The Stranger received the joke with a painful pursed smile. Deacon’s Mum blushed. She adjusted her heavy wool sweater with the embroidered Christmas reindeer and politely announced, “We can set a cot in the lounge. You’ll have to wait till the other guests go to bed to get some privacy, but it’s better than the snow.”
The Stranger set down his box and looked to the second floor landing, finding Deacon between the rails. The Stranger’s eyes burrowed in deep dark caves like sinister gophers, peeking out. He smiled a toothy grin, not filled with teeth but wood squares painted white.
*
The storm still shrieked, but inside the lounge the guests were bathed in orange, courtesy of the hearth. The Hershfield family squatted around the coffee table and played Monopoly. The young couple with the matching neon snowsuits, the ones with the hidden diamond ring, snuggled on the sofa. Deacon’s father, as usual, played the old piano. Everyone sipped warm apple cider and enjoyed the music and ambiance – everyone except The Stranger. He sat in the tufted chair in front of the fire, stroking his box as if it were a cat.
This box was not luggage. This was not a duffle bag or a suitcase. There was no way socks, shirts, pants and toiletries resided within. This was a chest.
Deacon’s heart raced. He wanted – no, needed – to see what hid inside. As he collected empty cider mugs he crept close enough to see that the box was sided with old tin-plating, embossed with children playing. The dark cherry wood drank up the glow from the fire. Deacon reached out…
“Deac!” his father didn’t miss a note. “The mugs. Please.”
Father continued a soft rendition of the Moonlight Sonata as Deacon kept his eyes on the man by the fire as long as he could.
When he had finished drying and placing each mug back in its place, he heard his father finish the last of his medleys. Soft clapping of applause became a standing ovation of louder clapping of feet as the guests ascended to their warm quilts. Father was pleased with Deacon’s cleaning job. He mussed his hair and told him to go to sleep sooner rather than later. Deacon had other ideas.
The lobby was dark and quiet. Only a slow tide of ember light washed in from the lounge. The Stranger hadn’t moved. His shadow reached well past the foyer and into the dining room. Deacon crept closer… Was The Stranger asleep?
“A curious child, aren’t you?” the Stranger whispered. “Don’t be scared. I like curious children.”
Deacon‘s gut said run, but the box said come and see. Firelight gave The Stranger’s skin the look of candle drippings.
“Children have always been curious about the box. Are you curious, child?”
Deacon nodded as the shadows of the embossed children on the tin plating danced in rhythm with the flickering fire. “Inside are wonders and marvels.
Wondrous wonders and marvellous marvels. But you wouldn’t be interested in that. It’s not for you. Unless…”
His gnarled root fingers pointed to the latch…
“Deacon! Leave this gentleman to get his rest. We need to have a talk. Now!” Deacon jumped as his father marched in and escorted him to his room like a prisoner. He knew he was in trouble and boy was he ever.
*
Deacon’s parents tried, unsuccessfully, to rant quietly so as not to disturb the guests.
“We’ve told you time and time again: don’t go through the guests’ belongings.”
“I didn’t!” Deacon’s tears welled up and betrayed him.
“Mr. Singer said he found his engagement ring on the window sill.”
Deacon had forgotten to put the ring back. If only he hadn’t been side-tracked by The Stranger.
“Mr. Singer’s girlfriend found it, and while she said ‘yes’, you ruined his surprise. Tomorrow you will apologise to both of them.”
“I didn’t.”
“Stop lying! How would you like it if our guests went through your things?” his mother said through clenched teeth.
“I don’t have anything,” the tears flowed.
His parents gave each other a concerned look. They moved in closer to console, but Deacon pushed them away.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Until then, you will stay in your room.” His father marched out. His mother went to give him a hug and kiss, but Deacon turned away. She left without saying goodnight.
*
Deacon did not stay in his room. What could his parents really do, send him away? That’s exactly what he wanted anyhow, to be sent somewhere in the big world that held so much more than cross-country ski paths and cider mugs. His thoughts turned from anger towards his parents to The Stranger’s curious box. If his curiosity normally whispered, then tonight it howled louder than the blizzard outside.
He crept downstairs and peeked in the lounge. It felt lonely without the piano, roaring fire, the guests and the smell of cider. The room was just shadows, muted winds, embers struggling to glow, and Him.
The Stranger had not moved from the big chair and his breathing was both deep and shallow. He was asleep to be sure. The images of the children pressed in tin called to him to play. See the marvellous marvels. See the wondrous wonders.
As a rule, Deacon never peeked in someone’s bag while they were in the room sleeping. But this box was exceptional, and exceptional things called for exceptions. Aided by shadows, Deacon peeked around the chair. The Stranger’s face was slumped. Deacon’s moment was here. And what a moment it was. His chest felt like a sea galley, a drummer pounding thunder as oars rowed blood through his body, propelling him closer.
He placed his hand on the box, still warm from the fire. He took another look at The Stranger, then lifted the lid ever just so, not realizing The Stranger had opened one eye, smiled, and closed it again.
Finally, he lifted the lid and looked down.
The box opened up to a cavernous space. The bottom went deeper than it had any right to go. Beyond where the bottom should have been, beyond where the floor should have been, sat crystals. They looked familiar. Deacon knew those crystals. They were from the chandelier, the one that hung right above his head. At first Deacon thought the bottom of the box was mirror, but then where was his reflection? His stomach twisted into a thousand upsetting knots as he realised he was not looking down anymore. He was looking up from the bottom.
The Stranger’s face was as big as a rising harvest moon as it crested the towering, cherry wood walls.
“A curious boy,” he said as he shut the lid, allowing the absolute darkness to mute Deacon and the other curious children’s cries.
The Beating of My Heart
by Rachael Howard
She woke with a jolt. Something had disturbed her.
The room was so dark. Not even a flickering beam of light sneaking around the curtain. So dark that shadows lay on shadows to create darkness deep as velvet. Maybe the local kids had played ‘Hit the Street Light’ again. She had told them off so many times but she knew it was useless. The boredom of a wintry evening always won. Great. That meant another cherry picker outside her window, another leering face looking in.
She turned her head to check the time. Correction, she tried to turn her head. Nothing. Of course, sleep paralysis. She’d heard about that. Waking too fast so your body lags behind, still asleep. All she had to do was wait.
She waited.
It was quiet too. Must be the small hours or a bus would have passed by now. Just some distant radio playing – weird, new-age stuff. Not her thing at all. She’d have to track them down and introduce them to something more interesting in the morning.
What was that? She strained her hearing. An odd trickle. Not water, something more solid. Clumpy. What was it?
Her head still wouldn’t move. Too soon. Maybe her fingertips? She concentrated all her mind on a finger. Just one little finger. Just an inch? Nothing. But she could feel something. Dampness. Oh bugger. Had she wet the bed? She hadn’t been that drunk?
Definitely wetness, a slight film on the surface. Her fingertip moved, just a fraction
. The surface felt smooth, soft. Satin sheets? Eugh. It couldn’t be her bedroom. Who had she got off with last night? What weirdo used satin sheets? She really hoped her friends had been drunk too. She would die if they shared photos of her with a loser.
Oh God. Where was she? What if it was something else stopping her moving? What if she’d met some serial killer and he had paralysed her ready to… to… A scream rattled round her skull but nothing escaped her mouth.
Be calm. Be rational. First, she was alive. Wasn’t she? Of course she was. She could hear the beating of her heart. Thump, thump, thump. Good. So she had a chance. All she had to do was think this through. Anyway, she’d moved a finger; maybe she could move more.
She strained and managed to wriggle her toes. They scratched against something smooth and soft. It covered a hard surface. A footboard? A padded footboard? Not classy. This had to be some real douche. Thank god. She could deal with that.
Her fingers slowly inched to the side. Find the edge of the bed and pull herself up. That’s what she needed to do. The fingers slid out a bit further, stopped. Another barrier, soft over unyielding wall. A box. She was in a padded box! Her brain refused to take the next step. It couldn’t bear it. A… a… coffin?
Her hand moved, lifted slightly. Inched up the wall and met the lid. A gurgle inched from her throat. Nasal passages opened, letting the reek of damp soil and rotting flesh flood in. A retch failed to issue. Just bubbles in slurry.
Where the hell was she? Stay calm. It is not what you think. It is NOT what you think. Oh God, oh God, oh God oh God. Stop! It’s OK. It’s just a prank. Your mates are fooling with you. They’ve just shut you up in a coffin for a prank. That’s it. They saw a coffin and thought it would be a good laugh to put her in it. Seal her in it. Paralysed? With something rotting?
No, no, no, no. This isn’t real. Someone will come back in a minute and get you out. Who? Her sick, spiteful, bastard friends? What did she do last night? She knew she shouldn’t drink. Never again. Promise. They must come back for her. They’re her friends.
Or maybe it’s a nutter? Did she go off with some psycho and he’s watching her now? Got some camera on her? Laughing at her? There was no bloody way she was going to let him win. Calm! Stay calm, please!
Wait. She could see a faint light. Just the trace of it. It slid across the surface, back and forth, from somewhere past her chin. Shadows shifted and now she saw a satin wall just inches from her nose. Only a slighter shade of dark. No colour coming through.
The faint glow had become stronger. She could see more detail of the padded cover now. The line of the stitching, the shadowy hollow that hid the buttons. So close. She felt its weight above her, bearing down without touching. Solid. Unmoveable.
What was that? The music from the distant radio became clearer. A mix of reedy flute and chanting baritone formed a lullaby that eased her panic. Was it nearer or just louder? Didn’t matter. Someone was out there. She might make it. Hope!
Every scrap of will was gathered inside her. She had to do this. Had to let them know. She raised an arm. Something cool slid off it like the seductive slip of a silk gown. She could just see her hand at the edge of her vision. It seemed odd, paler than usual, thinner. She drew it closer. Hard to see in the glow. Closer still. Nearly, nearly.
Her hand jerked away. She couldn’t look any more. She couldn’t bear to see the shine of the white bones, the jerky-like sinews that ran along them, the clear fluid that dripped like treacle from the tips.
This was not happening. It had to be a dream. Please be a dream. No! She was alive. She knew she was. She could hear her heartbeat. Don’t lose control. Don’t lose…
She tried to shriek, but the only sound escaped from the singer outside. Its roar of triumph matching the intensity of her torment. Then silence fell. A complete silence. No music, no song, nothing.
Another trickle noise made her jerk. Soil on the lid. Then the thump of a bigger clod. She was being buried. But she was alive. They couldn’t do that. It wasn’t human.
The glow flared and she saw the coffin was lovingly prepared. Whitest of white satin and silver threads to bind it. No soil slipped in to tarnish her. No air could join her. All alone except for the sounds above.
This was her last chance. She had to get out. Now. No arguing. She was a fighter. Always had been. She dredged up the last vestiges of fury in her soul. Her hands rose to the lid, her nails snapping off as her bones scraped at the satin. The last of her skin sliding to pool beside her. I’m alive! I’m alive!
She jerked her head. An eyeball slipped, lost its hold and half her vision tumbled into her skull. Plop, onto a morass of matter. The eyeball rolled down the slope and settled, giving a view within her chest.
A chest that was barely a cage. Just ribs festooned with ribbons of flesh. Just a talisman swinging from its chain into the cavity. Each swing ending with a thump against a rib. A perpetual swing that lost no energy. Swinging on forever.
The glow of the talisman lit up her rotting flesh. She recognised its demonic shape. Remembered the promise made during an alcoholic moment of belief. Her mind screamed in silent protest. I thought it was a joke! I didn’t mean it. Please! I’ll do anything!
Above, a shadowy figure shovelled in more earth. Moonlight could not enter the hood of its cloak, keeping the face in shadow.
Below, her fingers grabbed at the chain but it slipped easily off the bones. Get it off. Get it off. She scrabbled at it again, clutching and swiping. She could not get a grip. One last lunge ended in a crack as her tendons snapped free and her arms fell, helpless, to her side.
The hooded figure grunted in frustration and threw aside the shovel, clawing the earth into the pit in a great, tumbling landslide. It scrambled clear, bent over panting. After a moment, it reverently placed black candles and a flute into a carpet bag, brushing off the remains of soil.
Silence filled the coffin. No. Not now. I’m too young. This wasn’t what I meant. She thrashed back and forth, trying to shake the talisman off. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Please. But it just kept swinging, lighting up the ghoulish architecture of her rotting body. Showing her what her vanity had created.
A scream of utter despair finally escaped the putrid cadaver.
The hooded figure stood upon the grave. It stamped its foot and cackled, “You asked not to die. You never asked to live.”
Deadlands
by Christopher Patrick
Gordon’s mind had switched to auto-pilot by the time lunch came around, his brain numb from the endless stream of paperwork that showed no sign of letting up. No matter how long ago the world had ended, the paperwork never stopped. If it weren’t for the sudden rustle of sandwich wrappers or the tap-tap of stirring spoons, Gordon would have missed the lunch call altogether. Sliding away from his mahogany prison, he grabbed his lunch from the drawer, headed over to the office window and looked out onto the Deadlands.
The Deadlands seemed to stretch out forever, far beyond the tall, wired wall of The George Town Sanctuary and the endless stream of the dead it played host to. Looking out, Gordon felt strangely captivated by the dead as they shuffled over the dirt, reminding him of a painting his grandmother used to own. It was a portrait of the end of the world: a cracked beauty that pictured life and death blurring together in one brushstroke. The Deadlands were reminiscent of this, and eerily so; the only difference was the endless stock of meat, bones and dirt that the painting had failed to contain.
Taking a bite of his sandwich, Gordon caught sight of his own reflection and was surprised at how different he looked. His face was drawn and his cheeks, once plump, had made way for what could now pass as a strong jawline, while his dark, evenly kept head of hair was thinning, with flecks of grey. However, the thing that struck him most about his complexion were his eyes. His mother had always said that he had old eyes looking out from young skin but, seeing them now, it seemed that this mismatched symmetry had evened itself out; his face as old as his eyes had once been. It was th
is thought, and the memory spoiled, that made him force his gaze away from the window and onto the rest of the office, containing his fellow band of survivors.
As always, Gordon was the only one wearing a suit, a fact that was met with a great deal of scorn from his colleagues; but their reaction wasn’t something that bothered him much anymore. There was a reason he wore the suit. It was the same reason he took two teabags in his tea, wore an overly long Barbour jacket around the sanctuary and allowed himself only one cigarette a day. He did all of these things because it reminded him of his father and this made him feel safe. And safety was the only currency worth having in this new world, a belief that demonstrated how out of place he was here, which came down to one simple fact: he had no right being here.
The sanctuary wasn’t built for the likes of him. It was built for the 1%; for those whose names meant something or whose bank account meant more. And Gordon was neither; he was simply a guy who had been dating the daughter of an MP at the time of the outbreak and she refused to go anywhere without him. Reluctantly, her father put Gordon’s name on the list and he was welcomed with open arms. That was until the relationship broke down, the apocalypse proving to be far from an aphrodisiac. A couple of years later, and he was well and truly the outcast.
Gordon didn’t like the way things were ran here. He didn’t like that safety had come down to nothing more than inheritance, and he’d made his opinion known several times at the community meetings, before they stopped letting him attend. He was of the view that survival wasn’t a birth right and he wanted to open the doors to those still out there fighting for their lives, offering the sanctuary to whomever, no matter their circumstance or background. In his protestations, he’d made a fair few enemies, and the nickname “The Lobbyist”.
It was only a matter of time before he was thrown out onto the Deadlands and given over to the Shufflers. Particularly giving the number of new enemies he’d collected recently. He had rejected the planning permission for Zombie firing ranges within the walls, the invention of a new sport called Match of the Dead, and a business proposal for a Deadlands tour company. He shuddered to think what would happen if any of these were approved, especially the plans to obtain human heads for Match of the Dead. So he had turned them all down swiftly, without a second thought (or concern) to what it may mean for his future at George Town.
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 17
