for death to come.

  Forty years later it finally did.

  About the Author

  David Bernstein is originally from a small town in Upstate New York called Salisbury Mills (where a number of his books take place or involve). He now resides in NYC and is hard at work on his next dark novel. He is the author of the novels, Amongst the Dead, Damaged Souls, Witch Island and the novella, The Tree Man. His forthcoming title The Unhinged will be coming later this year from Samhain.

  David writes all kinds of horror, from hair-raising ghost stories to gore-filled slashers to adventure-filled apocalyptic tales of terror. He loves hearing from his readers. You can reach him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3. Visit him at his website: davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com or email him at dbern77@hotmail.com and follow him on Twitter at @Bernsteinauthor

  Look for these titles by David Bernstein

  Now Available:

  Amongst the Dead

  Damaged Souls

  The Tree Man

  Witch Island

  Coming Soon:

  The Unhinged

  A witch’s curse from beyond the grave!

  Witch Island

  © 2014 David Bernstein

  Witch Island used to be feared. Even the bravest would not dare go there. Legend said a witch had been burned alive at the stake, and upon her death she cursed the town. Terrified residents performed rituals to keep her spirit trapped on the island where she was buried.

  Now, over a hundred years later, a group of high school seniors have decided to forgo
the local graduation parties and have a small gathering of their own—on Witch Island. They don’t fear the legends. They scoff at them. But the group will soon learn these particular legends are nothing to scoff at. And Witch Island will prove far worse than they could have ever imagined.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Witch Island:

  Margaret Rivers awoke tied to an iron post in the midst of a small clearing in the middle of a heavily wooded area. Freshly cut logs, both thick and thin, lay piled at her feet. The pungent aroma of kerosene filled the air. Night had fallen; the villagers’ torches cast hundreds of dancing shadows along the tree line. There were only five people left from the throng that had taken her from her home. These were the executioners, the witnesses to her death.

  Her head throbbed from where she had been clubbed, but her focus remained. The villagers had killed her husband, her soul mate, then burned her house to the ground. Margaret closed her eyes, feeling the anguish of losing him, reliving his death. The entire town had been involved. She had been witness to mob behavior before, when her kind were the focus, which was the reason she and her husband had moved out of Manhattan.

  Margaret’s people were misunderstood throughout Europe and America, having to exist in secret. Margaret and her husband had hoped that moving to a remote hamlet, combined with living on the outskirts of town, would have been acceptable to the townspeople, allowing them to live their lives, flourish, and do so without fear. But even in the remote countryside, living on the edge of town and minding their own business proved not to be enough.

  “What have you done with Father O’Brady, witch?” a rugged-looking man with a full beard asked. He stepped forward, separating himself from the four other people with him.

  “I’ve done nothing to no one,” Margaret said. “It is you that have wronged me.”

  “Tell us where Father O’Brady’s body is,” the man continued, “so that we may give him a proper burial.”