The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors

by Jason Brannon

  Ashley almost felt sorry for the old man until he smiled and drove the hammer through the face of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She could almost hear the screaming, as if the clock were alive. But she knew those were just the voices of a hundred thousand souls starving to death in some poverty stricken African nation.

  “You can’t do this,” Ashley said, putting down her recorder and withdrawing her cell phone from her purse. “I won’t let you.”

  “You won’t stop me,” Lucas said, rushing at her with the hammer. Ashley put up both hands to defend herself. The hammer glanced off of the phone’s faceplate, shattering the crystal. She didn’t have to pick it up to know that it wouldn’t work.

  Lucas grabbed her by the throat. “Don’t try anything like that again. You are here to watch me and to chronicle the end of the world. It won’t matter that there won’t be anyone left to read it. The fact that you are here is enough for me. I’ll enjoy going back and perusing the destruction that I have caused.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ashley said, rubbing her throat as Lucas released his grip.

  “Am I?” he said, taking another clock off of the wall, this one made of black-veined marble. He didn’t bother to use the hammer. Instead, he dropped the clock into an aquarium filled with goldfish. Somewhere in the world, monsoons, tidal waves, and tsunamis destroyed entire societies, burying them in watery tombs.

  “No,” Ashley whimpered.

  “Yes,” Lucas said. “I’ll bet people are starting to come to their senses now and wishing they’d done things differently. They see the catastrophes that are befalling the world and regretting the time they wasted. Lonely men are mourning the missed opportunities to tell the women of their dreams how they felt. Parents are wishing they would have said ‘I Love You’ to their children when they dropped them off at school. Those that spurned religion thought they had more time left to repent of their sins and are frightened now that their souls will be condemned to Hell. I’ll bet movie theaters, restaurants, and sporting events are empty around the globe. People have realized that there are more important things in life.”

  “Life is about living,” Ashley said. “But then you probably wouldn’t realize that since you’ve never gotten to do that.”

  Lucas backhanded her, splitting her lips. “Shut up. This isn’t a psychoanalysis of me. This is a psychoanalysis of mankind, and I’m the shrink. Not you.”

  He saw the dangerous look in her eyes and knew that she would be trouble if he didn’t do something. He pulled a roll of duct tape out of a drawer and bound her hands and feet. He left her mouth free.

  “I think you’re jealous,” Ashley said. “You think if you can’t enjoy life that nobody else should be able to.”

  “Perhaps a little,” Lucas admitted as he set an old wooden clock on fire in the middle of his kitchen floor. The linoleum began to shrivel and crinkle in the heat as two countries went to war with forbidden weapons.

  Ashley wept as Lucas systematically destroyed the other clocks one by one. “There won’t be anyone left soon. I’m saving us for last,” he said.

  By now there wasn’t any broadcasts on television. The only sound was static and an eerie silence outside. People were either holed up in what was left of their homes or dead. A strange purple aurora seeped across the sky like blood into a strip of gauze. Smoke was heavy in the air.

  There were no sirens, no horns honking on the streets below, no rumble of machinery. There was only a tomb-like silence. To Ashley it felt like attending a wake for the citizens of earth.

  It was a shame that it had to end this way.

  She struggled and writhed against her bonds as Lucas incinerated, smashed, drowned, chopped, and tortured the clocks on his walls. True to his word, he was really going to go through with it.

  She felt a brief surge of hope, however, once she found a rough edge to grate against. It wasn’t long before the duct tape began to fray.

  “Why didn’t you just leave?” she asked Lucas as he destroyed civilization by civilization. “Surely you could have just walked out on all of this at any time.”

  Lucas shook his head. “An angel took me away from my parents for the specific purpose of tending to the clocks. They keep watch over me. They would kill me if I left.”

  “Why hasn’t an angel come to stop you yet?” Ashley asked as the bonds on her hands broke.

  “I’ve been thinking about that for the past hour or so. It’s possible that I’m the instrument being used to bring about the end of the world. All those horrid things that are mentioned in Revelation are probably coming to pass outside this window. Pestilence, war, famine. Maybe I’m just being used to do the dirty work.”

  Ashley quickly freed her feet as Lucas busied himself with another clock.

  “Do you think God would ever give the world a second chance?”

  “I think we’ve had more second chances than we deserve,” Lucas said. “And you’ve had more second chances than the rest of the world. The only reason you’re still alive is because you’ve been with me.”

  While Lucas was talking, Ashley made a split-second decision. There were only two clocks left, and she knew that she would only be able to grab one. The first was a large brass clock with a pendulum. The other was a small alarm clock with two chrome bells on top and a small metal hammer in between. The alarm clock seemed more practical. It also seemed like the ironic choice.

  Knowing that her timing had to be perfect, she waited until he was engrossed in the immolation of a digital wall clock. Then she made her move. Lucas howled as Ashley ran past him and grabbed the alarm clock. She was out the door before he could catch her.

  Lucas was much too old to run very far, and Ashley knew that she was free once she had made it to the stairwell.

  If these clocks represented portions of humanity, then she had just saved a small fraction of earth’s population. It would be enough to start over with.

  She knew it was pointless to go back and try for the last remaining clock. Lucas would have destroyed it by now.

  In some small way, Ashley felt pity for the old man. In all probability, his had been a lonely life. She wanted to put an end to that misery. Fires burned on just about every street, and it wasn’t hard to grab a piece of burning debris and set the apartment building aflame.

  Clutching the clock to her chest like a newborn baby, Ashley walked the deserted streets looking for someone else, anyone else. The town was dead. The world, for all intents and purposes, was dead.

  But eventually it would be reborn, rising from the ashes like a phoenix. Ashley would simply travel from town to town until she found people. Then they would start about the task of recreating humanity.

  And maybe in some ways, Lucas had been right. Maybe time was a commodity that people took for granted. She didn’t think that would be the case anymore. Lucas had gotten his point across.

  It had just taken the deaths of billions of people to do it.

  The smoke in the town was overwhelming, and Ashley wrapped part of her shirt around her mouth and nose. The clock ticked loudly in her hands like a time bomb.

  She wondered if humanity would be able to survive such a dramatic blow and silently prayed to God that he would have mercy on those of them that were left.

  Only time would tell.

  Follow the Leader

  I like to walk late at night. It’s a good way to unwind after a stressful day of listening to the whispering machines, to the singing cogs, to the screaming gears turning and locking into place. Evidently, lots of other people like to walk at night too although I didn’t realize it until my insomnia forced me out into the streets of my town at a little past one in the morning.

  Walking helps give my life structure, and that’s exactly what I need. There’s something very routine and methodical about putting one foot in front of the other. It’s almost mechanical how all the parts function together-the heart beating, legs pumping, lungs bellowing air. Strange that I should liken the body to a
machine after all I’ve been through. Old habits die hard I guess.

  The machines hadn’t spoken to me in a little over six months, and I was just beginning to think that I was in control of my life again. I had a good job building furniture. I paid my bills on time. I did all my own grocery shopping. I had even gone on a date or two with women who knew nothing of my past. Six months ago, while listening to the chit-chat of microchips I would have never dreamed that this sort of life was possible. Of course, to most people, this sort of life isn’t that extraordinary. I might have agreed with them had I not spent most of my days and nights with plugs in my ears trying to block out the whirring binary voices of the machines around me that were continually urging me to do unspeakable things.

  I’m certain that the nocturnal strolls around the block helped insulate me against the noise. Being outside in the open air was like an inoculation against the hum of microwaves, the buzz of free-flowing electricity, and the screech of unoiled mechanisms. That Tuesday I needed all the help I could get. My head was filled to overflowing with harsh sounds, whispers, and the chuffing of ungreased pistons.

  After finishing my walk and clearing my head of all the electronic debris that had collected there during the day, I took a quick shower, jumped into my pajamas, and readied myself for bed.

  I sighed, pushed back the covers, and got out of bed. I read for a few minutes, drank warm milk, put my ear plugs in so I could watch an infomercial on TV without fear of suggestion, and even considered counting sheep. But nothing helped.

  I decided to go for another walk....

  This time when I ventured out of the house the temperature had dropped a little. The moon had shifted in the sky, and the heavens lit up at irregular intervals with brief bursts of lightning. Oblivious to everything but the night around him, a man stood on the corner, tapping his foot impatiently like he was waiting for someone.

  Dressed entirely in black, the man stared at me with equal parts amusement and curiosity. He only stood there a few seconds before motioning for me to follow him. Then he turned and walked away.

  I think the gears inside my watch were making sounds not unlike human speech, nudging me to break free of my strait-jacket routine and follow the man. As I had done so many times before, I listened to the voices and pursued.

  My curiosity grew as I saw other people standing on the street corners and then subsequently falling in behind us like Hamelin rats. By the time we had gone a few blocks, there were seven of us. The rest of the group eyed me carefully but didn’t say anything. No doubt they were wondering who I was. I had the same question about them. I started to speak when the man I was following held a finger up to his lips in a quieting gesture.

  “Not now,” he whispered. “We’ll talk later.”

  Our destination was a two-story Victorian that had seen better days, but still somehow managed to stand despite a cracked foundation and rampant evidence of termites. No lights burned in any of the windows, and it was logical to assume that everyone inside was asleep. Our guide motioned for us to follow him as he tiptoed up to the porch. I felt myself slipping into old habits. This is how it had started before, with the clocks commanding me, the radios urging me onward, the satellites in space spurning me into action.

  Our leader tried the front door only to find it locked. He wasted no time pulling out a set of picks. Within seconds the lock was sprung, and the door swung open with a quiet hiss.

  I entered the house, feeling like some sleeping part of me was about to wake up. Imagine the confusion on my face when I saw the leader reach into one of his pockets and pull out a handful of those unfurling noise makers that are so popular with kids at birthday parties. This derailed every expectation I had up this point. I had anticipated guns or knives or shackles, not childrens’ toys.

  Somehow all seven of us managed to creep up to the second floor without waking anyone up. Our leader smiled and pointed to one of the rooms. The door was closed but not locked. Inside, an elderly man and woman slept peacefully while a ceiling fan turned in lazy circles. The digital clock beside their bed read ‘1:16' in bright bold letters. I think it said something to me, but I was too busy trying to understand what was going on to listen.

  “On three,” our leader whispered as he placed the party whistle up to his lips. He performed the countdown with his fingers, holding up one, then two, and finally three. We all blew on our party whistles at the same time.

  The old man and woman jumped up-confused, frightened, and disoriented. The woman screamed as she saw all of us in her bedroom. The man, more angry than shocked, fumbled around in a drawer, eventually producing a chrome-handled pistol that gleamed in the moonlight. The sight of that gun was all we needed to send us running down the stairs and out of the house.

  The old man fired at us a couple of times from his front porch but missed. Once safely on the street again, everyone went their separate directions except for me and my guide. He followed me long enough to explain what I had gotten myself involved in.

  “We do this every night. A different one of us is always in charge. We never know what kind of situation we’ll find ourselves in. It’s always up to the leader, and that’s the fun of it. None of us know each other either, and that’s probably for the best. Come out tomorrow at the same time. And this time, wear black. Nobody comes with you either.”

  I didn’t get a chance to ask any questions as the leader of the group ran away into the shadows, leaving me with a sense of exhilaration that I hadn’t felt in many, many years. It was exactly the sort of feeling I had gotten when the machines spoke to me for the first time.

  I spent the next day thinking about what the following night might hold and debating on whether or not I should go out again. Of course, there was no real possibility that I would back out.

  The next evening I set my alarm clock to wake me at ten minutes until one. The clock screamed at me just as intended, promising me a night of exhilaration, and I woke up feeling invigorated.

  The group was out in force at a little past one. We were led by a buxom redhead dressed in dark coveralls. I definitely hadn’t seen her the night before. I would have remembered.

  I had taken the advice and dressed in black. There were nine of us that evening, and at least half of the walkers were new...or new to me. I wondered how many people in this town were privy to these late night jaunts and how many of these faces I would recognize at the bank or the grocery store or the gas station.

  We went in a completely different direction from the night before, making twists and turns that were unfamiliar to me. I didn’t start to get anxious and jittery until we left the sanctuary of sidewalks and brightly lit streets and headed down a winding trail that branched off through a patch of dark woods. There were no lights to indicate any houses.

  I paused for a moment when we reached the cemetery. Shovels were lined up single-file against the wrought iron gates. Moonlight trickled through the trees.

  “Grab a shovel,” our leader said. It was a command I had heard before when all the machines in my house decided to put in their two cents worth. Of course, that was long before the blood and the screaming and the jail time.

  Our leader threw her shovel over the gate and scaled it with the agility of a cat. We followed suit and marched single file through the labyrinth of graves. We were nearly at the back of the cemetery when our leader abruptly stopped and plunged her shovel into the soft earth covering someone named “Maggie Lynn, Devoted Mother.”

  Nobody else seemed to give a second thought to what we were doing. They were all digging with reckless abandon, flinging dirt aside and keeping their attentions focused on the job at hand. I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder every now and then out of fear that the police would step out of nowhere and cuff us all. I guess I was just paranoid. People who hear voices usually are.

  With nine of us digging it didn’t take very long before we reached the coffin. I knew we weren’t going to just stop with unearthing the casket. We were going to
open it.

  Strangely, it felt like I had gone back in time.

  The body had been interred for quite a while. Long enough, in fact, to make the exhumation more pleasant that I would have expected. The corpse wasn’t icky and wet like I thought it would be. Rather, it was dried, withered, and shrunken like a mummy in a floral print dress.

  “Everybody take a souvenir,” the redhead instructed.

  The deceased had obviously been a lover of jewelry and had a ring for each finger. One for each of us. The redhead, however wasn’t content with a tarnished trinket. Although I didn’t see what she took, I heard something crackle that sounded like a stick being snapped in half. I wanted to do as our leader had done, but I was afraid that taking such a gruesome souvenir might be the very thing that pushed me back into a world of savagery and madness. In the end, I settled for a ring like everybody else. That night I slept with it under my pillow.

  I guess I was still just a little bit frightened and hesitant at that point. My subconscious wasn’t frightened however. In my dreams, I did far worse things to that body than the redhead ever thought about. The redhead herself even figured into my nightmares. She was quite a screamer, and I woke up with the echo of her crying in my ears.

  The next day dragged on much too slowly, and it was all I could do to concentrate on my work. I couldn’t stop thinking about what the night might hold. I didn’t even have to set the clock that night. I was too keyed up to go to sleep and was out roaming the streets at a few minutes before one.

  Our guide this time was a rough looking guy with scars and tattoos.

  As was the group’s custom, we followed the leader down side streets and alleys, down boulevards and avenues. Our guide had the foresight to bring flashlights and handed them out as we moved from the city to the country, entering the mouth of a cave. In the natural tunnels, we moved much slower than normal, impeded by the darkness. Yet, I could feel us moving further and further away from the city. We were also going down.