Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  “The questions about things are mine to ask, eh?”

  He didn’t understand and was about to speak again, when she twitched and blinked, then said it again more calmly.

  “I will ask the questions. You will answer.”

  Back to playing the game. He needed to buy time.

  “At least be fair. What were you ? Russian intelligence? KGB?”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Nothing so dramatic I’m afraid. I worked for an agency that dealt with traitors, enemies careless enough to be caught on our lands. They would be sent to me and I would make them talk.”

  “And if they didn’t?”

  “They would talk or die. Something you may wish to keep in mind, preacher.”

  “My name is Alex.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  He broke her gaze and lowered his head. He needed to keep her busy, keep her mind off her questions.

  “How did you plan all of this? I mean, how did you know I would come here?”

  She smiled, taking another long sip of her tea and lighting another cigarette. He saw with dismay that her hands were rock steady. His wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “It was a chance encounter. I saw you at your church.” She nodded towards the pamphlets, now stacked neatly by the telephone.

  “I wasn’t entirely sure it was you at first. You’ve lost weight since you last worked for Victor.”

  It was true. After he’d left the business he’d slimmed down, cutting out the steroids and paying more attention to his diet.

  “I had already been following Victor and his affairs for some time, so finding you by chance was something of an unexpected bonus. I’m sure you of all people understand that, preacher man.”

  He tried to process the information, but as she spoke, only more questions came to mind.

  “I still don’t understand! How did you know... How did you know I would come here, right to your door?”

  “Oh it was simple educated guesswork. This is a nice street, and within the catchment area of your church. I knew you were doing a drive to recruit new members for your parish. It was just a matter of time before you knocked on my door. And what else does an old woman like me have but time to wait.”

  “But why? What do you want with me? I haven’t had dealings with Victor for years. You probably know more about him than I do!”

  He was frightened and angry, and had let his guard slip. The old woman smiled, knowing she had the upper hand. She continued as if he hadn’t even spoken.

  “The strange thing is that, even when you knocked on my door, I still wasn’t sure that it was you. You have changed in appearance quite dramatically, and look quite different up close. And in your defense, it seems that you do genuinely love the work you do for your church… It wasn’t until I saw the look of recognition on your face when you looked at the photograph of William that I knew I had the right person.”

  He was confused, and tried to recall earlier that day. It already felt like a lifetime ago. It was true that he had seen the old black and white picture as he walked in, the man and woman on their wedding day, both smiling proudly, the small child in the woman’s arms not quite looking into the camera. A small pang of recognition had come over him, but he dismissed it as a false memory, perhaps confused with another old photograph of similar content. One thing was for certain, he didn’t know the man in the photo. He had never seen him before.

  “I don’t know any William, you have the wrong person,” he pleaded.

  In response she sneered, rushing suddenly from her seated position. He tried to recoil, but she moved with the skitter quickness of a spider, and he was rocked by a fresh wave of pain. He didn’t realize what she had done at first, and then a tight sickness in his gut overcame him as he glanced over to his horrified reflection in the mirror above the mantle. She had torn off his left ear lobe.

  “Do not lie to me again, dog! You killed my William on Victor’s say so. Well let’s see how brave you are now, preacher. Whore son!”

  He was breathing heavily now and began to squirm in his seat, trying to ignore the wild-eyed way that she was staring at him.

  She sat back down in het chair calmly, settling in again. He glanced at the mirror once more and barely recognized the man he saw there. The sweating, puffy-eyed, bloody-nosed stranger. And yes—he could see it. The flap of skin that used to be his ear was stuck to the shoulder of his blue suit.

  “Look, no bullshit ok, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”

  She had picked up the screwdriver now and was walking back towards him.

  “I know you will.”

  She jabbed him in the arm, and although it still hurt, his suit jacket cushioned most of the impact. She realized immediately, and without hesitation, reared back and drove the metal shaft into his thigh. He screamed as a white-hot pain surged through him, clenching his remaining teeth, breaking off more of the damaged ones in the process.

  “Tell me why Victor ordered you to kill my William.”

  Despite the horror, she was calm. Her voice flat and toneless. This was nothing new to her—an ordinary day. He wondered how many she had killed. Tens? Hundreds? Thousands? He began to writhe now, but the knots were holding firm.

  “I don’t know him, I didn’t do anything!” he was sobbing now, a bloody mucus bubble forming in the left nostril of his crushed nose as he tried to force air through it.

  “You had him drowned. You took his money. His pride. You took everything, lapdog—eeeee!!”

  “I didn’t have anyone drowned! That was never my style!” he pleaded, trying to ignore her gibbering.

  “Then give me Victor, tell me where he is!”

  “I don’t know, you crazy bitch!”

  She wriggled the handle of the screwdriver back and forth where it still lay nestled in his leg. He could feel it scrape against the bone and a wave of nausea overcame him. He thought he was about to faint.

  “It was you. You and Victor together. For two weeks they didn’t find him, bloated and fat.”

  “It wasn’t me!!! You have the wrong man!”

  She was no longer making sense, her eyes like saucers, and her chin was lined with slick spittle. She was leering over him now, her face inches from his. He couldn’t stand to be near her and lunged backwards, pushing off the floor with all the force he could muster. The chair pitched backwards and tipped over, his knees connecting with her chin as he tumbled painfully to the floor. She fell away, grunting as she landed on her side. Horror overcame him as he twisted to see where the old hag was. It was as he did this that the chair finally gave way under the strain, freeing him.

  He came to his knees and managed untie his hands. Trying his best to ignore the pain in his face and thigh, he looked to his left and saw that she was already up, coming at him again with the screwdriver. She lunged towards him, slashing at his face. Instinctively he rolled to the right, knocking his shoulder hard against the armchair. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his legs were still too weak, and he stumbled back to the floor with a grunt. He knew she was on him now. He could smell the mothball stench and could hear her shuffling slippers. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the screwdriver coming towards his face. He managed to flinch away, but the metal shaft gouged into his cheek, tearing open a large wound. Fueled by adrenaline, he turned and shoved her hard with both hands. She staggered backwards and he saw the screwdriver skitter across the floor as she lost her grip on it. Unable to walk, he crawled towards the sitting room door, hoping he could make it to the front of the house and the freedom of the lush gardens and picket fences of Sycamore Street.

  He pulled himself up at the door and felt pain come over him again, this time in his side as she stabbed him once more with the screwdriver. He instinctively threw an elbow behind him, rejoicing at the feeling of bone on flesh. He heard her utter a surprised grunt, and then he was on his way, door open and into the hallway. His face and side burned with pain, and as he looked down at his side, he could se
e an ugly maroon stain forming on his shirt. But adrenaline was helping him to keep going. He focused and took in his surroundings as he wheezed and snatched for breath. Staircase directly ahead. Two doors to the right, front door to the left. He prayed that she hadn’t locked it. He thought if she had, he would probably die.

  He crawled on all fours to the door, then grabbed at the handle. He knew it would be locked. He just knew deep inside. He pulled and rejoiced as it turned in his grip. He opened the door, his freedom so close, when he felt a new pain, worse than all the others he had endured. An inferno of agony in his left leg caused him to lurch forwards and slam the door closed again, shutting out his freedom.

  Blood pooled around the long slash in his trouser leg, and he knew what she had done. She had cut something back there, a tendon or perhaps his hamstring. Something vitally important to his ability to walk. She hadn’t cut it through full, he could still flex, but it felt loose and rubbery. He turned and glared at her as she walked towards him, scalpel blade shining ominously. She swung the blade at him again and he snapped his head back, wincing at the sickening swish sound as it missed his throat by inches. Alex grabbed her ankle, and drove his shoulder as hard as he could into her knee. She wailed, and he felt a flash of satisfaction as he heard something break and she crashed to the floor, banging her head on the wall as she went.

  He hoped it would keep her down long enough for him to escape, but whatever she had cut on the back of his leg had incapacitated him, and he could only get to his knees, holding one arm against his bleeding side. He looked on in dismay as she grabbed the dropped scalpel and tried to stand, but then rejoiced as she shrieked and stumbled back onto all fours.

  Battle of the cripples, he thought to himself as she shuffled towards him.

  “Tell me about Victor!” she cackled as she lunged at him again with the blade, narrowly missing his throat for the second time. Instinctively he grabbed her wrist, and without pausing to think, balled his fist and hit her as hard as he could in the face. Guilt immediately overcame him as she crumbled to the floor. The guilt was quickly replaced by searing agony, as he felt the tendon or hamstring or whatever it was snap away wetly as he rolled onto his side and clutched his leg. As he lay there, he could see the doorknob, tantalizingly close, yet out of reach. His entire body hurt, and only his willingness to survive and belief in God allowed him to continue. He crawled past her, trying to ignore the pain—perhaps a back door then. He dragged himself along, his left leg limp and useless as it trailed behind him, his right still functional but trilling with pain from the screwdriver wound. He made for the slightly ajar door he presumed was the kitchen, and barged through, falling onto the cool black and white tiled floor.

  He could see clean white tiles and lemon-colored painted walls. He could see the kitchen work surfaces and the counter that edged the room. He could see the back door, open and inviting. Outside, he could make out the tall wooden fence and a flash of green from the oak tree in the next-door neighbors’ back yard. He could also see a huge Rottweiler, which was lying in the doorway and looking at him, growling aggressively.

  He froze, and tried to remember if you should or shouldn’t break eye contact with an angry dog. He couldn’t remember, but decided to take his chances. He inched forwards and suddenly it was up, leaning towards him and drooling, daring him to come closer. He didn’t like dogs, never had, now cursing this one for blocking his escape. He wondered if he could take it on, but in his crippled state, he knew it would be stupid to try.

  He backed out of the kitchen, closing the door quickly. She was there waiting for him, kneeling at the bottom of the staircase, her mouth and nose bloody where he had struck her. She had the scalpel in her right hand, waving it deftly back and forth.

  “Don’t think you can escape, I have been waiting for you for too long!”

  She slashed at him, and he ducked away, yet already he could feel his reactions becoming sluggish. He had lost a lot of blood and was exhausted. He grimaced at her as she gibbered and grinned.

  “Come on, Victor, let’s see those pearly whites hmmm!”

  “I’m not Victor, you crazy bitch!”

  She was mad. Not senile, not pleasantly docile, but mad. Crazy. Her eyes shone wildly as she licked her lips, bloody drool hanging from her chin. She had completely snapped.

  “Do you know how many nights I have listened to you eating that slop, Victor?”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, and that in itself made her even more terrifying. She licked her bloody lips and rocked from side to side as she glared at him.

  “Look at me and take it easy. I’m not Victor, I’m Alex.”

  “Victor’s dog you are! My dog is better. Ha!”

  She slashed at him again, lightning quick. He couldn’t avoid it in time and instinctively threw his hands up, the razor-sharp blade slicing across his palm. He reared back and slammed against the closed kitchen door. The Rottweiler began to bark and growl as it scratched at the door, trying to get out.

  “See, lapdog, not so funny with the red blood anymore is it?”

  Her eyes were vacant pools of insanity, and he wondered who she saw kneeling in front of her. He felt faint, the world beginning to ebb and flow as he tried to focus. His life depended on it.

  “I can tell you where Victor is. I can get close to him. He trusts me!” he pleaded, aware that he was cornered.

  “Not the puppet, but the puppet master. His strings I will cut like I will cut you, yes!”

  She sounded like a bizarre psychopathic Yoda as she hovered there, just out of arms reach, waiting for him to make a move. He saw in horror that she had urinated where she knelt, the carpet below her dark and yellow and pungent. The foul smell reached his broken nose and he felt bile rise into his throat. She was psyching herself up to lunge at him, he could see it in her eyes, and knew he had to act quickly or he would die. He watched carefully, waiting for her to strike, knowing that this would likely be his last chance before he passed out due to blood loss. She slashed at him, and this time he was ready. He twisted away from the blade and leaned towards her, grabbing her wrist and biting down hard, ignoring the agony of the shattered remains of his teeth. She screamed, the sound was impossibly high-pitched, and she dropped the scalpel. He reached down and picked it up, almost losing his grip on the handle due to the hot, slick blood on his hands. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he jammed the blade into her shoulder and twisted, glaring at her and smiling his broken, crimson smile. Like the flick of a switch, he was the Alex of old, the violent, remorseless beast of a man he had worked so hard to bury away. He felt euphoric. With a defiant grunt, he shuffled forwards and lifted her frail body by the arms, slamming her into the side of the doorframe. He heard her head smash against the wood, and she went limp. Shoving her aside, he made for the steps, something so simple suddenly looked impossibly high, especially with legs that didn’t work. He began to drag himself up on his elbows, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  His left leg was quite useless, but his right still partially worked, and he was able to get some purchase as he climbed. He focused on ignoring the pain, ignoring the wet squelch of blood with every bend of his damaged limb, ignoring the bloody handprints he left as he dragged himself ever up, so bright against the pale crème carpet.

  He was halfway up the staircase when the world began to shift under him. He felt sick and black spots began to dance in front of his eyes. He tottered on the edge of consciousness for what felt like an eternity before the world came back into focus. He could hear her, stirring below him and he screamed at himself in his head. Why did you try for the stairs, you fucking idiot! Nobody in their right mind would head upstairs, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was in his right mind anymore. Breathless and dizzy, he made the small square landing area before the steps took a left. Just three more and he would be in the upstairs hallway. Down the hall there were only three doors, the bathroom being furthest away. He could see the edge of the bath, white and dra
ped with a black towel. He looked back down the stairs, past the bloody trail he’d left, and saw her approaching on her knees, the scalpel still embedded in her shoulder. He chastised himself for not bringing it with him, then groaned when he saw what she now had in her hand.

  Where did she get that?

  It was a large butcher’s knife. Black handled, long and sharp.

  “Bad puppet, Victor, you should control this pet of yours!” she gibbered.

  She was glaring at him, eyes wild and defiant, face bloodied and frightening. She got to her knees and then stood shakily, brushing her hands at the wet patches on her blue skirt.

  “I’ll clip you, puppet, then his puppet master. Organ grinder not the monkey, eh?”

  He lunged for the hallway, ignoring the agony as he banged his wounded leg on the top step. She was coming—he could hear her babbling as she followed him up the stairs, and it was somehow worse than the pain.

  “I told him about you, my dear. I told him his puppet was a bad one, but he didn’t listen. He never listens!”

  He began to crawl faster, boosted by fear and the accompanying surge of adrenaline. He tried the first door, but it was shut and he could not reach the handle.

  “Those meatballs don’t taste so good now, do they puppet?”

  She was close, and stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he could see her at the top of the steps, glaring at him. He turned and shuffled to the next room, knowing he would never reach the bathroom in time. He could see that the door was open and dragged himself in, slamming it behind him as she screamed again.

  “Come out of there, puppet—eeeee eeeee!”

  He leaned against the door, propping his good (or less damaged) leg against the chimney wall to hold it shut. She tried the handle, but didn’t have the strength to get in. He could hear her stabbing at the door with the knife, babbling and weeping loudly. He turned his attention to the room, hoping to find something to defend himself with, or a telephone so he could call for help. He had never been a fan of the police, and would normally refrain from having anything to do with them, but if there was ever a time, this was it.