Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds

by Compiled by Christopher C. Payne

  “I think I know what’s going on,” Simon exclaims.

  “Do you?” Again the doctor seems patronizing.

  “Yes!” Simon hollers, excited, but afraid. “Doctor, don’t you get it? The second story. This is it! We’re in it right now! It’s here! This place! It’s all around us! The road is tricking us! It’s got us locked inside an illusion. And the two stories intertwine to ensure that it never ends. Don’t you see? We’re still on the road…”

  The Lexus roars to life as Grover hits the accelerator, chuckling maliciously. Something has changed in his expression. He seems stable, void of concern, like a man who’s been playing a sick kind of game.

  “Well, well, Simon. That’s a very interesting theory.”

  Simon glares at him, aware of what’s happening. (The game is moving.) “You should know. You read about it.”

  “On the contrary…you did…Doctor.”

  The word “Doctor” hangs in the air.

  “What did you just call me?” Simon finally asks. The Lexus is moving faster. Suddenly there are horns.

  “You heard me,” he says, his face still grinning. “I was wondering what it was going to take for you to figure this whole thing out.”

  Simon stirs in his seat, ignoring the obscenities shouted by the drivers who pass them. “What is this? What are you doing?”

  “Oh stop pretending,” Grover snaps. “I think we’re ready to take the masks off, aren’t we?”

  “What’re saying? Are you trying to tell me that I’m Dr. Grover?”

  “You said it yourself not two seconds ago. It’s all switched around. Everything’s reversed.”

  “I meant the stories!”

  “Aw, but you are the story Simon…I mean…Dr. Grover.” He laughs wickedly at himself. “You’ll have to excuse me. Even I get a bit confused sometimes.”

  Simon looks down at his hands as a light blue static fills his palms. Could it really be? Had he really been the doctor all along?

  A question emerges. Simon looks up. “If I’m the doctor…then who are you? And why are you doing this? Why did you pretend to be me?”

  Dr. Grover shakes his head. His skin tone is grey and the change in his features becomes something ethereal, like a vapor, like a spirit. Like a ghost.

  “Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to? You researched them yourself when you were studying to write the book. Mass delusion? Clairvoyance? Remember your studies, doctor. That’s the best way to-”

  “Stop calling me ‘doctor’! You’re the doctor! You’re Dr. Grover! I’m Simon Fielding!”

  “Oh please. There is no Simon Fielding. That’s all in your head…along with everything else. Face it, my friend. You’ve snapped. Gone nuts. Too many nights on the disturbed ward, maybe. You’ve lost your grip on what’s real.”

  “Stop it!” Simon screams. “Stop messing with my mind! What are trying to do?”

  Suddenly, the spirit’s eyes glow. The accelerator increases to 50mph. The laughing does not stop.

  “I just want to help,” the ghost says innocently.

  Realizing his danger, Simon begs for him to stop. But the car only moves faster.

  65mph

  70mph

  80mph

  Simon’s fear turns to rage. He points at the “being” accusingly. “You’re the one that doesn’t exist! I’m real! I’m Simon Fielding!”

  The being casually shrugs. “Well doctor, if that’s true then I’d say that puts you in quite a predicament.”

  Simon’s heart skips a beat. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, if I don’t exist,” the being suggests, blue eyes gleaming. “Then tell me one thing: Who’s driving this car?”

  The blood drains from Simon’s face. “Oh no…The dream…”

  -FLASH-

  The ghost vanishes, leaving the driver’s seat empty. The Lexus swerves dramatically into the neighboring lane. Oncoming traffic emerges.

  Simon screams, desperately reaching for the wheel - but it’s too late. With the remaining seconds of his life, he gazes out the windshield, eye fixating on the massive produce truck and the panicking driver who slams his horn repeatedly and attempts to-

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…

  ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW:

  The man sitting at the bus stop hears the thunder of impact. His eyes dart quickly to the middle of the street - just in time to witness the explosion – as glass shatters and a collision of metal erupts in fumes of gray and black.

  The Lexus is struck so hard on the passenger’s side that car whips around half circle, flipping onto its back in the process; the roof caving as streaks of blood splatter the front windshield.

  The truck veers left from the collision; the driver unconscious as a Victory Red Chevy engages from the panic of traffic and smashes directly into the truck’s storage compartment.

  The rear doors burst open. Over two dozen crates spill out of the truck’s the storage unit and splinter into pieces as a white Audi S4 plows into both vehicles as well as the left over carts.

  The man at the bus stop gasps as he watches the crates explode. A wave of gold apples rain down, filling the tragedy will a twinge of the surreal.

  Golden apples.

  Everywhere.

  Suddenly a crowd of pedestrians come running from their houses. Several passing cars stop abruptly and the passengers quickly exit to race over and join the scene.

  The man at the bus stop breaks from his trance. He reaches into his plaid sport coat and retrieves his iphone, frantically dialing 9-11. Within two seconds he’s speaking to a dispatcher.

  “Police! Yes. Look, there’s been an accident! Oh God…It’s awful. Please. Send an ambulance. I’m at…”

  The man pauses, realizing he’s unaware of his exact location. He steps out of the bus stop and speed-walks to the corner. At the sidewalks crossing he locates the intersecting street.

  “I’m on…First and May…the corner of First and May…Please hurry! I don’t think they’re gonna make it…”

  The man shuts off his phone and shifts his attention to the carnage in front of him, a single thought entering his mind: I will not sleep tonight.

  THE ROAD’S END:

  When the medics pull the sheriff from the front seat of the patrol car and out of the ditch, they realize immediately that he’s still alive and partially conscious (his eyelids are fluttering and his chest is heaving). They decide to set him on the ground about five yards distance from the wreckage so they can examine him while a gurney is quickly fetched.

  “Sheriff? Can you hear me?” one of the medics asks, a young man, maybe 20 with name “J. Lynnwood” stitched above the shirt pocket of his starched-white uniform.

  Too weak to reply, the sheriff just lays there, squinting at the red and blue lights that penetrate the darkness.

  Lynnwood places two fingers on the sheriff’s throat. “I got a pulse!” he announces to three medics standing over him.

  “Let’s get him on that stretcher,” one of them replies and a serious of movement commence as the gurney is finally brought over.

  “Ready? Lift!”

  The sheriff moans as he is gently placed on the plastic/metal stretcher and fastened in tightly by way of leather straps. Lynnwood continues to speak to him while shining a handheld flashlight into both of his shrinking pupils.

  “Sheriff, can you hear me?” he repeats.

  The sheriff blinks a signal of response and the flashlight moves away. Spots fill his vision, deleting the features of Lynnwood’s face, previously illuminated by the two ambulances’ headlights.

  “Everything’s gonna to be fine, Sheriff. You’ve been in an accident. We’re gonna take you to the hospital. Now sheriff, if can, please tell me…do you where you are? Do you know your name?”

  The sheriff strains to remain conscious, gasping for breath as he attempt to speak. The medics hear him wheezing and it’s Lynnwood who leans in closer. “Sheriff, ple
ase try not to move your head. Just relax.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrow. “Am I…still dreaming?” .

  The confusion escalates. A group of state troopers shout frantically to each other, ordering the area to be sealed off with CAUTION tape.

  “I can’t hear him,” Lynnwood tells the others as they head toward the rear ambulance doors.

  “I think he might’ve asked if he was dreaming.”

  “He’s delusional,” another replies.

  “Probably in shock,” Lynnwood agrees. “Let's get set for blood pressure. I need this man’s vitals. A-sap!”

  “I’m on it,” a fourth medic shouts, opening the red, plastic kit he carries at his side.

  The sheriff stares dazedly, looking to Lynnwood. “Am I out? Am I free?”

  A commotion of voices rises.

  “What’s he saying now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s probably a concussion. Ask him again to give us his name.”

  Lynnwood touches the sheriff’s forehead as if testing for a fever. “Sheriff, please sir…can you tell us your name?”

  The sheriff clears his throat. “My name…is Douglas Grover…I’m a doctor.”

  Pause.

  The medics all look to each other.

  “He’s delusional alright,” one of them says. “C’mon, let’s get this guy in here and get a move. Now!”

  The crew eases the gurney into the ambulance. Two medics climb inside, while Lynnwood and another man shut the vehicle doors and move around opposite sides of the vehicle (Lynnwood driving).

  Within 30 seconds the ambulance is speeding away, sirens blaring. Dr. Grover lies motionless on the stretcher and quietly shuts his eyes.

  I’m free.

  I made it out.

  He feels sorry for the man whose body he has taken, but there was simply no other way. A switch had to be made. He had figured out that much after reading the book. And even now, the story remains embedded in his mind.

  After all, he was the one who had written it.

  And now that the crossover has occurred, now that Simon is gone and the character of the sheriff has been taken, there are no other loose ends to worry about.

  Or so he thinks.

  THE ONE FORGOTTEN:

  With the ambulance gone the rest of the officers examine the inside of the police cruiser, attempting to assess what had happened.

  They already know that the dispatcher, Debbie had called Ralph Jenkins for back up (who in turn called the state police) after she repeatedly lost contact with the sheriff. She also mentioned that Keylee had taken a man into custody. But when the officers check the backseat no one is there. So they radio in for an APB and Debbie quickly provides them with a name and description of the assailant. The officers assume the man is fleeing on foot and is probably still wandering the Interstate. They’re assumption becomes a certainty once a trail of footprints are discovered, leading away from the scene. After 45 minutes of searching, a helicopter is flown in, but ultimately this added effort proves futile.

  Simon Fielding is nowhere to be found.

  AWAKENING TO THE DREAM:

  When Dr. Grover opens his eyes he discovers he’s lying in a hospital bed of Intensive Care Unit on the fourth floor of County Hospital.

  Alert and sensing movement, the doctor quickly looks to entrance of the room. The door is wide open and a man in a white lab coat and a surgeon’s mask slowly proceeds to the bed. His hands are behind his back, he’s concealing something.

  “I know you,” the doctor says to him. “I’ve seen you before…”

  “Indeed you have,” the surgeon remarks (his voice is hushed, but nevertheless familiar) revealing the syringe held carefully in his left hand. “Hiding in some else doesn’t change who you are, Dr. Grover.”

  The doctor’s eyes widen. He knows what’s coming. He knows what happens next. The man in the mask leans forward, inserts the needle and slowly pushes down on the plunger.

  The doctor gasps in horror as the poison races through his veins and the man at his bedside removes his surgical mask.

  “But…you’re dead,” Grover says, bewildered.

  The face of Simon smiles. “You didn’t read carefully enough. You forgot the footsteps. In this story…I’m alive…”

  Grover moans in agony. “No…please…stay away.”

  “Two halves of the same mind, doctor,” Simon reminds him. “Those were your exact words. I read the stories too…” He leans in further to whisper: “Remember all that you see and all that will be shown.”

  “Please…don’t do this…”

  “Shhh…quiet, little sheep. You’re going back where you belong…back to the road with me...”

  THE FINAL SWITCH:

  Your eyes open. You’re in a strange room. You’re lying in a bed, your head is bandaged and you’re dressed in hospital clothes. You’re also barefoot.

  Slowly you get up and disconnect the IV tube that’s stuck in your left arm. The hospital ward is empty as you venture through the corridors and take the three flights of stairs that lead you into the lobby where you head straight for the sliding glass that lead you out of the deserted hospital and into the wavy field. As you drift into the darkness, a crescent moon covered by clouds, guides you toward the Interstate. Your destination is clear. Remember what you are shown.

  “Evenin’ Simon. Where you off to tonight?”

  The ghost has arrived in a flash – taking the appearance of a man in a sheriff’s uniform, one who doesn’t know he’s dead. And neither do you, Simon. That’s why you respond.

  “The corner of First and May…”

  Then the ghost makes a suggestion: “How ‘bout I give ya a lift?”

  A hand appears on your shoulder. All at once, the ghost is standing beside you, leading you toward a patrol car. It places you into the vehicle and gently shuts the door.

  When you see the ghost again, it’s climbing into the front seat. Next it puts the car in motion and grabs the radio transmitter. You listen for awhile as it converses with the one who resides in the static. Then you lose interest (you’ve heard their words before) and you shift your gaze to your reflection in the rearview mirror. You smile at yourself. Your reflection smiles back. The smirk expands as your image gradually darkness; then quietly fades away.

  See you in The Dream, Mr. Fielding.

  Author Biographies

  Corey R. Scales - Corey R. Scales, the son of a Baptist minister and a supervisor for the Social Security Administration, has been everything from a movie theater usher to a Tarot card reader at a psychic hotline. A native of Baltimore, MD., he formerly attended New York City's School of Visual Arts and began focusing on fiction writing as a break from submitting screenplays. His work has appeared on Soren Narnia's former dark fiction site, knifepointhorror, New Visions In Fiction, and Buried.Com. In addition to co-writing issue #1 of the indie comic, Immortal Kiss, Mr. Scales has recently finished his first novel, A Tendency to Start Fires, and a collection of short fiction, Begotten Sons.

  Jasmine June - Jasmine June Cabanaw is passionate about two things: writing and dancing. She merges her passions by writing dance history. Her articles can be found on GildedSerpent.com, where she is a regular columnist. She has worked as a journalist and for college magazines. She writes about her travel and dance adventures on her blog: Traveling Belly Dancer.

  Chandru Bhojwani - Born in Africa, Chandru grew up between Nigeria, India & the UK. With a Masters in International Business from the University of Westminster, he moved to New York where he worked as a Business Development Manager for three years before returning to Nigeria in 2002 to run a trading company. Chandru has been writing for Beyond Sindh (www.beyondsindh.com) since 2004 and his debut novel, The Journey of Om was published in India by Cedar Books in late 2009. For more on Chandru visit www.chandrubhojwani.com

  Annastaysia Savage - Annastaysia Savage is a writer and artist who lives and works in the middle of several hundred acres of river bott
om forest in Pennsylvania. She is inspired by anything macabre. The motivation behind her art and writing comes from scratching at the back door, autumn, stormy nights, black cats, being afraid and gnarled old trees. She has currently completed a YA Fantasy novel in the works for publication, which she is illustrating as well. She also has several short horror stories published.

  Avery K. Tingle - Avery K. Tingle was born and raised in San Francisco, California. Throughout his childhood, his mother encouraged him to write, which she continues to do today. Avery currently lives in mid-Missouri with his editor/girlfriend and their cat, Ben, and their dog, Tali.

  Christopher C. Payne - Christopher C. Payne was born in January 1967 and grew up in DeSoto, IL. He received his bachelor’s degree in finance from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, graduating in 1990. Currently, he lives in San Francisco, CA. In his spare time, he enjoys biking and snowboarding with his three daughters and his fiancée.

  Rhonda E. Kachur - Rhonda Kachur AKA Rhonny Reaper is a 20 year old horror fan from Cleveland Ohio who's been watching horror films since the age of 4. Her favorite film is “The Bride of Frankenstein”, but she has a soft spot for killer doll films. She is the creator of the horror review blog Dollar Bin Horror (dollarbinhorror.blogspot.com) and the horror picto-blog Monster Beauty (monster-beauty.blogspot.com). She is currently working on a journalistic style zombie book for the Dead On Earth series, her own anthology, and short horror stories for various horror anthologies and magazines. You can check out her personal blog at RhonnyReaper.blogspot.com

  Morella La Muerte - When Morella La Muerte isn't dredging up morbid tales from the dark side of her psyche, she works as a caretaker for the elderly. Her literary influences include such writers as Ambrose Bierce, H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, and of course, Edgar Allan Poe. She also cites the late Rod Serling (The Twilight Zone, Night Gallery) as a strong influence on her writing style. Morella lives in Colorado with her twenty year old son and her seven cats and two dachshunds. She considers the phrase 'Crazy Cat Lady' a compliment.