Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror (3 page)

Garrett walked over to one of the cabinets
and opened it. The room seemed to spin as his stomach cramped up,
getting ready to vomit. Jars and cube shaped containers, each one
filled with separate items, surrounded by a golden fluid, filled
his vision. Some had eyeballs, others teeth and ears. One box had
what appeared to be scrotums, another penises, the one next to it,
vaginas. Others had toes and fingers.

Garrett closed the cabinet and backed away.
He looked around for the black bag Harold had carried in. It was in
a corner, folded neatly, each side seemingly even in length, next
to a large freezer-like storage container.

Garrett walked over to the container. It
reminded him of the ice-cream cooler at work. He opened it.

Frigid air chilled his lungs making him
cough. He had to back away, as if excusing himself, before
returning. Garrett waved away the frothy air, revealing a woman’s
foot, the toenails painted candy apple red. He pulled his hand away
and watched as the rest of the figure came into view.

The body was naked, except for the head which
had a ski-mask over it; canary blonde hair shown from beneath it.
Garrett was relieved it wasn’t Beth. For a minute he’d thought
maybe Harold had suspected she was cheating and killed her. Looking
closer, he noticed a tattoo below the navel, causing him to lose
his breath. The number 8 with a rose entwined within it.

“It can’t be,” Garrett gasped, quickly
yanking off the mask. He trembled, staring into his dead wife’s
lifeless eyes. They stared accusingly back at him. It was Garrett’s
fault his wife was dead.

“You think I didn’t know?” a voice said from
behind.

Garrett spun around. Harold stood in the
doorway holding Beth’s severed head by the hair, a huge hunting
knife in the other. The knife’s blade was stilling dripping with
blood. Harold tossed the head towards Garrett. It rolled awkwardly
like a log with nubs, flopping and bouncing towards Garrett,
stopping inches from his feet. Beth’s head was reduced to a tangled
heap of brunette hair leaving only the raw fleshy neck exposed.

“You can have her,” Harold said, before
pulling a gun from his pants and shooting Garrett. The gun was
quiet, letting out a soft splatting sound. Garrett fell into
darkness.

He awoke sometime later, naked and strapped
to the cold stainless steel operating table, a gag filling his
mouth. Standing above him was Harold, holding a scalpel, dressed in
a surgeon’s garb, face mask and all.

“Glad you’re finally awake.”

Garrett tried speaking, but the gag made his
words intelligible.

“You’re going to scream a lot and I hate
that.” Harold lowered the scalpel to Garrett’s stomach. Garrett
tried pleading through his gag. Harold paused, taking the scalpel
away. “I can’t understand what you’re saying, but I suppose you
want to know what I’m going to do?” Garrett mumbled something
inaudible. “I’m going to remove small pieces of you, skin, bone,
organs, building to bigger, more significant parts, and see how
long I can keep you alive while doing it.” Garrett tried speaking
again. Harold shook his head. “My record is ten hours, I’m hoping
to improve that with you.” Harold lowered the scalpel and began
cutting.

Garrett screamed for the next twelve
hours.

Comes with Baggage

Corbin Ray couldn’t use a straw or speak
clearly, certain words ripped from his vernacular. He lay in his
hospital bed, listening as the physicians and surgeons spoke. He’d
heard all of it before, numerous times, but formalities were part
of the process.

The procedure had only been performed on a
handful of patients within the last four years, each one with set
backs, rejection and infection the most prevalent, but ultimately
all had succeeded.

Corbin was given a list and told about the
plethora of drugs he’d have to take for the rest of his life,
immune suppressants the most crucial. There was also the chance of
his body rejecting the transplant, leaving him more scarred and
disfigured than he already was.

“How much worse could I look?” he joked, to
the crowded room, drool oozing down his chin. Everywhere he went
people gawked or turned away, disgusted. In his mind, there was no
downside.

After the pre-op question and answer session,
Corbin picked up the handheld mirror. The image staring back at him
was grotesque. No amount of time would get him used to himself. It
had taken him months, numerous visits to psychologists and
anti-anxiety drugs, to build up the courage to look at himself. A
day didn’t pass without that nightmarish day ripping through him
like a chainsaw.

He’d been on vacation, surfing off the coast
of Malibu when a Great White shark sunk its teeth into Corbin’s
face, ripping it off before swimming away as if the flesh had
tasted rotten. His upper lip, nose, right cheek, ear and part of
his jaw had been taken, including nerves and the ability to smell.
The worst thing of all for Corbin had been his inability to smile.
Something he’d taken for granted, but loved doing.

He’d lost his fiancée, job, and many friends,
even shutting out the ones who’d stuck by him.

He lived alone in his downtown Poughkeepsie
apartment, almost never leaving. He worked on projects from his
home, doing interior design jobs for companies and took a position
as an online customer service representative, using chat as the
form of communication.

Groceries, DVD’s, magazines, were all
delivered, always left outside his door. He had become a recluse,
only speaking with his mother on occasion. His only friends became
internet chat buddies and ones without the use of a video
camera.

The operation took twenty hours. The doctors
replaced bone, nerves, before finally placing the new face over his
gutted old one.

Corbin was in and out of consciousness,
supplied intravenously with pain medicine, for hours after the
surgery, his mother by his side the entire time.

When he awoke, fully, the reality of the
procedure hit home like a baseball bat, his face feeling as if
thousands of needles were being driven into his skull.

Recovery was a bitch, but the nurses made
sure he did what he was supposed to do, including taking walks up
and down the hallway, using his breathing device to expand his lung
function, and always making sure he took his meds. It took months
of recovery and loads of pain medications before the soreness and
swelling were gone completely.

A year went by, the physical therapy proving
itself as Corbin gained the use of ninety percent of his facial
muscles. He could smile again, the most important thing for him to
be able to accomplish. The right side of his upper lip and right
ear remained numb, the nerves shot.

Eventually, Corbin had gotten his life back,
reuniting with old friends. He’d apologized for shutting them out,
they understood.

Throughout his recovery a few news stations
and newspapers wanted to do stories on him, but he refused, simply
saying, “I just want to live a normal life.”

It took a while for his mother to get used to
her son having someone else’s face, her joy at his happiness and
return to a normal life easily trumped her uneasiness about his
looks. It was her boy on the inside.

“You may look different,” she told him, “but
you’re more your old self than you’ve been in some time. I’m so
happy for you.”

Corbin applied for jobs in the interior
design field and landed one quickly, his reputation on work he’d
done preceding him. He’d even met a woman in the logistics
department and they began dating. Life was turning out well for
Corbin, things falling into place, until the blackouts and
nightmares started and changed everything.

Corbin dreamed of a little girl, dressed in a
black sun dress crying over a grave. A woman, also dressed in
black, stood beside her, tears streaming down her face.

He’d tried saying hello, but they didn’t see
him. The name on the tombstone was blurry as if he needed glasses,
but everything else was crystal clear.

Each night, he had a different dream, but
always with the sad little girl and woman being a part it. He’d
awake crying, breathing rapidly as if he’d sprinted a mile. The
sleepless nights began taking a toll, he became increasingly
irritable. Maybe it was the drugs? His doctor had changed them
recently, hadn’t he? He’d make an appointment when he got to his
office the next day.

The following morning, after another horrible
night’s sleep, Corbin ate a hearty breakfast, scrambled eggs,
sausage, toast with butter and downed a large cup of black coffee.
He left the house and was about to get in his car when he woke up
on his living room couch. He must have been dreaming, but when he
looked at himself he saw that he was dressed for work, briefcase on
its side on the floor.

He went to the kitchen, the clock read three
p.m. He must have blacked out. Maybe he had felt dizzy and had to
lie down. Possibly he was having a side effect to the new meds.
He’d never had any before. He called the office, told them he was
terribly sick last night and had slept in.

That night Corbin dreamed, but not of the
little girl and her mother. He was in his car driving across town
and stopped in front of a large white house in Cedar Grove Estates.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his new face, something
that had never happened before. On occasion at seeing himself in a
dream, it was always his original face that starred back at him.
His brain being the only part of him rejecting the transplant.

He got out of the car and stood staring up at
a large white Victorian, with black shudders and neatly trimmed
hedges. The name on the mailbox read, Weatherly. He got back in his
car, slammed the door shut and woke up.

He thought nothing of the dream and was
grateful to not have to see the little girl and her mother.

The remainder of the week flew by with no
unsettling dreams, replaced with good nights of sleep. Corbin had
put the troublesome time behind him until the following Monday.

He was getting ready for work when he blacked
out again, awaking a few hours later. Overwrought and unsure of
what was happening, he made a doctor appointment and was seen
immediately. His transplant making him a priority.

At the doctor’s office he received angry
stares and few disgruntled murmurs from people in the waiting room
as his name was called within minutes of his arrival. Skipping the
waiting room was about the only perk his surgery came with.

“Corbin,” the doc said, entering the small
examining room. “How’s it going?”

“Until a week ago, great,” Corbin said,
hating the doctor’s office, more so since his surgery.

“Let’s have a look.” The doctor reviewed
Corbin’s chart, flipping through pages and rubbing his chin.

The stethoscope was cold on his back and warm
by the time it reached his chest.

“No congestion or blockage,” the doc said
before moving onto other instruments. He checked his temp again
even though the nurse had already done so, his ear canals, and
nasal passageways. All were fine.

“Been taking any new over the counter
medications?”

“Nope.”

“Eat any new foods?”

“Nope.”

“Go anywhere new? Out of the country?”

“Nope.”

The doctor held his finger under his chin as
if in deep thought. “Everything on my end checks out. I’ll send you
over to Doctor Rein’s office to get an MRI of your head. We’ll take
some blood before you leave and should have the results in a day.
Rush order for you, Corbin.” The doctor winked.

“You don’t think it’s the transplant?”

“Definitely not. It’s taken to you like it
was yours all along. Hardly a blemish on it.”

“Thanks, doc.” Corbin said, feeling a little
better.

“No problem. The nurse will be in shortly to
get your blood and I’ll phone Doctor Rein’s office that you’ll be
there within the hour.”

The next day the doctor called Corbin on his
cell. The blood test and MRI were normal on all accounts.

“Any idea what it could be?” he asked.

“Who knows? Could be the weather or stress.
Either way I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Take a few days off
from work, get some rest. Any more problems, give me a call.”

“Thanks for the speedy service, doc, I really
appreciated it.”

“For you, Corbin, not a problem.”

Corbin had placed a lot of hope in doctors’
hands before his surgery and wasn’t about to stop now. He hung up
the phone feeling assured that he’d be fine.

That night he had a dream he was driving in
his car and stopped at the Hunter and Gun Depot just outside of
town. He’d never had an interest in guns, never owning one, but he
went into the store nonetheless.

The place was a hunter’s haven. Camouflage
jackets, t-shirts, hats, and pants lined the isles. Some items were
mixed with a roadside orange, giving the matter a cautionary ware.
Displays for bows and riffles and turkey callers assaulted him from
everywhere. A few customers patrolled the isles. Corbin approached
the glass counter. Knives of various sizes, compasses, and numerous
other survival equipment lay inside the glass counter’s
display.

.30-30’s, SKS’s, .22’s, shotguns of varying
gauges, all lined the wall behind the counter, locked together like
a chain gang in a coma.

Corbin wasn’t sure how, but he knew the names
of the guns and the one he wanted.

“May I help you,” an elderly man said. He had
bushy white mustache, red, white, and blue striped suspenders and a
hat that read, “Rob Me and Die Trying.”

Unsure why, but feeling compelled, Corbin
said, “I’ll take the .12 gauge single pump action and a box of
buckshot.” Why had he just asked for a gun? And how the hell did he
even know what to ask for, let alone the type of ammo? The elderly
man rang Corbin up.