Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  The cleaners! The cleaners! When are they coming in?

  It was the weekend. The place was empty. No one was coming. He’d gone in to put a few tweaks to the Liefeld pitch – he was handling that one personally, for it was the biggest potential contract in his small company’s history. Yes, he could have done it at home, but he worked best in his own office space, and the kids had their idiot friends round for a Saturday night sleepover. The noise had been horrendous, his usual sleep-deprived headache making it—

  What the fuck are you going to do?! What the fuck are you going to do!? Who did this? What do they want?

  There was no safe onsite. It couldn’t be about cash then. Blackmail, perhaps, a transfer, but why here? Fuck it. Get loose and don’t have a heart attack in the meantime!

  The sweat was already soaking his collar, tight as it was, his neck fatter than he realized or would admit to himself. He strained and grunted and struggled and yelled for all he was worth.

  “You’re going to choke. Stop screaming.”

  Harry froze. He wasn’t surprised by the voice, as such – it made dull sense that if he’d been tied to a chair, the person responsible was likely to be nearby – but he was frightened into an animal’s response by the confirmation of it, instinct pointlessly telling him stillness meant invisibility. He fell immediately silent, his breath rushing in and out of his nose due to the tape covering his mouth.

  “Thank you,” the voice said. “I’m going to take the tape and the blindfold off you now. Alright? And you’re going to stay silent. If you don’t. you’ll regret it. There’s no one that will hear you if you scream anyway, so it’s not worth it on either count.” The speaker sounded middle aged, the same as Harry, perhaps a little younger More worryingly -, Harry noted this as adrenalin flooded his mind, – there was a slight shake to the person’s voice, as if the speaker was using a great deal of effort to communicate clearly. Or calmly.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshit—

  Harry knew the speaker was correct. No one would hear. The office was in a small industrial estate – and it had to be his office, the smell was the same, the feel of his ergonomic chair was the same, contoured specially to fit a lower back that ached little bit more with every passing, inevitable year, paying the price for his two decades as a driver, helping build this place – and he knew there would be no one onsite now. Security was well out of earshot, located by the main gate. Even if one of them had passed by on one of his laps of the premises, he wouldn’t come close enough to Harry’s office to hear anything through closed van windows. The privacy of the office was one of the main reasons Harry had picked the unit.

  “Tape first. Brace yourself, this stuff is very strong.”

  The tips of gloved fingers pushed into the flesh around Harry’s mouth. The leather material was making it difficult for Harry’s captor to gain purchase of the tape’s edge. Harry’s flesh was pinched painfully many times in the process, but he only yelped once. He didn’t want to take any risks, already going into survival mode.

  Don’t scream! You heard him! Don’t scream! Just play along, cooperate and maybe—

  The tape was suddenly torn from Harry’s face, and the speaker hadn’t been lying. It was strong stuff. It didn’t take any skin with it, but it felt as if Harry’s mouth had been slapped with a hand coated in sandpaper. His bitten-back scream came out as Affff.

  “Told you,” the voice said, and there was a pleased sound to it that turned Harry’s blood to ice water. “Blindfold now. I don’t know why I bothered with it really. In hindsight, I think I only used it because it’s the sort of thing that you imagine doing when you kidnap someone. I’ve never done this before. That said, you should really pay more attention to your surroundings when you’re unlocking somewhere important.” The gloved hands returned, grabbing Harry’s head roughly, and Harry could get a better feel now for the fingers and the size of the hands. They weren’t large; not the hands of a fighter or bruiser. Were circumstances slightly different, Harry would have felt encouraged by this for Harry was a heavyset man, not too tall, but broad and doughy. He would outweigh his unseen assailant for sure, but it meant nothing when he was tied securely to a chair. The blindfold came away, and the sudden brightness of the light, contrasting with the darkness of the figure before him, made Harry momentarily think that he was seeing things.

  In front of him, seated on a chair that had presumably been taken from the main office, was a slender man wearing a black sweater, black trousers, and black gloves. What added an air of the surreal to the image was the manner in which Harry’s kidnapper had concealed his face.; It wasn’t a mask, or a balaclava; instead a number of black rags had been wrapped around his head, giving him the appearance of an Egyptian Mummy. No, not a Mummy, thought Harry, noting the sunglasses that the man was wearing to hide his eyes. He looks like the guy in that movie. The Invisible Man. The whole thing would have looked almost comical if not for the man’s posture. He was leaning forward intently in the chair, arms resting on his thighs, back rising and falling with each controlled breath. Everything about the mystery man’s body language screamed intensity, eagerness ...and this was the man who had drugged Harry and tied him to a chair.

  “As I said,” the man added, holding Harry’s now-removed blindfold up slightly, “not much point in this, as you can see.” The man’s voice, Harry now noted, was only slightly muffled by the thin black rag covering his mouth. The material must have been very thin to have such a minor effect on the man’s speech.

  Don’t worry about the fucking bandages! Worry about keeping this guy calm. Look at him!

  Harry’s heart – hardly the most carefully tended organ in Harry’s body – reminded him of its presence once more, seeming to spasm and squeeze in new ways.

  Hold on. Hold on. Calm your heart down or it’s going to kill you. You can breathe. Breathe.

  But the next thought didn’t help:

  Why is this happening? Why? What is going on?

  “W-“ Harry began, speaking instinctively, and then almost bit his own lip in his haste to cut himself off. He’d been told to keep quiet, and threatened with retribution if he didn’t comply, yet here he was—

  “That’s good behavior Harry, and I understand the question,” said the man. Other than the slow, deliberate breathing, the rest of his body was completely still. The jaw moved beneath the rags and the gaze from the sunglasses never left Harry’s face. He looked alien. “You are allowed to talk by the way. By that, I mean you just have to be quiet when you do it. Obviously, you want to know why you’re here. I’m going to tell you.”

  Harry nodded quickly, nervous little jerks of his chin that were barely nods at all. Sweat began to bead along the bottom of his chin, running into the small folds at the front of his neck.

  You’re going to die.

  You don’t know that. You could just be a hostage, a ransom.

  Then—

  No. You’re in the office. He wouldn’t hold you hostage here when he knows people are going to come into work in the morning. He’s going to kill you.

  Harry pissed himself, the jet of it hitting his thigh and seeping through his trousers, pooling warmth and wetness in the seat of the leather chair. The damp spot would have been difficult to notice against his black trousers, but there was the smell. If the Bandaged Man noticed, he didn’t show it.

  Harry thought of Linda, lying in bed and dozing fitfully with the remnants of a fever. She’d had the flu all week, and Harry had been looking after her, even taking time off during the Leifield preparations, even with his usual sleep problems (he never slept these days). The worst of it had been over for a few days now – over enough that she insisted it was ok for him to get caught up, enough that she’d agreed to allow three of Ben’s friends from football to stay over for the night – but she still hadn’t been sleeping well. There she was, with no idea of the nightmare her husband was going through a few miles away. He ached for her in that moment more than he had ever ached f
or anything in his life.

  “Please,” Harry whispered, tears springing to his eyes. “Please don’t kill me.”

  The Bandaged Man moved suddenly, causing Harry to flinch in response. He jolted like a startled rabbit. The Bandaged Man waved a hand, irritated.

  “You asked a question. At least have the decency to wait until I’ve answered it,” he said, his voice now sounding as if he was gritting his teeth slightly.

  “Yes, yes of course.” Harry said, frantically.

  “There are a few reasons why, Harry,” the Bandaged Man said, his arms resting on his thighs once more. “But one of them is that this is an experiment. A long-term experiment, yes, but an experiment nevertheless. There are two principles I’m putting to the test here. Two. You’re a religious man, Harry. I know you are. So am I. Very much so. And that’s part of it.”

  “H-how do you—”

  “Harry, seriously,” the Bandaged Man hissed, his entire body tensing as his hands curled into fists, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. You asked me a goddamn question. Are you going to listen to the goddamn answer?”

  “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t speak again until you’re done, I promise!” Harry hated the pleading sound in his voice as he barked desperately. He thought of Linda again, of Ben and Sally, and suddenly the pleading sound didn’t seem so bad. If he had to kiss this guy’s ass to stay alive and get back to his family, he’d do both cheeks and say thank you for the opportunity, sir.

  Then shut the fuck up and play by his rules! Let him speak! You might be able to get out of this!

  “You go to church, Harry,” the Bandaged Man said. “Every week. You help with the events.”

  This guy ... he’s seen you at church? He’s part of the parish?

  A very cold feeling began at the base of Harry’s spine and began to creep upwards. He remained silent, however. His verbal reflexes had finally got the message, it seemed.

  “Yes. You’re a regular church goer. A good man. A family man. Loyal to your wife for...twenty-five years, yes?” The was silence in the room, the Bandaged Man’s frozen body language and the blank rag-covered face like that of a large black ant behind the sunglasses. Harry froze too. Was he supposed to respond? He didn’t dare.

  “You can answer that,” the Bandaged Man said, seemingly realizing Harry’s confusion. “I want to know the answer.”

  “Y-yes,” Harry said, and it was true. He had never cheated on Linda. “Twenty-five years.”

  This motherfucker has done his homework. He knows about you. This isn’t a random thing at all.

  Hope dimly blossomed. This could be about money then? This guy had done his research as part of some kind of shakedown? Not a robbery, but some kind of ransom situation?

  Better that than a knife in the guts, Harry thought, his mind mentally breathless, adrenalin in his veins, his frantic flight instinct held in check due to his bonds. I’ll pay it. I don’t care.

  “I believe you Harry. I believe you,” the Bandaged Man said. “Father of two. I’ve seen you all together lots of times. I can tell a family man when I see one. You’re loyal. You understand the importance of that. And them ...I’ve seen the way they look at you. You’re everything to them, too.”

  The chill and anger at the mention of Harry’s family – that they’d been watched, his kids too – was offset by the last sentence. Here it came. You’re everything to them? It was a ransom situation. Uncertain whether his permission to speak still stood, Harry nodded in response. The Bandaged Man leaned further forward in the chair, an ominous creaking sound emanating as he did so - from the chair or the floor or somewhere - that simply enhanced the Mummy effect in Harrys mind.

  “But the last time I saw you, the last time I watched you,” the Bandaged Man said, “was yesterday. I watched you last night. You played a board game, the four of you. Didn’t you?” They had. They’d played Scrabble.

  The fucker had been outside all along.

  Harry’s anger bubbled, his own fingers clenching impotently now, but he tightened his jaw and said nothing.

  “You can answer,” the Bandaged Man said.

  Harry still said nothing, thinking of his children without a father and worried about what his anger might make him say to help that thought become a reality. The Bandaged Man nodded as if Harry had spoken.

  “I know you did and you know you did. What you don’t know is this.: How do you know you’re the same person?”

  Silence.

  “...what?” Harry blurted, surprise getting the better of his restraint.

  What the hell kind of a question is that?

  “The same person as yesterday. How do you know you’re him?”

  Silence again.

  “...what?”

  “Bear with me, Harry. I’m making a point. You know you’re the same person from the day before because you remember the day before the feelings, your clothes in a pile on the floor from the night before or in the laundry basket. Barring some kind of cosmic trick, you know you live your life in transition from night into day into night into day and you are still you. Right?”

  Not knowing what else to say, and wondering where the hell this was going, Harry said:

  “...right.”

  “But here’s the thing,” the Bandaged Man said, holding up a finger. He seemed to have relaxed slightly, the previously visible tension no longer there ...but that steady breathing continued. “Would you say you were the same person as you were five years ago? Ten? Twenty? I don’t mean the same body: the same bones and eyes and brain. I mean the same mind, the same personality? Think about it. Really think about it.”

  Despite the situation – and perhaps, in some way, because of it, needing to please his captor – Harry did just as he was asked. Was he the same person he had been twenty years ago?

  “Well ...I-in some ways ...n-no. A lot of ways. W-who is, right?” The question came out over-earnestly, desperate to find common ground, to say the right things. The Bandaged Man was clearly crazy. “Y-you grow older, wiser, things happen ...”

  Oh, God.

  Harry went fish belly white in an instant. Because something had happened three years ago.

  Could this be ...oh my God, could this be something to do with—

  But that had been three years ago, and he’d—

  “Of course,” the Bandaged Man continued, either not noticing or pretending not to notice the utter transformation of Harry’s complexion. “Something happens, doesn’t it? Some subtle change, some metamorphosis without any real tipping point, some steady change as invisible as the movement of the big hand on a watch. It’s not today, tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that, because then you’re still close enough to you to be you. No. It happens over a long time. And you only see it – only know the difference – once you’re far away enough to look back and notice. Once enough time has passed for the person you are to be come the person you were.”

  Harry’s eyes goggled in his head as he tried and failed to hide his stunned expression.

  It can’t be him.

  This couldn’t be about revenge because the only man who would want revenge was dead.

  This can’t be anything to do with that! Breathe! Breathe!

  “Do you understand, Harry?”

  Keep it together!

  “I ... uh ...I think so ...”

  “It’s like an existential conveyor belt,” the Bandaged Man said, with a sigh that sounded ...rapt. “They’re titles. The Past You. The Present You. The Future You. Moving, always moving, always from right to left, the present becoming the past and the future becoming the present. Once the change happens, the man you were doesn’t exist anymore.”

  The finger came up again. “I said there were two principles at work here. That’s the first. They’re intertwined, but this is key. Past, Present, and Future You. That Past You can become a stranger, an island. Imagine criminals that turn to God and become pastors; drug dealers that become drug counselors; rapists
become feminists. What is the key in all of those transformations, Harry? What is needed for those changes to work? As I said, normally, the change is slow, unnoticeable, and those transformations – those examples I just mentioned - do happen at speed, but these cases are different, to be fair. Either way; for all of these changes to happen, what is needed?”

  Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, God ...

  “Remorse,” Harry whispered. The Bandaged Man’s gloved finger jabbed forward, approving and condemning.

  “Remorse,” the Bandaged Man breathed. “This is both a huge part of the second principle, and a huge part of my problem. That’s W why we’re here. How have you been sleeping, Harry?”

  It ...it can’t be him. He’s fucking dead, oh God ... Harry thought, simultaneously as the answer to the question came: I haven’t had a restful night of sleep for the last three years., Lliving a lie will do that to a guy and then you have to lie even more to cover the change in yourself and it goes on and on and on ...

  Tears sprang to Harry’s eyes, and he began to sob.

  “Please ...” Harry begged, “please. I have a family. I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Ah. You know what this is about now, don’t you Harry?”

  “... yes...”

  “So you understand that you will never leave this room, don’t you?”

  “Take it off!” Harry suddenly screamed, spit flying from his lips. “Take that fucking mask off! You look like a fucking dick, take the mask off! At least have the balls to look me in the eye!”

  “You have got to be kidding,” the Bandaged Man murmured, and this time his teeth clearly were gritted, but his words weren’t referring to the request to remove his disguise;. his hands were already up and around his head, removing the sunglasses and undoing and untying. “You’re going to talk to me about having the balls? Really?”