Razorblade Dreams: Horror Stories

by Mark Lukens

  He approached her side of the bed cautiously. He pulled the covers back away from her pajama shirt. Cheryl’s pajamas were laid out underneath the covers, the pants below the shirt, and socks at the ends of the pants legs; the socks were still tucked into the cuffs of the pants legs just a bit.

  “What the hell is this?” Jeff whispered to himself. He turned and looked at the double doors that led out to the living room and the rest of the house.

  “Cheryl?”

  No answer from Cheryl.

  He looked back down at the pajamas and socks. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach, and he felt a slight electrical tingling on his skin. The fine hairs on his arms felt like they were standing on end, prickling his flesh.

  Something was really wrong here.

  There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe Cheryl was playing some kind of joke on him. But Cheryl wasn’t the joking kind of person. He loved his wife to death, but she saw little humor in things. If they watched a comedy film together, Jeff would laugh like an idiot through the whole thing while Cheryl couldn’t wait for the film to end. Jeff couldn’t make Cheryl laugh with a joke; he told a friend once that the only way he could make Cheryl laugh was if he fell down and hurt himself.

  And Cheryl definitely didn’t find that funny.

  Jeff was about to leave the bedroom and search the house for Cheryl, but he hesitated for a moment beside the bed.

  He needed to get going . . . he needed to jump in the shower (which probably wouldn’t have any hot water now) and get dressed for work.

  But he was still hesitating. He needed to check something.

  It’s just a power outage, he told himself. That’s all. Cheryl got up and threw her pajamas back on the bed.

  Under the covers? Laid out like she was still sleeping in them?

  And when had Cheryl, the neat-freak, ever just tossed her pajamas back on the bed after getting dressed?

  Jeff reached down for the waist of the pajama pants and lifted the edge of it up slightly so he could peek inside. He saw a pair of light blue panties inside the pajama pants. He let the waistband of the pajama pants slip out of his fingers, and he took a step back away from the bed.

  Why would she do that? Why would she lay her bed clothes out like this after getting up?

  He grabbed the covers and pulled them back over the pajamas—he didn’t want to look at them anymore. And that’s when he saw something shiny on the bed near the end of one pajama sleeve. He leaned down to get a closer look. It was her wedding ring.

  A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Jeff—Cheryl had left him. She’d gotten up, gotten dressed, laid her pajamas out like she was leaving him some kind of twisted message, took off her wedding ring and tossed it on the bed. Then she had turned the main breaker off and left.

  But why? Did they have a fight last night? He couldn’t really remember. He remembered drinking a few beers, maybe a few more than normal even though he had to get up early. But the beer helped him fall asleep. He forced his sluggish mind back to last night, and the last thing he could remember was taking the garbage cans out to the curb.

  “The garbage cans need to go out,” Cheryl had told him.

  “I know,” he’d groaned at her as he walked towards the laundry room that led out to the garage. He already had the garbage bag in his hand from the kitchen waste basket when she had reminded him. Too late—he was already on top of it.

  And then Jeff remembered going through the side door in the garage that led outside. He had walked a few steps to the wooden gate that opened up to their fenced-in backyard. He had taken the lid off the big green garbage can and stuffed the white bag of garbage down into it, pushing it down so he could close the lid. And then . . .

  That was all he could remember.

  Like he had blacked out the rest of the night.

  He thought harder for a few seconds, concentrating. He could clearly see himself stuffing the garbage bag down into the big green garbage can. He needed to get the lid on or the crows would be pecking at the garbage by sunup; one of the joys of living in Florida—all of the critters. But he couldn’t remember anything after that no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t remember going back inside, going to bed, nothing.

  Maybe he and Cheryl had argued. Maybe he’d gotten a little too drunk and said something mean to her.

  Or maybe Cheryl had been planning on leaving him for quite a while now.

  No, she wouldn’t leave him. That was ridiculous. He just needed to find her. He hurried out of their bedroom and into the living room. The house they rented was pretty large—three bedrooms even though they didn’t have any kids yet (but they hadn’t exactly been trying like hell lately). The other two bedrooms were at the other end of the house. They used one of the bedrooms as a workout room and the other as a guest bedroom slash office slash storage.

  “Cheryl!” he called out. His voice echoed through the empty house and bounced back down to him from the vaulted ceilings.

  Jeff rushed through the house, checking the kitchen, the family room, even opening the sliding glass door that led out to the screened-in pool. Usually when he opened the sliding glass door their cat, Mickens, came running—she liked to go out there and catch lizards and frogs, and then try to sneak them back inside the house so she could torture them.

  But Mickens didn’t come running.

  Jeff went back into the kitchen. His mind was spinning. He looked down at his clothes and realized that he was fully dressed (except his shoes). He had on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and socks. Had he slept in his clothes? Why would he do that? Had he gotten that drunk?

  A sudden queasy feeling hit him like a punch in the gut, and his mouth went dry. He was suddenly very thirsty. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper. It was warm to the touch.

  How long had the electricity been out?

  He popped the can open and drank half of the tepid soda down.

  Jeff left the kitchen and entered the laundry room, and then went into the garage.

  Just like last night.

  The garage was pitch-black, and he had to feel his way along in the darkness to the side door. After a few steps into the darkness, he thought about retreating and finding a flashlight, but he was already this far now. He felt his way along the wall, past the air handler for the air-conditioner, and then he bumped into some boxes. For a moment he had a strange feeling that someone was in the darkness with him. He felt that tingling feeling of fear buzzing on his skin again.

  Another strange thought entered his mind as he navigated his way through the darkness. Maybe Cheryl had been murdered, and the killer had laid her clothes out on the bed beside him while he slept. Maybe the killer was waiting in the darkness of the garage to attack him . . .

  Jeff found the side door of the garage. He unlocked the deadbolt and then twisted the lock on the door handle. He pushed the door open. A dull sunlit morning invaded the garage, washing him in the light as he stood in the doorway. The breaker box was right near the side door, mounted on the block wall.

  Cheryl wouldn’t have turned the electricity off when she left. Why would she do that?

  Jeff checked the breakers anyway, just to be sure. They were all switched on but he flipped the main breaker back and forth; it made a loud clicking noise.

  He looked back at the open side door. He was getting that queasy feeling in his gut again that something was very wrong here. He was in trouble. Something was wrong. No, everything was wrong. It was like his body instinctively knew this, but his mind was fighting it.

  He needed to go outside, make sure Cheryl’s car was still out there in the driveway—then he would know for sure if she had left him.

  Jeff thought about going back inside the house to put a pair of shoes on before going outside, but then he saw his sneakers that he used for mowing the lawn sitting near the door on the concrete floor. The sneakers used to be white, but they had turned a grayish color with green stains around the edges from weed-e
ating, edging, and mowing. He had to stay on top of the yard in this neighborhood; if the grass was an inch too high some busy-body neighbor would go and cry to the HOA.

  He slipped his socked feet into the sneakers; the laces were already tied and seemed to be gummed into place with crud. After his sneakers were on, he walked to the open side door and went outside.

  After he’d walked only a few steps along the side of the house, he could already see his SUV, a Chevy Equinox, in the driveway. And after only three more steps, he saw Cheryl’s Kia Optima parked right next to it.

  Her car was here, but she wasn’t inside the house.

  And don’t forget that her pajamas were laid out in the bed with her socks stuffed into the bottom of the legs and her underwear inside of them with her wedding ring on the bed covers. No, don’t forget those odd little details.

  Jeff’s mind returned to the possibility that Cheryl was playing a joke on him. But this would be the first time ever in their relationship that she had played a joke, and if this was some kind of prank, then it was a doozy.

  He was about to go back inside the house and look for her, but he hesitated beside the house. Their house was on a corner lot. He looked down the street, but he didn’t see anything moving. He didn’t hear any sounds except for the stale wind rustling through the trees. He couldn’t even hear the cars and trucks driving by out on State Road 54 which ran right outside their sub-division. He had learned to tune out the traffic noise over the last few months, but now that he concentrated on it he couldn’t hear it. It was so odd that the sound wasn’t there. He felt another cramp of fear in his stomach.

  Why wasn’t there any traffic noise? There wasn’t the sound of a dump truck rumbling by, or the sound of a honking horn, or screeching tires.

  Nothing.

  He stood very still and felt the fear dancing on his skin like static electricity. He could feel a white-hot ball of panic trying to build up inside of him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Fight it,” he whispered.

  Why was he whispering? There was no one out here. When was he going to admit that to himself?

  But there had to be a reasonable explanation. He wasn’t sure what time of day it was, but maybe a lot of people were already at work. And that’s where he should be right now.

  The other thing that bothered him was six houses down the street. There was a car parked in the middle of the street. It was a small car, maybe a Toyota or a Honda. But the car wasn’t just parked there in the middle of the street, it was running. He could hear the car idling from where he stood—the running engine was the only other sound out here other than the death-rattle of the dry leaves in the trees from the breeze. It didn’t look like anyone was inside the car.

  Jeff was torn for a moment. He wanted to go back inside and look for Cheryl again—really take his time—but he also wanted to walk down to that car. He thought about shouting down the street at the car, but the familiar tug of not wanting to embarrass himself in front of his neighbors held him back.

  What neighbors?! his mind screamed at him.

  He forced himself to move, ignoring the voice in his mind. As he walked down the street on his rather unsteady legs, Jeff glanced at each of the houses. The windows were dark, and he hadn’t seen any flashes of movement anywhere. He hadn’t heard any dogs barking. He didn’t hear any birds chirping or see any of the ubiquitous squirrels scurrying back and forth indecisively in the road.

  When he reached the rear of the white car parked in the middle of the road, he could hear the motor a little better now—a soft purring noise. He looked at the back window, but even this close he couldn’t see anyone inside.

  “Hello?”

  No answer, just the steady hum of the car’s engine.

  He crept down the side of the car and stood by the driver’s window which was rolled all the way down. He looked inside the car, and it felt like his heart stopped for a second.

  This can’t be real. This has to be a dream. That’s it! I’m stuck in a nightmare and I’ll wake up soon next to Cheryl and tell her about this crazy dream I had. And then I’ll hug her. I won’t care if I’m late for work. Fuck work. I’ll just hold on to her for a while.

  Inside the car was a set of clothes laid out on the driver’s seat; some kind of khaki pants, the legs draped down to the floorboard where there was a pair of dark socks tucked down inside a pair of brown shoes. One of the shoes was even resting lightly on the gas pedal. The shirt was slumped down on top of the lap of the pants.

  There was another set of clothes on the passenger seat—a set of woman’s clothes: a black skirt draped down over the seat of the car with a pair of pantyhose hanging down to the floorboard still tucked down inside a pair of sensible heels. The shirt, made of some kind of shiny material that Jeff couldn’t name, was slumped down on the skirt just like the man’s clothes. And even from the driver’s side window Jeff could see an assortment of jewelry on the woman’s shirt: a necklace, two rings, a bracelet.

  Okay! Time to wake up now!

  The car was still in drive; it looked like it had coasted to a stop right here in the middle of the street.

  Jeff looked back down the street towards his house.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone here?”

  No answer.

  “Hello?! Answer me!”

  Silence.

  “Somebody answer me right now!” He no longer cared about embarrassing himself or seeming rude. He would welcome one of the fussy old people who lived in this neighborhood to open their front door and yell at him to keep it down.

  He turned back around to the car, and something at the next house caught his attention. The front door was halfway open. Had it been open before? Had it just opened up? He couldn’t really remember.

  He ran towards the house.

  But before he made it halfway up the walkway that meandered through the manicured, tropical shrubbery, he slowed down to a disappointed walk because he saw the pile of clothes on the threshold of the doorway. In front of the pile of clothes was a plastic travel cup on the concrete walkway with a spray of caramel-colored liquid fanning out from the mouth of it. These clothes were piled up like the person wearing them had evaporated in an instant, and the clothes had fallen straight down in a heap because suddenly there wasn’t a body to hold them up anymore.

  Jeff walked to the front door and stared down at the clothes which looked like some kind of gray business suit. Maybe this person had worked in a bank. Or maybe he had been a real estate agent. There was a slim black briefcase slumped in the doorway. He could look inside that briefcase and discover the man’s occupation, but he didn’t really care right now. The man was gone. He wouldn’t be doing any more banking or selling or meeting or managing or whatever the hell he used to do.

  A wristwatch and a set of car keys were nestled among the clothing. Jeff crouched down in front of the heap of clothes and touched the spilled coffee. It was cold. He picked up the watch. It was still ticking away, and it showed the time as eleven fifteen a.m.

  Jeff stood up and slipped the watch into his pants pocket. He stepped over the clothes and entered the home. It felt strange being in someone else’s house without their permission. The house was tastefully decorated (but Cheryl would have found it too cluttered—not her style at all). The house was somewhat similar to the one they rented, but laid out a little differently.

  “Hello?” Jeff called out. He was getting used to not hearing a response, and his greetings were starting to sound stupid to his own ears. “Is someone here?”

  The house was quiet . . . like a tomb.

  Jeff found three more piles of clothes in the kitchen. There were two sets of children’s clothes at the table off of the kitchen. There was a box of cereal on the table next to a gallon of milk. There were two bowls of half-eaten cereal with the spoon in one bowl, and another milk-coated spoon on the floor. He touched the gallon of milk—it was warm.

  By the sink in the kitchen
, there was a robe and a T-shirt crumpled up on the floor over a pair of slippers. That pile of clothes used to be Mom.

  He walked back to the formal living room and collapsed on the couch. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

  “This is just a dream,” he whispered. “Just some terrible nightmare that I’m going to wake up from any minute now.”

  He started to cry. Then he sobbed. The piles of children’s clothes got to him. Two little kids erased while they were eating their Lucky Charms.

  “Magically delicious,” he whispered through his tears.

  He almost laughed out loud.

  But he couldn’t let himself do that. If he started laughing, he was afraid he wouldn’t stop until his mind cracked right in half.

  What am I going to do now? What am I supposed to do?

  Jeff went back home. He checked a few more houses along the way and found piles of clothes with no bodies inside them anymore. He found clothing laid out over beds, piles of clothes in kitchens and bathrooms. He found one set of clothes on a toilet, part of the clothes inside the toilet bowl now, clogging it up. In another bathroom there was a set of clothes laid out on the counter, and the shower was wet. He turned on the faucet, but only a little bit of water dripped out. No water. No electricity. No nothing.

  He found a battery-operated radio in the house next door to his. He turned it on, and it worked. He turned the dial slowly, but there was nothing but static. He cried again as he listened to the static, but he got himself under control a little more quickly this time. He turned the radio off and took it with him. He might listen to it later—the hiss of static might be better than the unending silence.

  Back in his own house, he drank another can of warm Dr. Pepper. Then he laid down on the couch in the living room. He set the stolen radio and wristwatch on the coffee table next to his empty can of soda. Cheryl would’ve scolded him about leaving his empty can on the table, and right now he would’ve welcomed it. He would love to hear her voice right now even if she was yelling at him.