Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 4

by Cheryl Mullenax

  Mr. Lim leans over the box, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, as if he’s drawing in the scent of a fine wine. He reaches out with trembling hands and opens the box. His lips are moist and I realize he’s drooling. He peers inside, then he turns and gives me an angry glare.

  “I don’t eat anything that still alive,” he says, voice dripping with disgust. “I’m not a savage.” He picks up the box and shoves it toward me, I don’t want to take it, but Mr. Lim releases the box, and if I don’t grab hold of it, the box and its contents will fall to the floor. So I catch it, and there’s a panicked scuttling from inside.

  I look down at the rabbit, a black-and-white fluffball that looks back up at me with frightened eyes.

  “I…You can’t…”

  “What I can do is give you the relief you desire,” he says. “But I don’t work for free.”

  I don’t look at Mr. Lim. Instead, I continue looking at the bunny. After the divorce, Nancy and Lauren begged me to get them a pet, but back then I lived in a small two-bedroom apartment, and I didn’t want to deal with looking after an animal on the days the girls were with their father. And by the time I found myself a new house, the girls were older and had stopped talking about pets. So they never had any growing up. One more regret to add to my list.

  I wish this wasn’t happening! I wish this was a dream!

  That’s okay, It’s okay.

  I take hold of the rabbit by the scruff of its neck and pull it out of the box. I let the box fall to the floor, put one hand around the rabbit’s neck, the other hand on its head, and I quickly turn them in opposite directions. There’s a snapping sound, and the rabbit spasms once and then falls still. I toss the dead creature onto the table, and Mr. Lim gazes at it for a moment, gorgeous blue eyes shining. Then he snatches it up and brings it to his mouth. It takes him longer to finish it off than it does a Pandora’s sandwich, but that’s because he has the fur, bones, and internal organs to deal with, too—all of which he eats. When he’s done, his army jacket is splattered with crimson, and the lower half of his face is a red smear. As he starts to lick blood from his fingers, I say, “Now will you do it?”

  Between finger-licks, he glances at me and says, “It’s already done.”

  I don’t feel any different, and doubt must show on my face, for Mr. Lim sighs and says, “Why did you come to me?”

  “So you could remove one of my bad memories. The worst one.”

  “And which one is that?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but then I realize I have no idea. I remember everything about my interactions with Mr. Lim from the moment I first stepped into Pandora’s, but I can’t recall which memory I wanted him to take from me.

  I smile in wonderment.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s gone! Thank you, thank you so—”

  He waves away my thanks. Ond approaches with a tray of fresh sandwiches, and Mr. Lim turns his attention to whatever new atrocities are playing out on the TV screen. I take this as my cue to go, only too happy to take my leave of Mr. Lim and this strange place.

  As I push open the entrance door, a mother and her two young daughters enter. The faces of all three are mottled with what looks like port wine stains, except theirs are swollen and gently pulsating. I try not to stare as they pass me, then I continue outside and walk toward my Prius. I don’t hear any voices in my head, and I don’t know I should be relieved by that.

  * * *

  I’m a phlebotomist, and I took the day off work so I could meet with Mr. Lim. It’s still early enough that I could go to the hospital and put in a few hours, but I feel so good, so much lighter, that I decide to take the rest of the day to celebrate. I don’t know exactly what burden Mr. Lim relieved me of, but given that I’m so happy I’m almost giddy, I know it has to be a huge one, and no longer being tormented by memory like that is definitely worth celebrating. I feel so great that I don’t question how Mr. Lim performed this miracle or even what he is precisely, or where exactly Pandora’s is in relation to what I’ve always thought of as the real world. In truth, I don’t really care about those details, and I suspect that if I had answers to my questions, I wouldn’t like them.

  I’m debating whether to get a relaxing massage at my gym or a strong margarita at my favorite Mexican restaurant when my phone starts buzzing. I left my purse on the floor of my passenger seat both times I went into Pandora’s, but I moved it back onto the passenger seat before I left the parking lot. I reach inside, remove the phone and accept the call without looking to see who it is. Like most people, I usually screen my calls to avoid salespeople or political polltakers, but right now I’m too happy to care who it is.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom!”

  I frown. “Who is this?”

  Silence on the other end for several seconds.

  “Mom, it’s me. Nancy.”

  I’m not sure why this woman is calling me Mom, but I search my memory, trying to recall if I know a Nancy. There’s a nurse named Nancy that I’ve worked with a few times when I’ve been on nights, but this isn’t her. She’s in her late sixties, and this woman is young, in her twenties, maybe. Besides, why would that Nancy call me Mom?”

  “Sorry, you must have the wrong number.” I pull the phone away from my ear, intending to disconnect, but before I can the woman—Nancy—speaks hurriedly.

  “Is this some kind of joke, Mom? Please tell me it is, because if it’s not, you’re scaring me.”

  I should disconnect anyway. If there’s anyone joking here, it’s her. But I don’t. Instead I put the phone back to my ear.

  “I’m sorry but not only don’t I know a Nancy, I don’t recognize your voice.”

  The pause is longer this time, and I think she’s ended the call, but then she says, “Do you remember the hospital where you work?”

  “I’m not sure what disturbs me more: that she knows where I work or the forced calm in her voice, which does a poor job of masking the fear underneath.

  “Yes.”

  “Go there. Right now. Tell them you’re having trouble remembering things. I’ll book a flight and be in Ohio as soon as I can. I’ll call Laura and—” She breaks off. “Do you remember Laura?”

  My silence is answer enough.

  “I’ll call her, and I’m sure she’ll come, too. She’s close enough to drive, and she’ll get there first. Don’t worry, Mom. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I love you.”

  She sounds on the verge of tears as she disconnects. I hold the phone to my ear a moment longer before returning it to my purse. This incident is as strange as anything I experienced in Pandora’s, and while I have no idea who Nancy or Lauren are, there was something about Nancy’s parting words, something about the way she repeated okay that chilled me. Whoever these girls are, they must be part of the memory Mr. Lim removed from my mind. I wanted that memory gone, needed it desperately. My continuing sanity depended on it. So maybe I shouldn’t think about this too closely, shouldn’t try to recover that which I worked so hard to be free of.

  To hell with the massage and the margarita, and to hell with the hospital. I needed to go home. Now.

  I pressed down on the gas and prayed I wouldn’t catch the attention of any cops on the way.

  * * *

  A couple hours later, I’m sitting in Pandora’s parking lot again. It isn’t as full as it was earlier, but the vehicles here now are just as weird as the ones before. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find the restaurant again, that once my wish was granted, the place would go back to wherever it came from, never to return. But I found it again, and on the first try. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes, gripping the steering wheel and looking straight ahead. Once I got home, I checked my phone and found contacts for both a Nancy and a Lauren. No last names, though. I checked my text messages and found conversations with both women. The latest exchanges were about their upcoming Spring breaks. Their schools didn’t do their Spring breaks during the same week. Lauren
’s was first, and Nancy’s was the week after. The three of us wanted to take a cruise, but we were having trouble figuring out the logistics of the trip.

  I have no memory of these texts.

  There are saved voicemails from both girls, too. I didn’t recognize either of their voices. There are pictures on my phone, most of which are of one or two young women who I assume are Nancy and Lauren. I’m in some of those pictures, but I have no memory of them being taken. I checked my social media accounts and found more pictures of them, along with their comments on my posts. I checked out their profiles, went through their pictures, saw bits and pieces of two lives I know nothing about. I saw both girls are connected to Jacob on social media, and they share his last name—Haynes. That was my last name, too. I didn’t change it after the divorce. It seemed like too much of a hassle, and Jacob and I don’t have hard feelings toward each other, Well, not too many. I haven’t spoken with him in years, not since he remarried, but I’m tempted to call him now and ask him about Nancy and Lauren, if they really are who I fear they are. I have others I could call, too. My own mother. My brother. But there’s no point. I understand what happened—if not exactly why—and I know what I need to do.

  I get out of my car and head into the restaurant once more.

  * * *

  Ond is still standing behind the counter, and the place still smells like a chemical factory. The dining area isn’t as full as it was earlier, but the people that are here are strange, just like—

  Mr. Lim is sitting at the same table, a new mound of crumpled wrappers in front of him and scattered piles of them on the floor around his feet. He has only one sandwich left, but he seems to be in no hurry to eat it. Maybe he’s finally full? He holds onto the sandwich with both hands, almost as if cradling it. His jacket is still stained with rabbit blood, thick and wet. He’s watching a woman use a butcher knife cut off a man’s balls on the TV. I’m so relieved he’s here. I was afraid he might have left while I was gone. I then wonder if he ever leaves, or if he’s always sitting here, devouring one sandwich after another, watching an endless parade of televised murder and mutilation, doing favors for people willing to pay his price.

  I head over to the table on the edge of panic. I don’t have any memories of Nancy and Lauren, but now I believe I should have, and I’m horrified at what I must have lost, what I must have willingly given up. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I don’t care. I just want my memories back. But before I can speak, Mr. Lim turns to me with a smile that’s almost but not quite mocking.

  “No one realizes that when you remove one memory, all the others associated with it have to go, too. It’s like a house of cards. Take one from the bottom and the entire structure collapses. You’d be surprised how many of my clients come back after they understand this, but I must say, you may have set the record for the fastest return visit.”

  “So you can give them back—the memories?”

  “Of course, I can!” He sounds offended at first, but then he smiles again, slowly this time. Slyly. “But like I told you earlier, I don’t work for free.”

  He unwraps the sandwich, crumples the paper, and tosses it to the floor. He lifts the sandwich up for my inspection and removes the top bun to reveal a bloody hunk of raw meat sitting there. A very particular cut of meat.

  “It’s hard to find a steady supply,” he says. “Especially when you have an appetite like mine.”

  I remember how during my first visit, when I told him Marsha had said something to me about him, he questioned my use of the word. Now I know why. Marsha can type just fine, but she can’t say anything. She went through this same ritual, as I imagine most of Mr. Lim’s customers do—if they want back what they so foolishly gave away.

  He replaces the top bun and gobbles the sandwich down. Afterward, he wipes away a splotch of crimson from his lips which I now know for certain isn’t ketchup, and then points to the counter. Ond holds a butcher knife that looks very much like the one wielded by the ball-cutter on the TV. I think of how scared Nancy sounded on the phone even though she fought so hard to sound calm. I think of Lauren, who even now is driving back to Ohio from Kentucky, worried sick that her mother had a stroke or is suffering from early-onset dementia. I’ll see her soon, Nancy too, and when I do, I may not be able to say I love you, but I will hug them, hug them hard. I think they’ll get the message. Most importantly, I’ll remember them. Remember everything, good times and bad.

  I walk to the counter and stick out my tongue. Ond takes hold of the tip between a thumb and forefinger and pulls it taut. Then, without any change in her expression, she raises the knife and cuts. It hurts worse than the barbed wire around my ankle, but still not as bad as—

  I hear my girls’ voices again, and as Ond heads back to the kitchen with her grisly prize, I smile with my empty mouth, blood pouring over my chin and splattering onto the counter with a sound sweet as music.

  <<====>>

  Author’s Story Note

  “Where did you get your idea for this story?”

  It’s a common question that writers get, but for me, the answer isn’t simple. I keep a list of interesting things I see and hear, along with ideas and images that pop into my head, using the notepad app on my phone. These are often small bits and pieces of oddness that in and of themselves aren’t strong enough to carry a story. But when it’s time for me to write a short story, I read over my list and see which oddities jump out at me. I search for images and words that are evocative, ones that stimulate my imagination. I also have a file on my computer where I keep possible titles, and I read through them looking for the same thing: something that jumps out at me, that hints of an intriguing story waiting to be told. I combine these various bits to come up with the weird part of a story premise, then I search for an emotional core to add to the story. Stories—even bizarre horror stories—are most effective when they’re about people. Their hopes and dreams, needs and desires, but especially their pain.

  “Voices Like Barbed Wire” was one of the titles on my list. I added it years ago, and I no longer remember where it came from. Perhaps it was a fragment of poetry or a song lyric. Or maybe it was a corruption of a phrase I misheard. The character of Mr. Lim came from a man I saw in McDonald’s one day—a skinny, disheveled, older guy with a pile of crumpled cheeseburger wrappers on the table in front of him. Dallas Mayr, who wrote as Jack Ketchum, had recently passed away, and I was thinking about a workshop of his titled “Write From the Wound.” For the emotional core of my story, I decided to explore one of my deepest wounds: the day my wife and I told our two daughters that we were getting a divorce. This is one of my most painful memories, and I’d love to get rid of it if I could. I took all those elements, put them in the blender of my imagination, and “Voices Like Barbed Wire” was the result. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and if you’re a writer, consider trying the accretion technique when working on short stories. It works for me.

  BENT

  Rebecca Rowland

  From The Horrors Hiding in Plain Sight

  Dark Ink

  I. Jesse

  Confucius said, “if you choose a career that you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.” I didn’t become a nurse because I like to help people. I didn’t become a nurse because I have an affinity for keeping cool in hectic situations or because I have a preference for soft-soled shoes with solid instep support. I became a nurse because it seemed like the most obvious transition after practically consuming anatomy books throughout my adolescence. To say that I was fixated would be an understatement. There were times when I wanted to peel the images from the glossy pages, drape them over my forearms like perfectly formed crepes, and carry them daintily to the solace of my bedroom where I could consume them still warm from the pan.

  No, I didn’t enjoy anatomy book drawings like every other adolescent boy “enjoys” them—as if that isn’t the euphemism of the year—I mean, their ultimate purpose was by-proxy masturbation material of course, but not in
the way you think. You see, I didn’t use the illustrations to view naked bodies. I used them to investigate. To formulate. To plan.

  Sure, maybe it all stems from that somewhat traumatic incident when I was about eight and the babysitter was curled up on the couch, watching The Exorcist on HBO. I needed to pee, so I crawled out of my bed and crept down the hall in my Ninja Turtle footie pajamas and did my business. For whatever reason, I chose not to return straight to bed; instead, I padded further down the hall and tip-toed into the shag-rugged living room, pitch dark save for the strobing alien glow of the television. It was just my good fortune that the scene that was playing on the screen was the one where Ellen Burstyn is trapped in her daughter’s bedroom, furniture sliding along the floors and blocking the exits, while Linda Blair hacks away at her hoo-ha with the business end of a crucifix. I froze, completely transfixed by what was going on. And then Linda’s head turned in a way I had never seen a head turn. It was as if all of the joints and cartilage and muscle and bone in her body had melted. In that moment, I realized: there was nothing keeping a human body from becoming a life-sized Stretch Armstrong.

  The funny thing is, the creepy back-bending spider walk scene wasn’t reintroduced by William Friedkin until the movie was rereleased in 2000. I can’t fathom what kind of effect that scene would’ve had on my sexual identity.

  After that night, I became obsessed. I needed to know every detail of the human skeletal and muscular system. I dumped all of my GI Joes into a big pile on my bedroom floor and spent hours trying to bend them into yoga poses even the Kama Sutra would frown upon. Zarana and Zanzibar were my favorites, and looking back now, I can see why: unlike most of the hero Joes, those villains were half-naked, clothed in what I, a now rational and somewhat worldly adult, can only describe as “daddy bondage wear.” Zanzibar, with his swarthy eye patch, midlife crisis ponytail, and brown and silver codpiece, sported a ripped orange t-shirt like a bizarre fetish club stripper. Zarana, the decidedly more butch of the two, wore ripped jeans, a pink halter, and elbow-length leather gloves. The red knee pads draped over the tops of her boots are a detail crystalized in my memory, one that immediately came to mind when Samantha, my rich, blonde, dumb-as-rocks girlfriend in high school, decided to deliver a special present for my sixteenth birthday but insisted on kneeling on the throw pillows from her parents’ Sunpan Modern Bugatti grain leather sofa while doing it.