by Tim Waggoner
He made it to the return slot just as the door swung open. He turned, trying not to look like he was looking and failing dismally. Plus, he was breathing hard from his sprint down the sidewalk, and whoever was coming out had probably heard the rubber soles of his running shoes slapping the concrete as he ran.
You’re some smooth operator, he thought. But he forgot his worries and recriminations when he heard the sounds coming through the now open door—moaning: in pleasure, pain, or from some sensation he couldn’t name. And the smell—a combination of sweetness and rot, like dying flowers standing in a vase of stagnant water.
A woman came out, the door shutting behind her with a solid chunk! She stood for a moment, as if unsure what to do next. She rocked on her feet, forward and back, forward and back, and for a moment Darrell thought she was going to faint. But then she turned and started walking—toward him.
She was petite, her figure almost boyish. Her short brown hair looked as if it could use a good washing, and her bangs were slightly crooked. Her round face was slack, devoid of expression, and her eyes were wide, glazed, and unblinking.
As she came closer, Darrell experienced a strong feeling of recognition. He knew this woman, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t quite remember where from.
She wore black shoes, tight jeans, and a simple white T-shirt. As she drew near, he saw tiny red splotches marring the white cloth of her shirt directly over the nipples of her small breasts. Splotches that were widening.
By the time she reached him, he had given up all pretense that he was returning a movie, and he just stood and looked at her. She gazed past him, and he thought she would continue on without so much as glancing in his direction, let alone stopping. But then her eyes—eyes which he could now see were shot through with purple-red veins, and were the pupils tinged red as well?—flicked toward him, and she stopped and frowned.
“Darrell Gregerson?” Her voice was rough and hoarse, as if she’d been yelling. Or screaming.
Suddenly it came back to him. “LeAnne…Ruland?”
She smiled, and he saw her teeth and gums were slick with blood. “It’s Hilles now.”
That’s right. He’d represented her during her divorce a few years back. He wasn’t especially fond of handling divorces and didn’t do all that many, but she’d been recommended by a friend, and so he’d taken her as a client. The divorce had gone smoothly enough, and he hadn’t seen her since. Now here she was, coming out of whatever lay behind the door he hadn’t been able to open.
He struggled to come up with something to say. The normal small talk—How’ve you been? You look great—hardly seemed to fit the situation. But she saved him by speaking first.
“Did you come for the Place?”
He could hear the capital P when she said Place. “I…yes, but I couldn’t get in. The door was locked.”
She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound, like the empty dried husks of insect carapaces rubbing together. “Of course it was, silly! It only opens if you know how to make it open.”
He felt a surge of excitement. “And how do you do that?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules. You have to figure it out for yourself.” She looked around as if afraid someone might overhear, then leaned forward and whispered, “It’s how you prove yourself worthy.”
This close, he could see that her pupils were definitely tinted red. Colored contacts? He doubted it. Her breath was sour and sharp, from the blood coating her gums and teeth, he thought. He glanced at her chest and saw the red stains had gotten large enough that their inside edges nearly touched. Soon they would be one large red blotch.
He wondered if the Place was some sort of S&M club. If so, it would make sense why there was no sign above the door, and no windows to see inside. It was late for a club to still be open, but if they didn’t serve liquor, they could operate as late as they wanted—especially if they paid off the cops. And this “prove yourself worthy” business might just be another part of the fun and games.
He was a little disappointed. The idea of an S&M club existing between such ordinary businesses, places where simple working men and women took their children everyday, was intriguing, but it lacked the allure of mystery that the door had held for him when he’d first seen it. As exotic as an S&M club might be in little Ash Creek, Ohio, it was still just one of thousands in the world. Just another place to go in search of an orgasm, with a few cuts and bruises thrown in for good measure.
“Thanks for the tip, LeAnne, but I’m not sure the Place is for me after all.” He was about to bid her goodnight and head for his SUV, but she grabbed him by the wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for such a small woman.
“Keep trying to get in, Darrell. If you give up, you’ll regret it the rest of your life. There’s nothing to compare to the Place. It’s beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s…” She paused, searching for words, but then she scowled and gave her head a quick shake, as if annoyed at her brain for failing her. Then she looked up at him, vein-filled eyes wide, expression now one of almost religious ecstasy. “It’s everything.”
She gave him a smile—displaying those bloody teeth one last time—squeezed his wrist affectionately, then released him and walked into the parking lot toward the Beetle. He watched her get in, start the car, then drive away, giving one soft toot on her horn as she went.
He thought for a moment about what she’d said, about the look on her face, the tone of mingled reverence and lust in her voice. Then he turned and looked in the direction of the door.
* * *
On his way home, he passed a church with a sign board in the yard, red plastic letters spelling out an insipid homily: Happiness isn’t a destination to reach; it’s a road to travel.
Bullshit, he thought.
Back home in his bed, Patti sleeping soundly beside him, he tossed and turned, and when he did manage to drift off, he dreamed of locked doors and naked women with blood squirting from bruised nipples.
The next morning he said little to his wife as they got ready for work—Patti was a pharmacist at DrugRite—and he would’ve walked out the door before she could kiss him goodbye…if, that is, he had his Lexus. As it was, he had to wait for her to finish getting ready, then they both climbed into the SUV and he dropped her off at the drugstore.
He had his cell phone in hand and was dialing his office before he pulled out of the parking lot. He worked at a small practice, only two other lawyers beside himself, but it was large enough to need a secretary, and when she answered the phone, Darrell told her that he’d come down with the flu and wouldn’t be in today. He didn’t bother trying to sound as if he were sick; he didn’t really care if the woman believed him or not. He disconnected as she was telling him to take care of himself and get some rest, dropped the phone onto the empty passenger seat, and headed for the shopping center.
I couldn’t get in. The door was locked.
Of course it was, silly. It only opens if you know how to make it open.
There was a way in—LeAnne had said so. And he was going to find out what it was, was going to prove himself worthy.
He had just about everything a man could want: the family, the career, the house, but along with it all came two nagging questions: Is this all there is? Is there no more?
He supposed he was going through a midlife crisis, which made him nothing more than another affluent, soft-bellied cliché of a man, but he didn’t care. He’d tried other things to fill the emptiness over the last few years: booze, affairs, drugs, gambling, exercise, the stock market, but none of it worked, not for very long, anyway.
There’s nothing to compare to the Place. It’s beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s…it’s everything.
If what LeAnne had said was true, then maybe he’d finally found what he was looking for. He pressed down on the gas pedal and clutched the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.
* * *
By noon, he
had seen three people enter the Place. The first was a fat woman wearing a tent-like muumuu with a flower print design and flip-flops. She carried a large wicker bag with handles, and looked for all the world as if she were bound for a day at the beach. The second was an elderly man in a brown suit, carrying a briefcase. He was missing his left arm, and his suit sleeve was pinned to the shoulder. The third was a girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, fourteen tops—Shouldn’t she be in school? Darrell wondered. Her black hair was shot through with spray-painted streaks of red and blue, and her khaki backpack was decorated with anarchy symbols of various sizes drawn in magic marker.
Despite their differences in appearance, each of the three went through the same procedure. First they approached the door during a time when the shopping center’s sidewalk was deserted. Then they walked up to the door and leaned their faces close to the crack between it and the wall. They remained that way for a second or two, then pulled back, waited another moment, then reached for the knob, turned it, opened the door, and walked in. The door, of course, always closed quickly behind them, and Darrell didn’t have to hear the click! to know it locked again.
He knew one other thing, too: whatever the Place was, it operated day and night.
Now if he could only figure out how to get in!
His stomach gurgled, but he ignored it. He didn’t care that he was missing lunch, anymore than he cared about the clients he would inconvenience by skipping work today (not to mention his two partners). While Darrell was growing up, his father—who had also been a lawyer—used to go on fishing trips with his buddies the last weekend of every month, no matter the season or what else might be happening with his family. Birthdays, illnesses, school plays, award ceremonies, graduations…none of them stopped Darrell’s father from going on his monthly trips.
When he was a teenager, Darrell had asked his father why those trips were so important to him. (What he really wanted to know was why they were more important than he was.) His father had thought about it for a moment before finally replying, in a voice almost completely devoid of emotion, “A man has to do some things for himself.”
Darrell had nodded then as if he understood, even though he hadn’t, but now that he was older than his father had been at the time, he truly did understand. His father had needed an escape, even if only a temporary one, from the straitjacket his life had become. Darrell had been searching for his own escape for years, and now that it looked like he’d finally found one, he wasn’t going to give up on it.
He got out of the SUV and headed across the parking lot toward the door. But before he was halfway there, the door opened and the elderly man in the brown suit came out. He no longer carried the briefcase, he was smiling, and he had two arms.
Darrell couldn’t help staring as the man passed him. For his part, the old man looked at Darrell, and his smile turned into a grin. He gave Darrell a jaunty wink as if he recognized him, and said, “Mum is most definitely not the word, son.” Then he saluted Darrell using a hand he hadn’t possessed when he’d first gone through the door, and continued on into the parking lot. Darrell watched him get into a blue Cadillac, start the engine and drive away, the old man giving Darrell a last goodbye wave with his new hand.
Darrell stood on asphalt and watched the caddy go down the road until he couldn’t see it anymore. He thought about what the old man had said, and then it came to him. When the people going into the Place leaned close to the crack between the door and the wall, they were saying something—a password! That’s what the old man had meant: mum wasn’t the word because something else was!
Darrell turned and hurried to the door, excitement building. He was close, he knew it! If only he could figure out what…
And then, as if it were staring him in the face (because it was), he once again read the word scratched into the gray paint. Fuck. He almost laughed out loud. He looked around to make sure no one else was watching, then he leaned forward and opened his mouth to say the word, but at the last moment, he hesitated. It wasn’t fuck that was written on the door, was it, not the way the K wasn’t quite finished.
“Fucl,” he whispered.
He straightened, waited for a couple seconds, then grasped the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into darkness.
* * *
Cold metal around wrists and ankles, the soft jangle of chains when he moves. Beneath his bare flesh, the surface of a stone table, gutters carved into the sides.
Blades so sharp they slip beneath skin as if it were water.
The song of blood in his ears: sweet, strong, and pure.
Other instruments appear in dark hands, the metal twisted into ever more exotic shapes. And as those hands go to work on him, he closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and sound issues forth—part scream, part moan, all pleasure.
* * *
Darrell got out of his Lexus, which he had picked up earlier that evening, closed the door, and began hobbling across the parking lot. The mechanics had done a good job, and for a reasonable price, but he didn’t care about the car, not anymore. He’d found something far better.
Though there were no visible wounds on his body, not even so much as a scratch, he was sore all over. It felt as if every one of his muscles had been pulled from the bone, pounded with a meat tenderizer, and then reattached. Not too far from the truth, he thought, then smiled, displaying teeth that were still not quite settled back in their sockets.
It was a little after midnight, just about twelve hours since he had first opened the door and entered the Place, and now he was back. He’d tried to resist—after all, how much could his body and spirit take in one day?—but as soon as Patti had fallen asleep, he’d gotten into his car and driven to the shopping center at nearly twice the speed limit. He wanted—no, he needed—more. Much more.
He almost ran up to the door, didn’t bother checking to see if anyone was watching, leaned forward, whispered “Fucl,” then pulled back. He counted one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and turned the knob. Or rather, tried to. It wouldn’t budge.
He felt the first spiderleg-touch of panic in his belly as he leaned forward and tried the password again, but still the knob refused to turn.
Was he pronouncing the word wrong? Was he not waiting long enough between saying it and trying the knob? He looked at the door and saw that the gray paint that covered its surface was smooth and unmarked. Fucl was gone, and there was no new word to replace it.
He was locked out.
“No.” He shook his head, unable to believe it. After all this time, he had finally found what he’d been searching for, and now it was denied him. Had he done something wrong, had he failed to prove himself worthy?
“Hey, Darrell.”
He turned to see LeAnne approaching. She wore the same clothes she did yesterday—the blood stain on the chest of her T-shirt now brown and hard—but this time she carried a canvas bag at her side. The bag hung full and heavy, and the bottom was crimson-wet.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“I…can’t get in again.”
“Of course you can’t.” Her tone was both amused and sympathetic. “Only the first time is free. After that, you have to pay.” She held up her canvas bag. A thick red drop fell from the bottom and splattered onto the sidewalk.
Darrell felt cold and feverish at the same time, and his skin cried out for the touch of cool metal. “Pay how?”
LeAnne smiled as she lowered her bag. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Then she brushed past Darrell, bent toward the crack between the wall and door, whispered a word that he couldn’t quite make out, opened the door and stepped inside.
He hurried forward, hoping to sneak in while the door was open, but it slammed shut before he could get to it. He tried the knob again, gripped it tight and twisted for all he was worth, but it was frozen once more.
He let go of the knob, stepped back, and thought about the fat woman’s
wicker bag, the old man’s briefcase, the girl’s backpack, and especially about LeAnne’s canvas tote.
Patti was home in bed asleep right now. And their daughter would be arriving tomorrow night to spend the weekend.
Some prices are too high to pay, he thought.
“A man has to do some things for himself,” he said.
He started back toward his car.
ZOMBIE DREAMS
Jared ran.
Sweat pouring off his body, heart pounding in his chest, lungs heaving, each breath a sharp knife in his side. Branches whipped his face, hands, and chest, scratching, cutting, bruising. He’d left the trail behind and the ground was uneven here, covered with underbrush that snagged his pants legs and threatened to trip him. But he couldn’t let himself stumble, couldn’t allow himself to fall. For if he did, they would get him for sure. And once they got him, it would be all over.
Something hit a tree to his right, splitting off a chunk of bark and spinning it away. A second later Jared heard the crack of a rifle. He knew he shouldn’t turn, couldn’t afford to slow down for even a second, but he couldn’t help himself. Instinct forced his head around even though he knew damn well who—or what—pursued him. The movement threw him off balance, his legs twisted, and he crashed to the ground, flattening underbrush and knocking the wind out of him. His mouth gaped like a fish out of water as he tried to suck in air and re-inflate his lungs. He attempted to get up, but sharp pain lanced through his left ankle, and he feared it was twisted, or worse, broken. Still gasping for breath, he put his weight on his right foot, hoping that it wouldn’t betray him too, and pushed himself up. His right ankle held, and he managed to stand once more. His lungs ached and felt heavy as lead, but they had enough air in them now that he thought he could start moving again. But before he could take a step, another chunk of bark was blasted from a tree, and another rifle shot echoed through the woods. It was too late; they’d caught up with him.
