Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  As he saw memories of years past and re-familiarized himself with old traumas, the dream faded back.

  He saw himself walking through his old neighborhood, all of ten years old. Felt the heat of the late afternoon sun. Heard the sounds of cars riding past. And just like that, just like always, Jimmy was on him, pummeling him for all he was worth. Two sets of bloodstained fists came down on him repeatedly as he listened to the sounds of Jimmy’s panting and grunting.

  Clark did nothing. Said nothing. Like a bag of rocks, he lay there and took it. Fighting not to cry.

  When he had thoroughly tired himself out, Jimmy rose to his feet and gave Clark’s ribcage a good kick with the back of his foot. A mark of punctuation, Clark supposed.

  And then it was over.

  Jimmy was gone.

  Clark was left wondering why this had started and when it would end.

  And then he woke.

  As he sat transfixed, he hadn’t realized there was still a hunk of chewed beef still in his mouth. He swallowed and just like that, he lost his appetite.

  “So, this kid just beat you up every day and no one did anything about it?” Pulling on her cigarette, Sherry sat entranced, her eyes wide as she hung on his every word.

  Clark turned away from the smoke, struggling to breathe. “I thought we talked about this,” he said.

  “Talked about what?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her, then down at the burning cigarette between her fingers. He hated that smell.

  “It must be below zero out there,” she said, reaching over and lifting her wine glass from the coffee table. “You can deal with one here and there, can’t you?” Taking a sip, she smiled at him—sweetly, with only her eyes.

  He didn’t want to cave. But he didn’t want to see her leave, either. So, he crossed his ankles on the edge of the coffee table, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back against the sofa cushion. Clearing his throat, he continued. “I may have talked to a teacher or a counselor at some point. But no, nothing was ever done about it.”

  Sherry emptied her glass. “And the world wonders why things like Columbine continue to happen.”

  Outside, the skies thundered. Through a side-eye glance, Clark spied pouring rains beyond the window. He shivered, imagining lying unconscious in that storm. He sat silent, staring off, and the smoke began to sift by him. Anxious to get away, he stood. “I’m gonna make a cup of tea,” he said. “Do you want one?”

  She shook her head. “I hate tea.”

  He filled the pot and started the burner. He had two spoonfuls of sugar and a drop of milk in a fresh mug by the time he noticed Sherry had followed him into the kitchen. She refilled her wine glass and lit a fresh cigarette. He sighed, but said nothing.

  “Aren’t you gonna finish telling me the story?” she said, leaning over the island.

  “I thought I had.” A shrill hiss filled the air as the water began to boil.

  “I don’t recall hearing an end to that story.”

  “There’s really nothing left to tell. After middle school, we pretty much went our separate ways.” He took a sip, immediately burning his tongue. Wincing, he pinched his eyes to stop the tears. In the flash of light, he saw Jimmy’s sailing fist.

  “So, you have no idea what became of him?”

  He shook his head. “Probably doing time for armed robbery. That kid was a maniac.”

  “What if he’s been rehabilitated?”

  “You thinking about inviting him over for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  She laughed. “You mean to tell me you’re not at all curious about what’s happened to him?”

  “Well, maybe. Wouldn’t mind paying him back for all those ass-kickings.”

  “Still hold a grudge?”

  “It’s hard not to. That kid made my life unbearable.”

  “Maybe he’s sorry. You never know.”

  “I doubt it.”

  When they climbed into bed that night, Clark lay once again reliving all he’d endured. The notion of taking his revenge on Jimmy Doolan sounded sweeter and sweeter.

  But it was absurd to think of this now. After all these years. Ludicrous. Still, he couldn’t help these feelings. And so they stayed with him. Lingering. Festering.

  While Sherry lay sleeping soundly, Clark lay fantasizing of wiping the floor with a ten-year-old kid.

  And man, it felt good.

  A blaring car horn.

  Skidding tires.

  Angry voices.

  Thunder clapping.

  Rain pelting.

  Eyes wild, Clark spun out of the way of a passing Volkswagen, his heart pounding.

  He realized he was standing in the middle of the street.

  Barefoot.

  In the pouring rain.

  In the dead of winter.

  Just as the confusion found him, it faded. He knew what had happened. He knew what he’d done.

  I did it again, he thought, leaping over mounds of shoveled snow on the sidewalk. Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do?

  He wasn’t far from home. Maybe a block. Thank God. He wondered what time it was. The sky was still pitch black. Morning hadn’t yet fallen. And he could hear the sounds of people in the distance. Talking. Laughing. And the city streets were still alive with passing cars.

  Sliding as he ran through the ice and the sleet, a familiar numbness fell over his body. The fear was just as familiar, as was the sense of urgency.

  It was all familiar. He had no idea he’d experience this so soon. He didn’t know he’d ever experience this again.

  Isolated incident, he’d told himself over and over again. Total fluke. Will never happen again.

  And it was reasonable to feel this way. Why the hell wouldn’t it be? He’d never done this before last night. No part of him believed he’d ever do it again.

  On his way up the front steps of the brownstone, he saw the lights in his own bedroom burning bright. He flung open the door and tore his way inside, knowing his life depended on finding warmth. He was drenched and soaking from the rain, the droplets pouring from his clothing turning to ice.

  He was halfway to the second floor when he heard what sounded like a door bursting open, frantic footsteps following. When Sherry came into view, she was flushed, her features bright red as she dripped with perspiration. He winter coat was unbuttoned and the shoes on her feet weren’t even tied. When her eyes found his, she sank with relief, a hand to her heart.

  Clenching the banister, Clark pushed his way up the staircase. When they embraced, it terrified him to know just how close to death he was—and for the second time.

  They entered the apartment and where he thought he’d find safety, Clark found only danger, for he knew the second he heard the door close and watched Sherry throw the lock, he wasn’t safe anywhere. He could so easily do this again.

  Sherry pulled him out of his drenched clothing and wrapped him in multiple blankets. Lovingly, she sat him down on the couch and rubbed his arms and back in a continuous effort to warm him. Silent, he shivered, listening to the sounds of her unsteady breaths. She was terrified. He could see it on her face. She was probably more terrified than he.

  “Do you want me to get you something?” she asked, eyes filled with concern.

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe we should call a doctor, Clark.”

  Again, without words, he told her no.

  She sighed, her head falling into her hands. When she lifted her gaze, there were tears in her eyes. “My God, when I woke and found you were gone, I almost had a heart attack.”

  He didn’t have the energy to speak. Didn’t have the words to respond.

  “Where were you? Do you know?”

  Nothing. He just stared, feeling as though his eyes were glazing over. Every appendage quaked violently, as though he were being shot with volts of electricity. He tried—God knew he tried—but he just couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Clark, please talk to me. I’m scared to death right
now.”

  But he couldn’t. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.” She reached for the phone.

  “No.” An arm shot out from beneath the blankets and stopped her.

  She looked at him. So confused. “Why?”

  “Sherry, I’m… I’m fine. I’m f-f-f-f-fine. I’m s-s-s-s-still breathing, aren’t I?”

  “Clark, look at yourself! You’re damn near convulsing! You need a doctor!”

  “I don’t w-w-want to go t-t-to the hosp-p-p-pital, Sherry. P-p-please. I’m… okay. I’m ok-k-k-ay.”

  Flustered, she fell into a seat beside him, hands between her knees. She left her coat on. With a huff, she placed a hand to her forehead. “Let me get you some dry clothes,” she said, standing.

  “No. Please j-j-just… sit with me awhile. Okay?”

  Unsure, she sank back into her seat.

  As Clark continued to tremble, he clutched the blankets with both hands, feeling the rush of his heart. Within the quiet were the sounds of his urgent breaths. It felt like Sherry, the couch, the entire room were all shaking with him. Everything around him was blurred and unsteady.

  “What can I do?” Sherry called meekly, as though she could bear to watch this no longer.

  “N-n-nothing,” he said. “J-j-just sit here a m-m-minute.” It was like he was waiting for the moment his heart would stop. For the instant his lungs would gasp their final breath.

  On the streets below, steady traffic flowed as the rains poured. The sky erupted in the loudest clap of thunder he’d heard all night.

  Startled, they jumped in their seats.

  “Jesus,” Sherry panted, lowering her head and grazing the tip of her lip with her index finger.

  Clark said nothing. If only his heart would return to normal. His eyes found the wall clock. He squinted, focusing. 2:13.

  “What’s that?” Sherry said moments later.

  He turned to face her. “W-w-what?”

  She was staring straight ahead. “That,” she said, pointing a finger. “What is that?”

  Blinking, he followed her pointing finger. Looked like a melon-sized crater in the wall less than foot from the door. It looked like the aftermath of a violent punch.

  Sherry traced the hole with her finger. Behind the chalking drywall resided red brick.

  “Did you do this?” She didn’t sound mad. Astonished, maybe. Concerned, definitely. But mad, not so much.

  Clark lifted the knuckles of his right hand. They were swollen, sore, and scabbing. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t noticed before. But now that he had, the pain became intolerable, though the last thing in the world he would’ve done was bury his hand in a bowl of ice. He’d live through it. Just like he’d lived through this.

  He coughed. Sneezed. “I g-g-g-guess I d-d-did.”

  “Why?” She rushed forth with a readied box of Kleenex.

  “I have n-n-n-o idea.” He blew his nose hard. “I d-d-d-don’t remember.”

  The look on her face told him she didn’t know what to say next. That suited him just fine. He didn’t, either.

  In minutes, he found himself repeating that morning’s questionable remedy, pouring himself into a scalding shower. That ceased the chills and before he knew it, he was feeling like himself again—or pretty close to it.

  But there seemed to be no calming Sherry and the only way he could satisfy her was by promising to stay home tomorrow. When they got into bed together, she wrapped both arms around his waist and held on tight. As though he’d float away. With a sigh, she rested her head on his chest.

  “You’re not leaving this bed again tonight,” she said. “Not unless you plan on taking me with you.”

  He smiled. Closed his eyes. And slept.

  * * *

  “I just wanted to make sure you were still alive.”

  The telephone receiver to his ear, Clark smiled at the sound of Sherry’s voice. It was the third time she’d called that morning. “I live and breathe,” he said, adjusting the thermostat. “At least for now.”

  He was beginning to warm up, so he lowered the heat. The shriveled leaves of the artificial plant resting near the radiator suggested he should’ve done so hours ago.

  “Have you left the apartment at all today?” Sherry asked. “Willingly or otherwise?”

  “Only to get the mail. And I put on three sets of thermals to do it.”

  “You really scared me, Clark.”

  “I know. You’ve told me so at least twenty times.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “And I believe you.”

  “So? What are we gonna do about it?”

  “Not sure what we’re gonna do about it,” he said. “If anything.”

  “Maybe I should start cuffing you to the bed.”

  “Now there’s an idea!”

  She laughed. “I’ll call and check up on you again in a little while.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  When they said their goodbyes, Clark smiled to himself, warmed by her love and by her concern.

  Shuffling into the kitchen, a whistle on his lips, he had almost forgotten all he’d been through. Nothing in the refrigerator appealed to him, so he headed back into the living room where he was positive there were some takeout menus lying around somewhere. He hadn’t had pizza for lunch since college and the notion sounded rather inviting. He found a Domino’s menu beneath the sofa cushion and just as his eyes focused on the melted and bubbling cheese, he saw himself in last night’s dream.

  The skies were bright and blue, the day as clear as one could hope. A kid again, he was on his way home from school, his backpack weighing him down. Jimmy took him by surprise, just as he always had.

  And just as he always had, Jimmy struck without words and without mercy.

  Feeling the strong rush of fear, Clark saw the fist sailing towards him in slow motion.

  And in the dream, Clark did what he’d always wanted, but never could.

  He did what he spent so many years wishing he’d have had the balls and the skill to do.

  He dodged Jimmy’s blow and struck back with his own fist.

  As Clark had hoped, Jimmy had a glass jaw and went down immediately, falling onto his knees, then onto his back, eyes wide and stunned.

  Clark inhaled the victory. He’d won. For the first time in his life, he’d actually won. He continued on his way triumphant. Victorious. He wasn’t scared anymore. He was happy. Proud. So goddamned proud of himself that he was bursting at the seams.

  As the dream replayed, he felt the tenderness in his knuckles and though he knew he hadn’t used this fist to truly annihilate Jimmy, he felt good.

  He felt amazing.

  * * *

  When Sherry turned out the bedside lamp, Clark saw only the dim glow of the moon shining through the Venetian blinds.

  “So,” she muttered in a small, tired voice before releasing a yawn, “you’re sure you’ve exorcised those demons, then?”

  “Pretty sure.” Like a slithering snake, his arm slid around her waist.

  “No more sleepwalking, then?”

  “Well, I can’t see into the future,” he said. Though he didn’t want to say, he was certain. He had exorcised the demon—the dark, evil presence living inside of him all these years. That plaguing memory he’d buried deep inside. All those years of wishing he’d done something. The countless nights he’d spent wishing he could do something. He’d extinguished all of it. Just like the burning head of a match. Poof.

  Sherry muttered something else, but lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said it’s dangerous to wake a sleepwalker.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Well, some say waking a sleepwalker can trigger cardiac arrest.”

  “Really?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Wow…”

  �
�Others say a stirred sleepwalker loses all sense of self-control and becomes violent.”

  “Which do you think is more likely?”

  He gave himself a moment to consider. “My guess is neither.”

  “Why?”

  “That car horn woke me last night and nothing happened to me. My guess is a stirred sleepwalker merely wakes, nothing more. I’m sure there’s maybe a bout of confusion and maybe even an adrenaline rush, but I doubt anything fatal. Or violent.”

  “Sounds about right. I guess.”

  “The universe is overflowing with an abundance of myths and urban legends.”

  “Watch yourself, hon. You’re starting to sound a little pompous.”

  “Am I?”

  “A bit.”

  “Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead, then.”

  She leaned in close and placed a kiss on his forehead. “You were never ahead, sweetheart.”

  Holding her close, Clark closed his eyes and smiled.

  * * *

  What was that? Jesus, that was loud. Sounded like an accident. What the hell time is it?

  As the sound of a blaring police siren filled the room, Sherry sat up in bed, realizing immediately that she was the only one in it.

  “Oh, Clark,” she mumbled and sighed as her eyes fell on the depression in his pillow. As the sirens faded, she turned toward the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. 3:21.

  Now frenzied, she leapt off the bed and dressed in the dark. At the foot of the bed, she found a wrinkled sweatshirt. She threw it over her shoulders, unsure if it was hers or Clark’s.

  In the living room, she found her shoes. Slipped them on. Left them untied. Glancing over her shoulder, she found the kitchen light burning bright. Hoping to find Clark there, she craned her neck further. No sign of him. Keys in-hand, she slid both arms into a jacket and was out the door.

  Reaching the moist sidewalks, she shoved both hands into the jacket pockets and sighed with relief when she found a dented pack of Marlboro Lights, a book of matches tucked inside the cellophane. She took one, lit it, and tore around a corner.

  The city was dead calm. Anyone with any sense was indoors. Sherry’s focused eyes shot in every direction as a trembling hand brought the cigarette to her lips. She didn’t see him anywhere. Didn’t see anyone anywhere.