Masters of Horror

by Lee Pletzers

  “I’m guessing you know her last name, right?”

  “No one knows her last name.”

  “I’m sure God and her parents must know it.” Cullen stood up and brushed off his pants. “I know it.”

  “You are lying.” Jim licked his lips.

  “I did some research about her, called in some favors from some friends of mine in the record business. It was pretty easy to find out the information.”

  “What is it?” Jim almost burst from his chair in excitement.

  “Not so fast. I want the other half of your story first.”

  “There’s not much to tell. My father was mean. What is her last name?”

  Cullen grinned and wagged his finger. “Not so fast. Tell me about the first time he touched your private area.”

  “That never happened.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. He was very mean to my mother; he would punch her, threaten her with a knife…”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He went to prison when I was fifteen.” Jim covered his ears. “He finally went too far and shot my mother with his .357 Magnum.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Jim asked angrily. His hands dropped to his lap and clenched into fists.

  “Why was it finally too far? Wouldn’t beating your mother, humiliating her and doing that in front of her kid be too far to begin with?”

  “I guess.” Jim shut his eyes and tried to keep the images of his dead mother, her head split in two and blood and gore coating the kitchen floor, from his mind.

  “Did you try to stop him?”

  “How could I?”

  “How could you not?!” Cullen began pacing. “If it was my mother about to die I think I’d try to stop the bastard.” Cullen stopped and stared at Jim. “Unless you wanted her to die.”

  “Of course not. Why would you say that?”

  “Because it might be true. She never protected you when he was touching you, never came to your rescue. I’ve seen it a million times. Poor little Jimmy with no one to protect him. It was probably a sense of relief when he finally did it. Now you could be free to escape with Kimmi Klub and go out into the real world.”

  “I loved my mother and not a day goes by that I don’t wish she were still alive.”

  “I doubt that. I think your only regret is not having the balls to get that .357 out of the old man’s hand and blowing his head off. Am I right?”

  “I wished him dead, not in prison.”

  “Did he ever get out? It’s been almost thirty years.”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  Cullen leaned on the desk, inches from Jim. “He did get out.”

  “You lie.”

  “Why would I lie? What would I have to gain? He was released six months ago and is living in Buffalo.”

  “There’s no way you could know that.”

  Cullen wiggled his fingers on the desk. “The internet is a fascinating place, full of information. A last name of obscure singers, names of father’s who killed their wives and raped their sons, all at your fingertips.”

  “He got out?” Jim asked. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “Yes, good behavior and all that. He ended up being a model citizen. There’s a nice article about how he found God while on the inside and that he can’t wait to reconnect with his son and show him how much he’s changed.”

  Jim slammed his fist on the desk. “Over my dead body.”

  “That might be the idea. I hope for your sake the old man has changed his ways, or else he’ll probably pick up right where he left off. That won’t be good.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You have two choices: you can get on a plane to New York and confront the bastard before he finds you here and touches you again, or you can pick up your search for Kimmi Klub.”

  “I can’t face him,” Jim said. Suddenly he felt ten again, balled up in the corner of his room with his tiny record player while Kimmi Klub drowned out the noise of his father beating his mother. “I can’t go through that again.”

  “You need to face your fears, before your fear gets the better of you. Hiding on the top floor of this building isn’t going to save you. Anyone can walk up here and sneak up on you. Hell, I came right up here without anyone knowing. Mister Croce banned everyone from this floor and told us to leave you alone, but I had to see what the great mystery was.” Cullen tapped a finger on the left-hand drawer of the desk. “You need to be proactive for once in your life. Understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so. People like you need to be bludgeoned over the head before you get it.” Cullen tapped again on the drawer.

  “Oh.” Jim pulled it open. “How did that get in there?”

  “You’d be surprised what gets misplaced these days.”

  “I guess so.” Jim reached into the drawer.

  “Wait, you should probably put your headphones back on. There’s nothing better than a good tune before you go to work.”

  “You’re right.” Jim clipped the Walkman to his belt as he stood and pushed play. He sang along with his eyes closed.

  “You do know that he’s coming, don’t you?”

  “What?” Jim snapped his eyes open. “Here?”

  “He’ll be here soon. You won’t be able to stop him.”

  “I have this.” Jim removed the .357 Magnum from the drawer and held it in front of him. “I can kill him.”

  “You can’t, you don’t have it inside you. You’re not a violent man, Jim, and you know it. He’ll do bad things to you again, but worse this time. He’s been in prison for over twenty years, just waiting for the chance to get revenge against you.”

  “He can’t do this to me.”

  “He can and he will.” Cullen stood behind Jim and placed his hands on his shoulders. “You know what you need to do.”

  When the door opened slowly Jim pointed the gun and pulled the trigger again and again until it was empty.

  “Good job,” Cullen said.

  Jim dropped the weapon on the carpet, confused at the two bodies in the doorway.

  “Miller,” Cullen whispered in his ear.

  “Huh?”

  “Kimmi Klub was actually Kimberly Miller. The only reason she got that record contract was because her father paid a boatload of money to a producer. The song did so poorly that he purchased as many copies as he could find and destroyed them. She was wiped from the annals of music, forever lost. Not that it mattered to her in the long run. Her father was, of course, Arthur Reginald Miller, the owner of this very business you’ve been toiling in for sixteen years.”

  “That’s not right. Mister Miller hired me.”

  “Yes, he did. I wonder what he would have thought if he knew you were such a huge fan of his daughter’s work. If he had been up to your workspace and saw the picture of his daughter, and if her career hadn’t been pushed so far under the rug that anyone in this entire company would have known about her and commented on your picture.”

  “Where is she?” Jim asked but he knew the answer.

  “She’s with Mister Croce, of course.”

  “But…”

  “Yes, lying right next to his body. You’ve killed her, your dream girl.”

  Jim couldn’t move.

  “They’ll put you away, probably in the same prison your father is still in.”

  Jim turned on Cullen and pulled the trigger…but all the chambers were empty.

  “You can’t kill me, Jim. I only exist in your obsessively twisted mind. Maybe they’ll put you in with your old man when you get there.”

  Jim heard movement on the stairs coming up.

  “The worst part? They’ll take your Walkman away. You’ll never hear that song again.”

  Back to TOC

  There IS one situation in which “all bets are off”, so to speak, and nearly everyone would be justified
in snorting, shooting, smoking or swallowing every toxic substance they could get their hands on.

  That would be: The End of the World.

  DOOMSDAY DIARY

  By Scott Nicholson

  October 27

  Fuck you, diary.

  Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

  There.

  I’ve been wanting to say that. I feel a lot better now. Actually, I don’t feel that much better. The meth I spiked has me kind of wired. That’s why I’m writing so fast and bad. Plus, you know, with time running out and everything, who wants to sit around and write stuff?

  Me, I guess.

  Maybe it’s just some screwed-up desire to leave something behind. To touch something that doesn’t turn to crap in my hands.

  Except this diary is crap. Sentence fragments. Grammared wrong. Every rule in the book, broken. I bet that asshole Ruggles would have a stroke if he read this. He was my Language Arts teacher the year before I dropped out.

  But Ruggles doesn’t matter, just like the diary doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. One of the fringe benefits of the end of the world.

  Ah. Popped the tab on a cold one. Reneau, the bum that lives behind the shopping center, bought me a six-pack. Of course, I had to give him money so he could buy himself some wine. No skin off my nose. I ripped off Dad’s wallet for a twenty. Reneau’s pretty cool, for a fucking homeless jerk. As a matter of fact, that’s one dude who’s glad the end is here. When you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose. Those were his exact words. Double negatives. Ruggles would be rolling over in his grave, if he was already dead.

  Fuck Ruggles.

  And fuck you, Diary.

  October 30

  Dear Diary,

  I lied.

  Way the hell back in September I promised that I’d write in you every day. But I’m as faithless as a whore.

  So sue me.

  I’ve missed weeks at a stretch, but hey, when you’re young and doomed, it’s hard to slow down long enough to sit at some desk with a pen in your hand. It’s easy for you. All you got to do is lay there like a woman, all white and clean and blank.

  I’m the one who has to come up with all the deep thoughts. But I’ll try to do better. Acid today. Lonnie came up with some paper blotter from somewhere. The hits had drawings of Mickey Mouse on them. Can you believe that? A drug maker with a sense of humor.

  The world could use more humor. Saw a guy in a business suit today wearing out the sidewalk on LaCroix Row, where all those fancy-assed shops are. He was carrying a sign that said, “Jesus Loves You.”

  I laughed, and the guy got this weird look on his face. He stops walking and says, “What’s so funny?”

  “If Jesus loves me, why am I in hell?” I say.

  Then he goes, “The end is near.”

  I go, “Big woop.” You’d think the guy was the first one who ever came up with that line, he was so intense about it. I was tripping pretty heavy by then. “Repent and be saved,” he says.

  He had an orange stain on his collar. How the hell do you get an orange stain on your collar? I mean, gravy or lipstick or red wine, I could understand. But here I was grooving on this orange stain that was sort of shaped like a flower. Then the flower turned into a burning bush, and I started freaking a little.

  The guy was all smiles then, figuring he’d got himself in good with Jesus by setting me on the righteous path and putting the fear of God in me. But I’ve always had the fear of God. That’s what God’s all about, isn’t it?

  Didn’t some dude in the Bible see a burning bush out in the desert? Maybe he found some psychedelic mushrooms or something. Visions have to come from somewhere. They don’t just pop out of thin air. I hope the guy with the Jesus sign is the first to fry when January One rolls around. I’d pay money to see that happen. Sleepy now. Took two Quaaludes to come down from the acid. Good old stumble biscuits.

  Nighty night.

  November 2

  That was a hell of a party.

  Halloween. Let’s see, was that two or three days ago? Whatever.

  Me and Lonnie went over to Denita’s. Her folks were gone. They’re as rich as royalty, and they figure you can’t take it with you, right? So they’re jetting all over the world, trying to see it all before the big bang or whatever.

  They left the liquor cabinet stocked. I was lazy this year, I went as a bum. I traded Reneau one of my Dad’s suits and five bucks for his nasty rags. I put them on, and I smelled like I’d been sleeping in a hog pen. Pretty cool.

  Denita was dressed as a ballerina or something. Made herself up to look like a little girl, with buckled shoes and a big bow in her hair. The jocks were on her like flies on shit. I don’t know how many she had that night, but she was never one to turn anybody away, even back when AIDS and getting pregnant mattered. Nobody’s going to live long enough to die from AIDS anymore, so why not go for it?

  Lonnie was dressed in some kind of silver get-up. He’d found one of those ‘70’s disco outfits, with the bell bottoms and wide lapels, and the crazy bastard had spray-painted it with silver glitter. Lonnie really gets into Halloween. He’s the kind that will spend two months working on his costume.

  Roget was there, too. I used to think Roget was a total dick, because he sat at the front of the class and wore glasses and was in the Chemistry Club. But he did an about-face when we learned the end was near, that it was really going to happen and wasn’t just an excuse for a televangelist with big hair to beg for money. Now Roget’s as wild as a one-eyed jackalope.

  We must have smoked twenty joints. I had a fifth of tequila all by myself, and Roget had some coke. I did a few lines, even though the stuff always makes my nose bleed. The jocks kept going in and coming out of Denita’s room. The other girls there were jealous, but what the hell, it was her party, right?

  I had the hots for one of the girls there. Melanie. I love that name. But she’s kind of shy and serious, and she hung out in the corner talking to one of the fat chicks all night. Probably debating Shakespeare or something. Even as buzzed as I was, I couldn’t get up the nerve to go over and talk to her. Did I just write that? Looks stupid as hell, right there in black and white. The world is over, and I can’t get up the nerve. Well, hell, these are weird times.

  I didn’t talk to her, but I sure checked her out. She was dressed in one of those Japanese things, a kimono. Her black hair was tied back and she’d done some makeup to her eyes that made them look slanted. She pretended like she didn’t notice what was happening in Denita’s room.

  By midnight, I was pretty wasted. I almost took a turn with Denita myself, but I was afraid of what Melanie would think if she saw me. As it was, I ended up going home with Lonnie. He does it as good as a girl, and he doesn’t need cuddling after. Don’t you dare tell anybody, Diary.

  I don’t want anybody to think I’m a fucking queer or something.

  November 3

  I hate Dad.

  Fucker accused me of stealing one of his suits.

  He’s a lawyer. A lot of people quit their jobs when they found out what was going to happen. Like, what’s the point of working, right? No need to sock it away in a bank account.

  But Dad can’t quit. It’s in his blood. Dad’s a lawyer like Reneau’s a bum like I’m a junkie. You gotta be you, I guess.

  Dad likes to brag about how he didn’t have to pay Mom one dime of alimony. And he got custody. Like keeping me was some kind of victory or something. I guess it was, at least on paper.

  I hate that fucker.

  November 6

  Roget beat the rush.

  I heard the sirens, and usually I don’t give a damn if the whole town is on fire. But this time I got one of those prickly feelings when the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Of course, that could have been the four hits of speed I’d taken.