Extremities: Stories of Death, Murder, and Revenge

by David Lubar

  Not carefully enough. The water went the wrong way, sending him into another fit of coughing.

  Five hours later, when his thirst was more than he could bear, he got a glass of milk from the fridge. The first tiny sip went down fine. So did the rest. There was nothing wrong with his ability to swallow. Before he went to bed, he tried the water again. He choked immediately.

  “No big deal,” he said. He’d drink milk, juice, and soda.

  The next morning, the water in the shower stung like needles. No matter how he adjusted the showerhead, he couldn’t make it comfortable. Jake washed as quickly as he could and got out.

  A week later, he choked for the first time on a glass of milk. Jake looked at the label on the carton. The dairy was over in a nearby town. Fed by the same reservoir.

  The soda, he soon discovered, was bottled in his city. He drank spring water. Problem solved. But he started choking on foods. Anything cooked in water. Anything mixed with water.

  By early August, he knew he had to get away. At least for a while. Long enough for the last of the tainted water to leave the reservoir. He got permission to go visit his cousin in Texas. It was only a two-day drive.

  Jake got started late. He figured he’d drive through the night, catch a couple of hours’ sleep the next day, and then push on. The air was damp when he got in his car.

  Ten minutes after he left his house, the first drop hit his windshield. Jake turned on his wipers, then turned them off. The blade just smeared the scattered drops across the glass, obscuring his view.

  The rain started to fall more heavily. He switched on the wipers again. The water smeared worse, turning the view through the windshield into a mosaic of dark patches and soft blurs of light.

  Jake switched the wipers to the highest speed. It didn’t help. He couldn’t see at all. He rolled down his window and tried looking out to see the road. The rain stung his eyes and lashed at his face. Better pull over, he thought. He wiped his face, then reached out for the switch to close the window. The car drifted to the right. Through the half-closed window, barely visible through the heavy rain, Jake spotted the thin white line marking the shoulder of the road. It curved sharply to the left. As Jake jammed his foot on the brake and yanked the wheel, he felt the car lurch. The tires skidded on the wet pavement.

  He was off the road. Relieved that he hadn’t been going too fast, Jake waited for the car to stop.

  It slowed. But it was tilted too far. It started to roll. It seemed to take forever. Jake held on. I’ll be okay, he thought. The car rolled on its side and then onto its roof. Instead of a scrape of rocks and dirt, Jake heard a splash.

  As rain fell around him in torrents, the car started to sink in the swollen stream. Jake yanked open the buckle of his seat belt. A million knives slashed at him as water flooded through the half-open window. Jake took a deep breath, then forced his head through the opening. He jammed his shoulders through.

  His hips stuck. Water surrounded his head, searing his eyes like acid. He jerked with strength driven by panic and managed to pull free of the car.

  The current tugged at him, trying to sweep him toward the middle of the creek. Jake swam. “Screw you, Rodney!” he screamed. Rage fueled his strokes. His hand met the twisted root of a tree. He held on, catching his breath, letting his strength return before he tried to climb up the steep bank. He was a survivor, no matter what the odds.

  A phrase flashed through his memory. The same air that Ceasar breathed. Those molecules had spread throughout the world.

  The same water that Rodney breathed. Or the same water that Rodney was.

  It would be everywhere. In every bottle. In every glass. In every cloud. Every stream or ocean or puddle. Every wisp of fog. Water, water, everywhere.

  There was no way he could win. Jake’s fingers slipped loose. The current dragged him away, and then pulled him under. He opened his mouth to swear. Water filled his throat. It dashed eagerly into his lungs and tugged at his body. It carried him away, swirling toward the rivers and the oceans.

  The alarms went out. Posters went up. Local news crews came by for a day or two. But nobody really cared.

  Patterns of Fear

  Collin scanned the table as they all took their seats. It was exactly what he’d expected: beauty, fear, humor, beefcake, and logic. It was the same pattern as always. A gorgeous girl who looked like she’d popped off the cover of a magazine. A mousy girl who looked like she’d start crying if he shouted, “Boo!” A goofy-looking guy who was there for comic relief. A male model who probably had an IQ somewhere below that of a fried egg. And him. The cool, calm, logical sort. The brains of the operation. As always.

  “Fear comes from ignorance,” he’d said during the interview with the producer last month. The man seemed impressed with that, so Collin had gone on to discuss his feelings about the unknown and the unexplained. It had worked. He got the job. He’d tried out for the show on a whim. And now, here he was, with the rest of the group who’d star in an episode of Terror at Midnight.

  What a joke, Collin thought. The show, which traveled around the country, was a rip-off of the one on MTV. And that was pretty much ripped off from a movie, anyhow. But the money wasn’t a rip-off. A sweet five-hundred-dollar payday for each one of them who stayed all night. And a chance to make bonus money.

  “All set?” the producer asked.

  Collin nodded along with the others. The producer introduced everyone, but Collin didn’t bother learning any names. They’d be together for only one night. And he already had perfect names for them: Barbie, Minnie, Dufus, and Sergio.

  The producer led them to a Honda in the parking lot. “Here you go,” he said, dangling a set of keys attached to a small rubber skeleton.

  “I’ll drive,” Sergio said, snatching the keys.

  “No camera crew?” Barbie asked.

  “It’s all automated, babe,” the producer said. “The cameras are in place throughout the house.”

  And in the car, Collin thought. That way they’d get some good shots of the group as they marked their territory.

  “What about the bathrooms?” Minnie asked.

  “Relax, doll. We aren’t that kind of show.”

  Sergio headed for the driver’s side. “Shotgun!” Dufus shouted, grabbing the front passenger seat.

  “Moron,” Collin muttered, quietly enough so nobody heard him. He was pleased with the seating arrangements. “I’ll take the middle,” he said. “I don’t mind.” He didn’t mind at all. Barbie might have been an airhead, but he’d certainly enjoy having her squeezed in next to him.

  The rest of them chattered as Sergio drove along, following instructions from the tape in the cassette player.

  Collin had to admit that this was a clever gimmick.

  “Creepy,” Minnie said when they pulled through the tilted iron gates that waited for them at the end of the ride.

  “Rrrrrrrrrr.” Dufus did a creaky-gate impression. Barbie sighed. Minnie let out a nervous giggle.

  Sergio drove along the curving driveway.

  Everyone except Collin let out a gasp when they reached the house. They sat for a moment, then opened the car doors and climbed out. Their breaths drifted before them in the frigid night. The place was exactly what Collin would have expected if someone had cast around for the perfect haunted house. A crumbling old Victorian. Three stories. Dangling shutters that probably flapped against the sides when the wind picked up. A dead tree in the front yard. Nice touch, Collin thought. Flaking black paint. Drawn curtains in the windows.

  Collin hung back as the group headed toward the steps. He’d started watching the show after getting the job. It always had the same pattern. The Sergio-of-the-Week would rush up the steps first to show how brave he was. Barbie would follow. Dufus would chase after her, making lame jokes. Finally, he’d have to talk Minnie into coming along. That was his role. The voice of reason. He knew the viewers would be rooting for him to turn tail and run. Everyone liked to see the rational person s
uccumb to fear. Not a chance.

  “It’s so creepy.” Minnie stood with her arms wrapped around herself.

  “It’s just a house,” Collin told her. He could swear he heard her teeth chattering. “There’s nothing spooky or supernatural inside. You’ll be fine. The only thing to worry about is dust.”

  “I’m allergic.”

  So don’t breathe. He herded her up the steps and they went inside.

  A cassette player waited for them on a table in the hallway. Sergio pushed the PLAY button.

  “Welcome to Morimar House,” the recorded voice said. “It’s haunted. The locals agree on that. What they can’t agree on is whether it is merely malicious or deeply evil. Perhaps the five of you will find an answer for us. If you stay…”

  The narrator chuckled, then said, “Now, let us begin our tour.”

  Sergio picked up the cassette player and led the group through the house.

  Every time a board creaked under their feet, Minnie squeaked. I hope she’s the first to leave, Collin thought. On most shows, at least two of the team backed out. Sometimes, all of them fled. Not this time. Collin knew he’d be there when the sun came up and the checkbook came out.

  The tour took them to the basement, and then through each of the three floors. Finally, they went up a long flight of steep stairs to the attic.

  As Sergio opened the door and they followed him in, Collin had a surprise. It wasn’t Minnie who whimpered. It was Dufus. “I can’t do this,” he said. He backed out of the room. “I’m not going in there.”

  That was enough to spook Minnie, who joined him in the hall.

  “It’s just another room,” Collin said. He glanced at the others. Sergio and Barbie looked like they’d been joined at the hip. “Just a room,” Collin repeated. An old, ragged rug covered the floor. The sloping ceiling barely allowed him enough room to stand. A bed with a wooden headboard was pushed against the far wall. A bare bulb with a pull cord hung over the bed. There were two plump pillows. The kind that were probably stuffed with feathers. And a large quilt. Bed, pillows, and quilt all looked pretty old.

  The only furniture was a small table by the bed, a wooden chair, and a dresser with a mirror.

  Someone had pasted magazine pictures on one of the walls. Flowers. Birds. All sorts of cheerful stuff.

  Collin shivered. But not from fear. The house was cold. Especially the attic. Much colder than it was downstairs. That didn’t make sense. Heat rose. He knew that. Maybe the rest of the house was better insulated. That would explain it. Whatever warmth there was had been trapped below.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Barbie said.

  Collin followed them downstairs. They built a fire in the fireplace. Naturally, Sergio took charge of it. Five sleeping bags lay unrolled by the hearth. On each one, there was an envelope with a name.

  Collin picked up his. Inside, on a file card, it said,

  Challenge—sleep alone in the basement. Reward—$500.

  He glanced at the others as they read their cards. Each had been offered money to stay alone in a selected room. The money varied. Sergio’s was the highest. One thousand dollars to sleep in the attic.

  Figures they’d give the big bucks to the pretty boy. “We can trade,” Collin said. That was one of the rules of the show. He knew what he wanted. Why settle for an extra five hundred dollars when he could get one thousand?

  “I’m not sleeping alone,” Barbie said. She held out her card. “Anyone want it?”

  Collin shook his head. He wasn’t interested in three hundred dollars for sleeping in the kitchen. But he knew what would come next. “You won’t be alone. I’ll keep you company,” Sergio said. He tossed his card to the floor.

  “You mind?” Collin asked.

  Sergio shrugged. “The less, the merrier.”

  Collin took the card.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Minnie asked.

  “Of what?”

  “That’s a bad place,” Dufus said.

  “Route 22 at rush hour is a bad place,” Collin said. “The attic is just a room.” He couldn’t help smiling. Not only was he smarter than Dufus, he was funnier, too. He hoped the audience would appreciate his wit. But he figured anyone who watched Terror at Midnight probably wasn’t bright enough to enjoy real humor.

  The group had to stay together until midnight. Collin sat on the floor and let the others do the talking. It didn’t matter. He’d get paid even if he didn’t say another word.

  At twelve, they all said good night. Collin trudged up toward the attic. He left the sleeping bag behind. The bed looked a lot more comfortable. But as he walked along the last hallway and climbed the steps, he wished he’d brought it, just to drape over himself until he got to the room. It was even colder now.

  Nothing spooky here, he thought as he went inside. He kicked off his shoes and pulled down the quilt. Weird, he thought as he glanced at it. There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern. Just scraps of cloth. Obviously made to serve a purpose and not to please the eye.

  Comfy, Collin thought as he pressed his hand into one of the pillows.

  When he got in bed, he noticed a scrapbook on the bedside table. The first entry, a clipping so old that the paper looked ready to turn to dust, said, MURDER IN THE ATTIC.

  Nice touch. Collin decided to be a sport and read the article out loud. He wasn’t sure where the camera was hidden, but he knew there’d be one somewhere.

  According to the article, the place used to be a guesthouse. The first owner had killed his wife by smothering her with a pillow. Way back in 1893. Collin felt a small twinge in his stomach. He reached behind himself and pulled out one of the pillows. It was too new. And there was a tag on it. He wouldn’t be sleeping with his face pressed against a murder weapon.

  The place changed hands, but remained a guesthouse.

  The next clipping, dated 1907, told of a visitor who had apparently died of fright while sleeping in the attic. The doctor described him as “paralyzed by such extreme fear that his face was frozen in the most ghastly expression.”

  Heart attack, Collin thought. Doctors didn’t know much back in 1907. They were probably still using leeches. He flipped the page.

  Three more clippings told of similar deaths—two from fright and one labeled “accidental strangulation.” The next, dated 1957, told about a young girl who had leaped from the window.

  Collin glanced over at the window. It was covered with boards. Nailed solidly shut. Not me, he said. Even if the window was wide open, he’d never jump. There were more clippings, but Collin had seen enough. Besides, he was pretty sure they were fake. It wouldn’t be hard to make something look old like that. Forgers did it all the time. He slid down under the quilt, pulled the dusty old cloth up to his chin, then decided to say one more word for the benefit of the cameras. “G’night.”

  He yanked the cord that dangled from the bulb. The room dropped into complete blackness.

  Collin closed his eyes.

  He opened them an instant later when he heard the moan.

  His hand shot for the cord. Then he froze. It was a trick. The producer had set something up.

  The sound had faded. Collin felt pleased that he hadn’t panicked and turned on the light. They weren’t going to trick him that easily.

  The pleasure didn’t last. It was replaced by panic when he felt a moist breath puff against his cheek.

  Collin shouted. He fumbled for the light. Then instantly felt foolish as he blinked against the harsh glare. He touched his cheek. It had seemed so real. A breath, like a dying gasp, already scented with the grave.

  No. It couldn’t have been a breath. He raised the quilt slightly, then let it drop. A puff of air washed over his hand. That explained it. His only enemy was an overactive imagination.

  Stay calm. Stay logical.

  “Okay, what are the facts?” he said, speaking quietly. A bunch of people died in this room. So what? People died everywhere. Which meant, first of all, that it wasn’t unusual that peopl
e died here, and second of all, that if places were haunted because people died there, then the whole freaking world would have to be haunted.

  Logic. Rational thought. Find the patterns in the unexplained, and it was no longer unexplained.

  And just this once, for no rational reason, leave the light on.

  Collin started to lie back down. Then he decided that he really didn’t need a pillow. He tossed them both on the floor. He closed his eyes.

  And felt fingers on his throat.

  Collin sat up. As his own scream faded, he heard another one. An old man. Half-screaming, half-sobbing in terror.

  Tricks, Collin thought.

  But the sound wasn’t from a hidden speaker. It came from inside his head. Like a memory. But loud and undeniably real.

  “Okay—I can deal with this,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Screw the cameras. He didn’t care if his momentary panic was flashed on the screen for millions of viewers. Because in the end, he’d triumph. He’d find the rational explanation.

  The voice in his head was fading. He drowned it out by speaking over it.

  “Voices … How? Maybe drugs. Something in the food?” They’d been given dinner before heading out. “No. Not legal. There’d be trouble. Has to be something else. Hypnotism?” Maybe. That would explain it. Posthypnotic suggestion. Some sort of audio-acoustic trick with high-tech speakers? Somehow, they’d tricked him into hearing sounds.

  He walked over to the mirror, bracing himself for some gory sight. It wouldn’t be hard to rig a projector. But all he saw was his own wide-eyed reflection.

  Calm down. He pulled the pictures from the wall, hoping to uncover some sort of hidden mechanism. Nothing showed up.

  Collin went back to bed.

  The bed jolted like someone had kicked it.

  Ancient springs creaked. The whole frame shook like someone was struggling. Fighting for breath.

  Collin rolled off the bed, tangling himself in the quilt. He staggered but caught his balance, then knelt by the side of the bed and looked underneath. Nothing. He rolled back the rug, revealing a bare, untampered floor. He grunted as he pushed the mattress off the bed frame. The shaking had stopped.