Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror

by Bray, Michael

  COCKTAILS 2-4-1! FREE SHOT OF VODKA B4 11PM!

  Proclaimed the hand drawn poster board outside. A tired looking neon Budweiser sign hung in the window, flickering intermittently. He fumbled with the fresh pack of cigarettes, placing one in his mouth and then realizing he had no means with which to light it. He shoved the pack into his overcoat pocket, careful to make sure he didn’t catch his hand on the knife. He took the cigarette from his lip and wedged it behind his right ear, an old habit from before he’d quit.

  Just like riding a bike.

  Harry tried his best to peer through the grimy window, scanning the vague forms within for his wife. Maybe it was just a pit stop, perhaps to use the bathroom or the phone. His heart skipped as he saw her, the body language unmistakable. She was at the bar, legs crossed suggestively towards the man beside her. She was watching him speak, a half smile on her lips as she ran her index finger slowly around the rim of her wine glass. A succession of emotions overcame Harry: anger, sorrow, rage, and once again that overwhelming sadness. His eyes jealously scanned the man with her, watching him speak, his unheard words holding her full attention. Although he couldn’t see perfectly, Harry could tell the man was young. Maybe twenty-five, certainly no older than thirty. He was wearing a pristine charcoal suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. Harry watched him flash a smile at her, before stealing a quick glance at her chest, which threatened to spill from her dress every time she moved.

  A wave of nausea hit him as he turned away from the window. He couldn’t decide what upset him the most, the fact that his suspicions had been correct, or that she looked happier than she had in years. Unable to hold back any longer, he vomited noisily, his vision dancing with bright white spots as he tried to compose himself. People walked around him eyeing him cautiously but keeping to themselves.

  I don’t want to say I told you so, but.... I told you so.

  Harry didn’t answer. He simply stared at the brown-yellow puddle of liquid he’d just ejected.

  So, what are you going to do now?

  He stood upright and reached into his pocket, feeling the wrapped handle of the knife still nestled there. The voice inside was silent, but Harry knew it was smiling.

  III

  For almost an hour, he waited across the street on a bench that was partially shrouded by trees. As he sat amongst the filth his anger grew. He was acutely aware of his stench, a heady combination of stale sweat, vomit, and perhaps sadness. Does sadness have a smell? He wondered.

  If it does, it smells like puke and wino piss, chief.

  Ignoring his inner voice, he wondered how he might look to the strangers walking by. He suspected he no longer looked quite so out of place. He felt tired. His brain had been working overtime, trying in vain to rationalize events as they unfolded. He let his thoughts drift again to the past. To a time before humid nights spent spying on his adulterous wife, to a happier time long before all of this happened. He let his mind roll back through the years, back to the day she told him she was pregnant. He tried to recall the utter joy of that moment, but over time it had been lost, eclipsed by the misery that followed.

  The baby was a boy. He had Maggie’s eyes and Harry’s nose. Maggie took a break from writing to try her hand at being a mother, and she excelled at it. Harry himself, despite his initial struggles with changing nappies and getting used to the broken sleep, had loved every minute of being a father.

  The baby died at seven months.

  He could still remember every detail of that day. The way Maggie was still sleeping beside him even though he had woken early, his internal clock reminding him that a feed was overdue. He could recall the way the sun warmed his face, the way that dust swirled around the room, caught in the golden rays of the early morning. He remembered going into the baby’s room to wake him, warm bottle of milk in hand as he peered into the crib. He remembered the horror and fear of being unable to move, unable to do anything. He remembered his son—blue and lifeless, staring into oblivion. He remembered screaming.

  It was crib-death, apparently not an uncommon occurrence, though they were later told that it typically happens within the first five months. There was a funeral, and Harry carried his son’s small white coffin by himself. For everyone else life went on, but for him and Maggie it seemed to stop. They didn’t speak about it, but it was always there. Harry came home one day to find that Maggie had completely redecorated the baby’s room, which had remained untouched since the funeral. He was furious and the ensuing argument was highly charged, both of them crying openly as they took out their frustration and sadness on each other. Over the course of the next few months the pain did ease, and although it would never truly leave, it became tolerable enough to allow life to continue. Harry adjusted adequately, going back to work, but Maggie was a different story. She was a mess, and refused to seek professional help of any sort. She would spend days staring into space, weeping silently. Work was out of the question, and her novel remained unfinished, even with Harry encouraging her. Something within her had broken, something Harry had hoped to mend but now realized was impossible.

  Hey, Harry. Heads up.

  He glanced toward the entrance of the bar. Right outside was the man his wife had gone to meet. He was talking on his mobile phone and pacing back and forth, the call seemingly an unwelcome intrusion. He watched as his wife’s date ended the call and shoved the phone absently into his jacket pocket. The man headed back inside but instead of turning right to return to the bar, he turned left and went into the rest room.

  Looks like he’s going for a piss, Harry.

  “Yeah,” Harry muttered to himself.

  He didn’t remember crossing the street, or even entering the bar, but now found himself outside the door to the rest room. His hand drifted absently to his pocket containing the kitchen knife. He glanced around, checking that Maggie couldn’t see him.

  Remember, you have to see for yourself. You have to catch her in the act.

  Harry took a deep breath and opened the door. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the harsh lighting. The smell of pine filled his nostrils as he looked around the long L-shaped bathroom. Harry was surprised to see Maggie’s date standing in the center of the room, once again on his mobile phone. The two made eye contact, Maggie’s mystery date tipping a nod in Harry’s direction as he continued to listen to whoever was on the other end of the line. Ignoring the gesture, Harry went into one of the stalls and closed the door behind him. He had a headache, but strained to hear the whispered conversation from the other side of the door. It sounded like the mystery man had a wife or girlfriend, apparently grilling him on his whereabouts.

  “I’m sorry, baby, but I have to look after these clients...

  “This could be a big case for me; it will be worth it in the end if Mr. Mashima hires me...

  “I don’t know when I’ll be home. I may stay in a hotel and head home tomorrow morning...

  “Ok baby... Ok, love you. Bye.”

  He had apparently convinced her that he was indeed with Mr. Mashima, and not in a seedy Rio bar trying to screw Harry’s wife.

  Let’s bleed this motherfucker and get out of here!

  His shock at the directness of the thought turned to horror as he glanced down to find the knife already in his hand. He couldn’t remember taking it from his pocket. As he looked at himself in the blade’s reflection, his features twisted and warped into those of a stranger.

  “Oh god, I’m losing my mind,” he whispered to himself. His stomach tightened and he let out a stale burp that tasted of the cheese sandwich he’d had for lunch.

  You ok there, big guy? Don’t you go losing it now. Just relax and take it easy.

  “What do you care?” Harry mumbled to himself under his breath. He couldn’t take his eyes from the blade. He turned it slowly, his reflection twisting and pulsing under the hash strip light above.

  Hello? Anyone home? I’m starting to worry about you, pal.

  “Fuck you,” he said distantly as he put
the knife back into his coat pocket. He felt strange, like he was coming apart at the seams. Closing his eyes, he counted backwards from ten in his head, a technique he’d picked up in therapy to help with his anger issues. It didn’t always work, but he had to try.

  Ten

  Nine.

  Eight.

  Seven.

  He slowed his breathing and ignored the crescendo building in his head. He was used to the headaches, but this was a particularly bad one.

  Six.

  Five.

  He was starting to feel more in control. More like the old Harry. But not the old Harry from Atlanta, the one who had an easy smile and a huge circle of friends, the one who took life in his stride.

  Four.

  Three.

  No. Because that Harry was gone. He was buried somewhere deep, decomposing and festering with maggots. He was feeling more like the Harry of a few hours ago; the angry, estranged and lonely man who had tried his best and wound up in Rio-fucking-De-Janeiro for his troubles. Home of the pimps, dwelling place of the teenage prostitutes, murderers, gang bangers and drug dealers. Welcome to your new life in Sunny Brazil! Murder capital of the world!

  Two.

  One.

  That Harry was a prick, sure enough. But make no mistake, he was nothing like this new Harry—the twisted, melt-faced Harry with rage bubbling under his skin. The Harry who feels no connection with humanity anymore. No empathy towards others. Who knows no limits.

  He opened his eyes, his thoughts now clear and concise, but he could still feel the other Harry lurking in some dark corner of his mind with his twisted smile. Harry opened the door. At first he thought he was alone and that Maggie’s date had left, but then saw him in the mirrors that ran the full length of the wall, pissing noisily into a urinal. Harry went to the sink and started to wash his hands.

  He looked in the mirror but couldn’t make eye contact with his reflection. He wasn’t sure which Harry would be staring back at him. His temple pounded heavily and he could feel his heart racing. Maggie’s date came over to the sink then and began to wash his hands.

  “Hot as hell today.”

  Harry grunted, unable to muster any words as he continued washing his own hands. The water was scalding, but Harry didn’t care. He felt detached from himself, like the hazy first few minutes after waking from a particularly vivid dream. He was vaguely aware of the burning sensation on his skin, but didn’t really feel anything.

  “Hey, buddy, are you ok? You don’t look so good.”

  The man had turned towards Harry, looking at him with genuine concern. Harry nodded.

  “I’m fine...tough day is all.” He was surprised by how normal his voice sounded. The man laughed, and continued to wash his hands.

  “I hear that. Did you see the news tonight? Police found another body. That’s seven in the last three weeks! Someone out there is on a spree. Damn city is going to hell. Fuckin’ gangs if you ask me.”

  “I haven’t seen the news today,” Harry lied, not wanting to make small talk with this man

  “Let me tell you, pal, this last one was nasty. Some kid got his fuckin’ head cut off and displayed in the street for all to see. I hear they found his dick in his mouth.”

  Harry glanced up at the man, then back at his raw burnt hands. The pain was good; it kept the other Harry occupied.

  “It’s kind of been the day from hell,” Harry said softly.

  Maggie’s date nodded sympathetically.

  “I had quite a day myself. Hell, I’d buy you a beer, but I’m with someone tonight.”

  He flashed a half smile, one that expressed more than words ever could. It was a predatory smile. Harry nodded in response as he felt the seams of his mind fray a little more. On autopilot, Harry heard himself reply—

  “Three’s a crowd. I get it.”

  Harry felt a chill as the man smiled, showing a mouth full of perfectly shaped white teeth.

  “See, I work away from home a lot, don’t get to see my girlfriend too often… Got my needs, if you catch my drift.”

  Harry swallowed his rage, mustering all of his willpower to force a smile of his own. It felt like a mask, hanging loosely over his real face. He could now only faintly register the burning of the hot water on his hands as he continued to scrub them.

  “How about you? Got a wife or a girlfriend?”

  “Been married fifteen years. Just found out we’re getting a divorce. Like I said, it’s been a pretty shitty day.”

  Maggie’s date nodded, flashing a sympathetic look that made Harry want to tear his eyes from his skull.

  “Damn sorry to hear that, buddy. Really.”

  Harry said nothing, finally shutting off the hot water and drying his raw, throbbing hands.

  “Why the divorce, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  He somehow managed to keep his anger in check.

  “Adultery. My wife has been fucking around behind my back.” Harry looked him dead in the eye as he said this, pleased to see Maggie’s date squirm a little then lower his gaze.

  “That’s pretty shitty. I’m sorry to hear it… Don’t get me wrong, I love my girl. I would do anything for her, but you know how it is, right buddy?” He flashed that grin again. Harry imagined ripping his throat out.

  “I hear ya. So your date tonight... you just met?”

  He had to ask. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Not exactly. A buddy of mine set me up. A few guys I know have had the pleasure of her company. She’s a sure thing.” He grinned, and began to dry his hands slowly.

  “I mean, I’m a busy man, I don’t have time to waste on someone who isn’t going to deliver. This way, I know I’m in for some action –”

  He stopped speaking, the smile fading from his face.

  “Hey, pal, are you ok...”

  Harry knew he was going to do it. He was going to kill this man right here in this bathroom. He knew it with certainty.

  He reached towards his pocket, and at that very moment another patron entered the restroom. Harry blinked and broke eye contact as Maggie’s date finished washing his hands, completely unsuspecting.

  “Look I gotta go. Don’t want to keep my date waiting.”

  He went to leave, and then paused at the door.

  “Hey look. I may be able to help.” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed over to Harry.

  “I’m a lawyer, I specialize in divorce cases. Give me a call if you need representation. I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.”

  Not if I give you what you deserve first, you sick fuck.

  Harry looked at the card, finally putting a name to the face. Mark Fife.

  “Thanks, Mark. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Fife grinned—a lawyer’s grin—and once again Harry felt the urge to tear the man’s head from his shoulders.

  “No sweat. I better go—my date will wonder where I am.”

  Well that went well, didn’t it?

  “Shut up,” harry whispered. “I need to think.”

  He made his way outside and into the slightly cooler night air. It was then that it dawned on him: he had nothing left. Nothing to lose. Everything in his world was a sham, an illusion. The only thing he had left was revenge; revenge on Fife, revenge on her.

  He’d given her everything he could, and she’d reduced him to this. He was sick of giving. It was time he started taking.

  IV

  Fife worked fast. Harry had been waiting across the street for no more than half an hour, when the pair left the bar arm in arm. They lingered outside, just another couple heading home after a quiet drink or two. At least that’s how it would look to anyone who passed them in the street. Maggie was leaning heavily on Fife. She appeared drunk, but knowing her as he did, Harry knew she wasn’t as loose as she was letting on. His heart sank as he watched them. Fife whispered something in her ear and she responded with a laugh, kissing him gently on the lips before the pair began to walk down th
e street.

  This is it, Harry. Showtime.

  “Yeah, showtime,” Harry mumbled, not caring who could hear him now. He took a deep breath before crossing the street.

  They walked for a while away from the busy center of town, and Harry wondered where Fife was taking her. Suddenly the pair came to a halt up ahead, and he ducked into a doorway to stay out of sight. He watched carefully as Maggie leaned towards Fife and whispered something to him, then pulled away, holding his gaze. Fife smiled— that predator’s smile Harry had seen earlier. Maggie grabbed his hands and pulled him gently towards the alleyway they had stopped in front of. Harry’s heart raced and he could feel the blood surging through his veins as he licked his lips.

  Ok, Harry, let’s put an end this.

  He inched his way towards the entrance of the alleyway, his senses suddenly acute, aware of everything going on around him. He peeked around the corner expecting to see them, but there was nothing. The alley extended for around thirty feet and then turned sharply to the left. He was about to proceed, when he heard a noise ahead; a grunt from around the corner. He walked slowly down the alley on legs that felt like they were made of rubber, careful to stay in the shadows. He took the knife from his pocket, holding it tightly in his right hand as he inched across the wall. He was now at the turn of the corner, and could hear them grunting and fumbling in the shadows. He closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek, and turned the corner.