Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  Alex nodded slowly, perplexed at this response. Perhaps the old woman was senile, or on her way at least.

  “I once felt as you do, Mrs. Bendtner. I was a man without faith, without direction. Yet I was saved, and I thank God every day for his intervention.”

  “Intervention?” she laughed heartily, causing Alex to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

  “He is no more interested in you than you are an ant. God is cruel, and enjoys watching us play out our miserable lives in desperation and pain.”

  The venom in her words took him aback. Recovering quickly, he set down his plate and handed over one of the pamphlets. She took it from him, and read it carefully as he spoke.

  “We at The Church of the Divine would be happy to show you the way our Lord loves each of us. If you were able to join us a week from Sunday we…”

  She looked up at him with a smile that held no humor.

  “Love? What does he know of love? As much as you, I suspect,” she said firmly, the strange twang of her dialect coming through even more now.

  Somewhere in his mind, a long-forgotten alarm bell began to ring. The alarm bell of self-preservation. He pushed it away and continued.

  “I must disagree, Mrs. Bendtner. I have been fortunate to find solace in his love.”

  She chuckled dryly.

  “No. You survived a near fatal heart attack that should have killed you, and you think God was responsible. But we know different, don’t we? Do you really think it was God who got rid of Tony Valentine’s teeth and fingers for you?” she said with a long, ugly smile that seemed to stretch too far across her face.

  He couldn’t speak. How could she know? Nobody knew. His tongue felt like a deadweight as it lay on the floor of his mouth, unwilling to cooperate. Finally the words came out—

  “I’m sorry… I really don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am.”

  She smiled, a ghastly, wide smile showing her teeth, which were crooked and yellow. Her eyes burned with contempt.

  “Oh yes you do. I know all about you and your kind, murdering dog!”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave, Mrs. Bendtner. I’m starting feel unwell.”

  It was true. Nausea was rolling through him in waves, and he was suddenly hot. He lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but it felt heavy and disconnected from him. Mrs. Bendtner smiled and licked her lips greedily.

  “That will be the muscle relaxants I slipped into the sandwiches. I’m afraid you won’t be able to move for some time, but the nausea will pass in a few moments.”

  Terror. He tried to lurch to his feet, his legs immediately buckling as he fell forwards, crashing into the glass table, which gave out spectacularly under his weight, sending shimmering diamonds of glass exploding outwards. He was face down and unable to move. He could see the fleshy remains of the sandwiches scattered around him, along with shards of the broken table. He heard the scuffle of the old woman’s slippers as she stood and moved close to him.

  “Where is your God now?”

  “Please… Why have you done this to me?”

  “Because you and I have something to discuss.”

  “You are a crazy old bitch!” he spat.

  “Why don’t you pray to him, for forgiveness? Your God. The Great Almighty.”

  Her voice was mockingly cold, and that alone was enough to terrify Alex.

  “What do you want?” he asked quietly, wishing he could see what she was doing behind him.

  “I want to talk to you about your sins.”

  “What sins? I have no idea what you are talking about!”

  “Tell me about Victor.”

  Silence.

  This woman, old and decrepit as she appeared to be, was so much more.

  “I think you are mistaken, ma’am. I don’t know anyone called Victor.”

  “Really,” she said as she stood and approached the fireplace. She picked up her walking stick with a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. Alex craned his neck and noticed that it was one of the old-fashioned kind—a thick length of dark polished oak with a black rubber stopper on the end.

  “I’ll say it again. Tell me about Victor.”

  He could hear that European twang again in her voice, the V of Victor sounding more like a ‘W.’ It was no longer the voice of a sweet old woman, but that of an interrogator.

  “Look, I really don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t know any Victor. I’m here to spread the word of…”

  Agony.

  She had jammed the end of the walking stick into the back of his hand, leaning all of her weight on it, twisting it back and forth. He felt one of the small bones snap as he cried out in pain. Finally she released the pressure, though his hand still throbbed hotly. Returning to her chair and sitting calmly, Mrs. Bendtner lay the stick across her knees and watched him with cold, cruel eyes.

  “Young man, do not make the mistake of underestimating me. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  He believed her. Despite the complete absurdity of the situation, he truly believed that this old woman was dangerous. He looked at his hand, an ugly round bruise already forming.

  “Look, Mrs. Bendtner, just tell me what you want, I’m sure God can…”

  She laughed at him, again showing those crooked, yellow teeth.

  “Save your prayers, young man. Your God is not welcome in this house… Now tell me about Victor.”

  It was hopeless. She knew. He didn’t know how, but she knew. Despite the care he had taken to construct a new life, she knew about Victor. Knew about him. From somewhere deep inside, he found a little of his old self, a nugget of instinct, a tiny voice that said: buddy, she’s got you.

  “Ok look, I used to work for Victor, but it was a long time ago,” Alex blurted through a mouth full of carpet fibers.

  She stood again and shuffled towards him. He could smell her, like mints and mothballs and dry rot. She was holding the walking stick loosely by her side, swinging it with intent. She wanted him to see it. Alex knew well enough from his old life that the idea of pain was often more effective than the physical response itself. Mrs. Bendtner seemed to know this as well.

  “Very good. Now tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you really intend to test me young man?”

  “Please, I swear to you I don’t know. I haven’t worked for him in a long time, I—”

  She hit him in the face with the walking stick, the wood smashing into his nose and teeth. His vision swam in and out of focus as he spat out a great gout of blood, along with two broken teeth. His eyes fell on the white slivers where they lay, in a pool of red on the carpet. It reminded him of Tony Valentine, and he felt a dizzy giggle flash up his throat. He could feel the warmth flowing down his lips and chin as he struggled to compose himself.

  “Ok, I’ll tell you what I know,” he spat wetly, touching his tongue to the jagged remains of his front teeth.

  Despite the heavy sense of fear that consumed him, he still thought he might have a chance to escape. Already he could feel his fingers and toes beginning to come back to life. He wondered if the muscle relaxants she used were old. Do muscle relaxants have a use by date? He wasn’t sure, but it was the one advantage he might have over this crazy old bitch. He would talk, talk until he was blue in the face and strong enough to make a break for it. He watched now as she returned to her chair. She sat with an arthritic groan, and opened the brown wooden box on the table by her chair, the one Alex thought may have contained old photographs, reading glasses, or a half-eaten packet of Werther’s Original sweets—the general daily clutter of old ladies worldwide. But this was no ordinary old woman. This was some kind of monster. He watched as she pulled out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. Terror, pure and honest terror raced through his mind.

  “What the hell are you doing? I said I’d talk. Please!”

  She expertly filled the syringe, watching him with emotionless eyes as she did so.

>   “Relax, preacher. This is just so we might talk in more comfort.”

  He began to panic as she approached him, her slippers padding along the carpet as she came.

  “What are you doing? What are you doing to me?”

  She crouched and jabbed him in the neck, and he immediately began to feel woozy. His vision danced, and as it faded, he saw one of his pamphlets now strewn across the floor. The question printed on the front in bold, black text seemed as relevant now as ever.

  DOES GOD REALLY LOVE US?

  It was a good question, initially intended to stimulate conversation, to allow him to ease into his sales pitch. After all, wasn’t that what he was? A salesman of God? The question resonated within him, and he would have given it more thought, but his eyelids were now lead weights and he couldn’t keep them open any longer. He passed out.

  2.

  He awoke slowly, and in the haziness of those early seconds he could not remember the terror of what had been. It was only as he became lucid that the fear found him again, and he forced himself to stifle the scream that so desperately wanted to escape.

  He was still in the old lady’s sitting room, although the light had shifted, the shadows now long and menacing, reaching up and branching across the walls. He was no longer on the floor, but instead sat on a sturdy wooden chair. He tried to move, but found that not only were his muscles unresponsive, he was also securely tied to the chair. And not just securely, but expertly—arms behind his back, feet to the chair legs. He was sweating profusely, unable to breathe through his nose, which was clogged with dried blood. He suspected it could well be broken. He swallowed dryly, wincing at the copper taste.

  He looked around the room, which was mostly unchanged, although he could see it had been tidied. The broken remains of the glass table were gone, apart from a few missed shards that glinted like tiny diamonds in the late afternoon sun. He could still see the red stain on the crème carpet where he had bled, although his broken teeth had been disposed of. He ran his tongue across the sharp stumps in his mouth, moaning quietly with the pain. His thoughts were muddled, as if they were forced to wade through a thick fog in order to present themselves. He wondered where she was—his insane captor. Holding his breath, he listened intently, past the irritating tick-tock of the huge grandfather clock against the far wall. He thought he could hear voices. No, not voices. It was the radio. He could hear the steady drawl of the DJ as he pronounced what a beautiful day it had been.

  Not for all of us, pal, he thought to himself as he tried to formulate some kind of plan. He looked up and could see the fireplace, and above it, the rows of old photographs that stood on the mantle. From his seated position he could see himself in the mirror. He thought he felt bad, but he looked even worse. His face was swollen, and his nose had an ugly bend around halfway down. His lips and chin were covered in dried blood. He looked into his eyes and could see fear reflecting back at him. A bloody, terrified, thirty-seven year old man who had set out that morning with the sole intention of spreading a message of love and happiness, and was now held captive by a crazy old woman with a grudge.

  He heard her coming, the unmistakable shuffling of feet on carpet as she approached. He instinctively tried to free himself. He wanted nothing to do with her, this crazy old woman who pronounced her ‘V’s as ‘W’s. Who kept syringes of tranquilizers and muscle relaxants in the house, and thought nothing of drugging and torturing houseguests. She came into the room.

  He was still amazed by how harmless she looked. She was carefully carrying a tray containing a cup of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits. The tray also contained several items that had no business being there. Items that made his stomach knot. A scalpel. A pair of old red-handled pliers. A small hammer. He watched her form as she shuffled across the room, eyeing him carefully with her emotionless gaze. She set down the tray on the table beside her chair, and lowered herself carefully into the seat. He swallowed his fear as she again opened the wooden box, only this time she removed a small notepad and pen, some thick-rimmed reading glasses, an old pack of cigarettes, and a lime-green lighter. Still she said nothing, her deeply lined face watching his bloated and bloody one. Slowly—deliberately so, Alex thought—she took out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling deeply as she sat back in the garish floral pattern chair. Alex glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, and saw that it was just after four in the afternoon. Still she was silent. She finished her cigarette and took up the notepad, and turning to a clean page, she finally spoke.

  “Tell me about Victor.”

  That same line. No pleasantries, just straight down to business. This was his chance to keep her talking. He’d already regained control of his fingers, and was exploring the knots of the ropes, looking for a weakness in them.

  “That’s a broad question, what do you want to know.”

  “You work for Victor, no?”

  “Actually no, not anymore. I used to do… errands for him, a long time ago.”

  She smiled, but there was no humor in it.

  “You speak of errands like you speak of your God, lapdog!” she barked as she scribbled something in the notebook.

  “I must tell you that it would be unwise to lie to me... I have no desire to hurt you, and am perfectly willing to set you free as soon as I have the information I require. However, you must tell me the truth or there will be repercussions.”

  Alex was familiar with this game and knew his chances of leaving that room ever again were slim.

  “Look, I’ll be honest with you—I have no loyalty to Victor. Not anymore. And I have no interest in whatever problem you have with him. I’ll answer your questions if you will set me free.”

  She nodded curtly. Game on. Cat and mouse. Tit for tat.

  “I appreciate your willingness to assist. Let’s do this quickly then, so we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

  Bullshit. They both knew it. One of them was going to die in this room, and Alex was determined that it wouldn’t be him.

  “That’s all I want,” he said, adding a tremble to his voice. Let the old bitch think she had rattled him.

  “Very good. Now tell me, when did you last work for Victor?” She waited, pen poised, watching him carefully.

  “I don’t remember the exact date, but it was over seven years ago.”

  She wrote it down and then her vulture-like eyes were upon him again.

  “When did you last speak to him? Directly I mean.”

  “The day of my last job. I never spoke to him again in person after that morning.”

  “I see, and this job you refer to would be the assault of a…” she referred to her notes, leafing back a few pages.

  “A Tony Valentine, is that correct?”

  He had to be careful here, had to keep playing the game. He had to appear weaker than he actually was.

  “I can’t remember, it’s been a long time,” he lied. He remembered all too well.

  “And during your time working for Victor, you had training yes? Specialist training?”

  “No.”

  She closed her book, sighing deeply.

  “I thought we had an agreement, preacher. Now I will ask again. Did you have training?”

  He wondered why she kept calling him preacher. It irritated him.

  “I don’t know what else to tell you. I had no training.”

  Another lie. He’d received lots of training. Victor liked his boys to be on top of their game. Hand to hand combat, explosives, torture techniques, marksmanship. He could give the average army commando a run for his money—or at least he could have back in the day.

  She pursed her lips and glared at him, shaking her head slowly.

  “I told you not to underestimate me, yet you lie through your broken teeth.”

  “I’m not lying, I received no training!”

  She had stood and was now walking towards him.

  “I’m afraid, preacher, that until you begin to appreciate the severity of this situation,
you and I will be quite unable to engage in any kind of meaningful conversation, eh lapdog?”

  He could feel the crazy coming off her in waves. She flicked her sunken eyes towards the tray beside her chair and considered carefully. She decided on the pliers and approached him, the maddening sounds of her slippers on the carpet now secondary to the terror.

  “Mrs. Bendtner, please….”

  “I think that you and I are not so different, lapdog. Many years ago, I too used to work for a powerful man who demanded results—and I was very good at getting results. Tell that to your Master, eh. Woolph!”

  She was behind him now, gibbering and insane, and armed with the steel pliers. He flinched as she leaned close, her foul breath hot in his ear.

  “You stupid Americans are all the same. Overconfident fools. Let me tell you something, mister preacher man—you think that you know of pain, yet you know nothing. I have extracted secrets from better men than you, puppet of Victor! Now tell me what I want to know!”

  She sounded like one of those clichéd Russian villains from the movies trying too hard to sound authentic, but this was real. Thickly, frighteningly real. He knew he had to tell her the truth, at least to keep her talking in the hope that he could regain control of his limbs.

  “Yes,” Alex said with a sigh. This time the tremble in his voice was not an act.

  “In which fields?”

  “Weapons, explosives, hand to hand combat.”

  “And torture, yes?”

  She was still behind him, and although he couldn’t see her, he could feel her smile as she spoke.

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh, lowering his head. He knew then that he couldn’t win this. Somehow the world had gone crazy, and he was massively out of his depth with this frail old woman. He waited for the sting of pain, for the cold feeling of steel on flesh, but nothing came. She seemed to be satisfied and returned to her chair, setting the pliers down and picking up her cup of tea, which she slurped loudly.

  “Who the hell are you, lady?” he croaked as she continued to drink noisily.