Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  He’d watched the waxy, frozen faces of his friends, who looked about to engage in a bizarre open-eyed kiss.

  “Because of your disadvantage, I gave you a watered down version of the serum… You should come around in say… two hours, which means I better get to work. If you do manage to escape, then consider us even.”

  They were still motionless, but in his mind he imagined them screaming, pleading for their lives. It made him smile. He took out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the scene, which had since resided in his wallet behind his driver’s license and a photo of his parents. He then put the lid in place and hammered in six nails, the same number he’d had to contend with. He then went to work filling the hole as the sun poured down on his back.

  He smiled and wondered if God would forgive him when his time to pass finally did come. He could have gone to the police and had them arrested, prosecuted and convicted, but for what? A few years in a comfortable prison, then free again in the world?

  No.

  There had been no other way, and he hoped that would be taken into account when his judgment came. He left some money for his drink and stood, stretching as he watched the sun begin to fade below the horizon line. He slipped the photograph back into his wallet, and gazed briefly at the second item, a small piece of paper folded carefully into four. He unfolded it, his eyes drifting over the list even though he had long ago memorized it.

  List of items:

  Zombie serum?

  Rope

  Car keys (Jim)

  Strong wood for coffin

  Tape measure

  Hammer

  Nails

  Shovel

  Gloves

  2 x bags of ready mix concrete (for hole)

  He put the paper back in his wallet. He had told them what to expect. He said would give them almost the same chance to escape. Even without the concrete, he doubted they would have been able to get out of the coffin anyway.

  He glanced over at the ocean, the sun almost gone now apart from a golden sliver, which still hung above the horizon. He didn’t like the night, not anymore, and always made sure to be indoors before the sun fully set. Too many shadows in the dark. Too many cold, wet things that could be dragging themselves around unseen. They couldn’t come into the light though. That’s not how it went. Those were the rules. He smiled to himself as he began to walk, and he quickly became another anonymous figure, lost in the densely crowded Rio streets.

  It was good to be alive.

  NO. 5 SYCAMORE ST.

  Alex looked at himself in the rearview mirror, smoothed a stubborn lock of hair into place, and checked that his tie was straight. Finally satisfied, he picked up the stack of pamphlets from the passenger seat, then shut off the engine and climbed from the car. It was a beautiful day. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue, and birds were already in full song down the length of Sycamore Street. It was a perfect example of middle America suburbia. Tasteful, neat homes with beautifully trimmed lawns and white picket fences. He paused by the car, enjoying the beauty of it all. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the jolly jingle of an ice cream truck making its rounds and whipping the local children into a frenzy. He thought this was the kind of place he would like to live someday, maybe after he retired. Somewhere quiet where he could sit in a rocker by his front door and watch the world go by. But that was farther down the line. Right now, he had a job to do.

  He inhaled deeply, allowing himself a contented smile. He loved this job. At first, the idea of spreading the word of God grated with him. He was never religious, at least until the last few years. But sometimes things happen in life that change your outlook—make you re-access the situation. Yes sir. Now he lived to spread the word of his church. He felt alive there, and his parish loved him. They praised his commitment and his drive, but they didn’t know that it hadn’t always been this way. Indeed, there was a time when Alex Childs only stepped inside church for funerals, weddings, and occasionally at Christmas if his wife managed to force it on him.

  That was when he used to work for a man called Victor.

  Victor was a nasty piece of work. He was a drug runner, up to his neck in all sorts of activities, and none of them legal. He was a large, flabby man with small eyes and a long cruel mouth. Every time Alex was summoned to the back room of Victor’s restaurant in downtown New York, there were always two things that were guaranteed: that Victor would be eating and sweating, both in massive amounts. He would also be guarded by at least two of his staff, who were never far away if trouble should arise. Sometimes his brother Salvatore would be there, but he was different from Victor. He didn’t give off the same oozing sense of insincerity, and seemed like a fairly decent guy as far as mob families went. Of course, Alex would never say that to Victor in person. He didn’t want to end up missing a finger, or taking the express line to the bottom of the ocean in a pair of cement shoes.

  Alex was the man Victor would call in to do jobs that required a hands on, yet clinical touch.

  Alex was very good at his job.

  He was certainly moving up the ladder in Victor’s organization, and had developed quite a reputation of his own.

  “Aleeeex,” Victor would drawl in his thick Italian accent as he slurped down his spaghetti.

  “Nobody gets a joooob done like you doooo my frieeeend. Stick with me and you wiiiill go farrrr…”

  Alex never really liked Victor, but knew enough never to question him. He had seen what happened to people who got on Victor’s bad side. In fact, it was often someone like Alex who would be sent out to deal with those people.

  As he looked around him now at the lush green lawns and the beautiful pale morning sky, which was cloudless apart from a few cotton wool smudges, he thanked God for the fortunate intervention. For without it, he too might be an overweight mass of flesh, surrounded by frightened thugs waiting on his every whim. No sir, he wouldn’t go back there. Not for all the tea in China, or all the money in Victor’s deep pockets. Even so, he still had a lot of blood on his hands, and although he wasn’t there yet, he was working on redeeming himself.

  He remembered the day that everything in his life had changed. He often thought about it when he found himself questioning his faith. He’d been sent to do one of his special jobs for Victor. He was ordered to pay a visit to a guy in Queens who was late on his loan repayments and had started to drag his heels. He remembered Victor’s instructions clearly.

  “Either briiiing me my money, or bring me soooome body parts.”

  The man owed fifty grand, but only had four when Alex called. Later, as he made his way back to Victor, his right inside jacket pocket contained the four grand. His left contained a bag with three fingers, seven teeth, and half an ear.

  Lesson learned.

  You don’t fuck with Victor.

  Although he didn’t know it at the time, divine intervention had already begun. Alex drove a big Pontiac Firebird. It was black and had a gold eagle painted on the hood. Some would say it looked sporty, but Alex always thought it looked mean. He liked the sound of it when he fired the engine, the aggressive way it growled, spat, and grunted, as if it came from hell itself. He hadn’t paid attention to the no parking signs as he pulled up outside Tony Valentine’s apartment block. If he had, he would have parked a little farther down, but he was keen to get on with the job. When he returned twenty minutes later with his knuckles raw and bleeding, he found his beloved Firebird clamped and ticketed. He was furious, more at his own stupidity, as he now had no option but to return to his pasta slurping employer on foot. It was an amateur mistake. His hands and shirt had been spattered with blood, which made the journey incredibly risky. He pulled his jacket around his neck and thrust his hands into his pockets, which did and adequate job of hiding the mess. Deciding there was no point crying over spilled milk, he set off walking, hoping to maybe flag a taxi a little farther down the street. He was just starting to calm down when he heard the unmistakable wail of a police cruiser. It rockete
d around the corner, tires squealing in protest and casting its harsh blue and red lights onto the darkened streets. Alex ducked casually into an alleyway, pushing himself into a recessed archway as far as he could as the car raced past him. Suddenly he felt a strange tingling in his left arm as alarm bells began to ring in his head.

  Please, not now.

  He willed himself to remain calm, thinking not of his health, but the bags in his pockets and the blood on his clothes. A heart attack was not something he could afford right now. He was sweating profusely, holding onto the wall with gritted teeth, willing the feeling to pass. He felt the vice-like grip on his chest begin to loosen slightly, and thought he might actually be ok, when he was overcome by incapacitating agony. He couldn’t breathe, and could only manage a weak gasp as he staggered forwards into the street. He managed a couple of slow, lurching steps before he fell, smashing his face into the pavement as the pressure in his chest increased. He began to drift in and out of consciousness, and was vaguely aware of the crowd of people gathering around him, ghostly faces swimming in and out of focus. Alex accepted what he was sure was his death.

  Twenty-nine.

  That’s how old he was when it happened. His next memory was of waking up dazed and groggy in a hospital bed with his ashen faced wife beside him. Her eyes were relieved, but pleading for answers. She knew he worked for Victor, but not in the capacity that he did. She thought he was a manager of one of Victor’s export businesses, but that was merely a cover. Every part of him hurt. He tried to talk, but couldn’t muster the strength. Suddenly his memory returned and he remembered the bag—the bag containing the non-essential (but incredibly incriminating) parts of Tony Valentine that he had forcibly removed. Surely they had found it, perhaps as a nurse removed his clothes as they tried to save his life. He could imagine her screaming and dropping the bag on the floor, the other doctors recoiling in horror.

  It would transpire that on this occasion, luck was on his side. Two things happened that managed to get him off the hook:

  First was the heart attack itself. When he’d fallen he had smashed his face on the curb, which explained away the blood on his shirt. Then there was the bag. Each day he waited for the police to arrive and question him about it, but they never showed. He did receive a visit from one of Victor’s men, however. Alex had seen him before, but couldn’t remember his name. He thought it might have been Gino or Giuseppe, but wasn’t certain. The man sat beside the bed, watching carefully with shifty rat eyes. He eventually leaned in close and said:

  “Boss sent me to tell you not to worry. We took care of the bag.”

  It was as simple as that. Victor had come through for him.

  “He also said with that ticker of yours, he can’t keep you on the payroll. Here—” He pushed a sealed envelope into the pocket of Alex’s trousers, which were neatly folded over a stand by his bed.

  “Five G’s for the job, as agreed. Plus an extra hundred grand for not spilling your guts.”

  Alex nodded, but honestly wasn’t sure if he had spilled his guts or not. He couldn’t remember the events immediately after the accident, and he was still woozy from the medication.

  “Take it easy, pal. You had a close call,” said rat-features as he stood and walked away without looking back.

  Just like that, Alex was out of the game, and with more money than he’d made in the last year and a half. Something told him to heed it as a warning, that maybe he was meant for a better life than that of a thug.

  He looked down at the pamphlets in his hands as he crossed the street and prepared to start work. The sun was warm and the breeze cool. It was the perfect day for working outdoors, spreading the good word of God. It was difficult at times. Most people were unwilling to listen, and he noticed with dismay that the world had become a cynical place, desensitized to the value of a true miracle. But there was still hope, as scattered amongst the dark that lived in many were a few bright souls who were just waiting to be given something to believe in. This was his third street of the day, and already he had found a few people interested enough to come to one of the sermons at his church the following Sunday. He had high hopes for this street. There was a wealthy vibe to it, and the rich in Alex’s experience were often more tolerant than the rude lower classes. As he prepared to begin, his mind drifted once more to his former life and the change that made him the man he was today.

  The hospital discharged him three weeks later. He’d been even luckier than he initially thought. They told him he died three times on the operating table, and they were about to give up on the resuscitation, when they managed to get a faint pulse. The instructions were clear enough; no stress, less salt, less fatty foods, more exercise—but not too much at first. He listened closely, as his brush with death had made him appreciate life even more. Even without the payoff from Victor, he had already decided to change his ways. God had seen fit to give him another chance at life, and he intended to make the most of it by spreading the word and hoping to one day be forgiven his sins. His wife Lori had been skeptical at first, but understood why it meant so much to him. And once she had seen the passion with which he approached his new faith, she got behind him wholeheartedly.

  As the months turned into years, his old life had faded away, and his tireless work with the church was rewarded as he was made a minister. He was no preacher, but he definitely believed there was a higher power looking out for him, and he wanted to tell people about it—to share it.

  The first two houses he visited had been busts – a disinterested middle aged man at number one who seemed well on his way to being drunk (just after ten a.m. on a Wednesday morning), and the woman who lived at number three was just leaving the house as Alex approached with his pamphlets. There was no point in getting frustrated though, it was simply the nature of the game.

  He approached the third house on the street, number five, and looked it up and down. Well-kept gardens. Neat and tidy driveway. Clean windows and curtains. He had learned from experience that the house was often a good representation of the owner’s character, and Alex thought the occupier of number five might well be willing to hear him out. He opened the gate carefully, whistling tunelessly as he walked up the neat pathway to the door. He took a moment to compose himself, then put on his best smile and knocked, waiting patiently for the occupier to answer. He was about to leave, when the door was opened just a crack. He could see a floating female eye peering through, watching him suspiciously.

  “Yes?” said the faceless eye, looking him up and down.

  Here we go Alex. Showtime.

  “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Alex, and I wonder if I might talk to you a little about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?”

  He smiled warmly at the floating eye, which continued to look at him distrustfully.

  “You aren’t trying to sell anything, are you?” came the shrill voice from the other side of the door.

  “No, ma’am. Of course not. I merely wish to speak with you, that’s all.”

  Silence.

  “You had better come in then.”

  Alex heard the chain slide free.

  Ten minutes later, he was sipping a cup of tea in Mrs. Bendtner’s sitting room as she fussed in the kitchen. He looked about the room, noting that it was the typical dwelling of a lonely old woman. High-backed chairs with gaudy floral patterns, mantle place full of photographs of what Alex presumed were her grandchildren, and on the small table by her chair (he could tell it was hers as it looked far more worn than the one in which he was seated) was an old black and white photograph of a much younger Mrs. Bendtner alongside a man who Alex presumed was Mr. Bendtner, holding a chubby baby in her arms.

  She shuffled back into the room carrying a try of cakes and sandwiches, her slippers making a swish swoosh sound as they padded the carpet. He looked at the old lady and smiled warmly. If you were to pick up a dictionary and look up the word ‘grandma,’ you would surely find a picture of Mrs. Bendtner, standing there with her tray of cakes.
She was a small woman, her skin heavily lined with the toils of age. Her hair was a curly white permed mass, and her tired brown eyes looked out with semi-glazed indifference. Age had not been kind to poor Mrs. Bendtner, Alex thought, as he compared her to the picture by her seat. She set the sandwiches on the coffee table and shuffled slowly to her own chair, sitting with some effort.

  “Please, help yourself to a sandwich,” she said as she wrung her hands together fretfully.

  “Thank you,” said Alex, noting a slight accent to the old woman’s voice. Russian perhaps? Maybe Polish. Definitely eastern European. Alex selected a cheese and cucumber sandwich and took a small bite. It was good, and he quickly finished the rest before helping himself to another.

  “These are delicious, Mrs. Bendtner.”

  “I don’t have much cause to make a fuss these days. My children are grown up and don’t really visit.”

  Bingo. Here was an old lady looking for something to fill her life with.

  Alex nodded sympathetically. “It must be lonely,” he said as he took another bite of his second sandwich, this one egg and cress.

  “It is. I miss my William dearly,” she said sadly, glancing at the picture beside her.

  “I’m sure God is looking after him, Mrs. Bendtner—in fact, that’s why I’ve come to you today, to speak of the great Lord himself.”

  She looked at him then, a flicker of coldness in her eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

  “I’m not sure if I believe in God anymore, young man,” she said with a shake of her head, the European twang to her voice more evident this time.

  “Please, call me Alex.”

  She failed to respond, instead taking a sip of her tea. He thought he could lose this one if he didn’t move quickly.

  “May I ask why you don’t believe in our Lord, Mrs. Bendtner?”

  “I know God, and let me tell you, he is no savior.”