Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre (17 page)

“Thank you for taking me out to eat,” Melissa says, looking over at Morgan.
“Don’t thank me, it was your idea.”
“I just needed to get out of that house. I do nothing but read

“You shouldn’t do anything. That’s precious cargo you’re carrying.” Morgan throws a glaring stare.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Morgan breaks his trance.
“Sorry, I was just daydreaming. Didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s okay. Where are we going?”
“This Japanese restaurant called the Red Dragon. The food is
excellent. Here, it’s coming up on the right.”
Melissa turns to look out her window. The Red Dragon’s walls
are constructed with Japanese style architecture, a deep maroon
accented with golden Japanese characters. She notices the roof ’s
tiny individual shingles that end in tiny spear-like points. She is
taken by the entrance, guarded by two magnificent golden dragons
carefully placed on each side of the door.
Melissa approaches the entrance with a feeling of uneasiness
as the statues she admired moments ago cast a venomous glare.
Their empty eyes follow her cautious steps across their threshold.
They appear to move. The dragon that hovers above slithers; its
split tongue leaves Melissa with a wet streak across her face and
neck. Suddenly they are back as statues. Her anxiety calms as soon
as soon as she enters the dining area.
The interior is warm and tasteful. The smell of teriyaki and stirfried vegetables is thick.
“Smoking or non-smoking?” a Japanese man asks.
“Non-smoking,” Melissa answers. The short, stout man escorts
the couple through the candle-lit dining area.
Melissa views the other couples and families as they enjoy
their delicious delicacies. She can’t remember the last time she
has ever been in such an elegant restaurant without having to beg
for scraps. Reminiscing about her past life brings on powerful,
depressing memories of her beloved friend Sarah.
Lost within thoughts of her former life, Melissa just gazes
around the room; she hardly notices she has been seated.
“Are you all right?” asks Morgan.
“I’m fine, just thinking.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I was just thinking about my past and how things have changed
for me.”
A familiar voice radiates from the opposite side of the partition. The voice, deep and scratchy, sends frightening chills up her
spine. Her eyes grow wide, her heart begins to race. Her anxiety
soon turns to anger. She still does not recognize the voice but
knows it is emanating from an enemy. Melissa peers through the
tiny openings within the partition.
“Someone you know?” asks Morgan.
Melissa’s temperature begins to rise steadily. Her blood feels as
though it’s burning out of control. She sees him, sitting, enjoying
some jumbo shrimp with a woman half his age. As he lifts his
hand to take another swallow of soup, Melissa notices the distinctive mark of a wedding band recently removed. At first, she is
unsure why this man angers her, then her memory returns with
clarity.
Get yourself a job and stop soaking up all the welfare money!
You make me sick!
His voice within her head begins echoing one particular phrase.
Melissa’s mood quickly elevates to the realm of pure rage. Your
friend died screwing around. Your friend died screwing around.
Suddenly Detective Peterson turns slowly and looks in Melissa’s
direction. As if he recognizes her, he peers at her with a sinister
stare. His mouth wrenches into an evil expression. Melissa stares
back with the intensity of a gunfighter about to take aim. Her
blood races through her body, her heart pulsating. Anger fills her
body beyond any level she has ever experienced.
“You’re still around, you homeless shit? How’s your friend, still
dead? The bitch deserved to die,” he says with a slight chuckle.
The detective’s words are deep and malefic. His grin displays
decaying teeth.
The room is submerged within a deadly calm; everyone seems
to disappear except for Melissa and the detective. He speaks once
more, “What the hell are doing in here? You’re nothing but a
homeless whore. You know you wanted Harry, you asked for it!”
Melissa’s body trembles with rage. She grabs her stomach with
both hands. Her unborn child begins to stir. She feels a power-
ful evil radiating from within her, from within her unborn child.
Abruptly, Melissa turns toward a child’s voice.
“He should die.” There, sitting in Morgan’s chair, is a young
girl with long jet-black hair. The child, seemingly innocent and
defenseless, stares for a few moments, then speaks again, “Kill
him, Mother.” The child’s voice is an eerie calm with no display
of emotions. Melissa glares back at the overweight man who continues to stare in her direction while he shovels shrimp into his
mouth.
Melissa allows the evil to surge through her body, no longer trying to suppress it. The intensity of the wickedness fills her empty
soul and burns from within. The partition that once separated
them is suddenly gone, and Melissa stands. As she glares at the
detective, he chokes; clasping his hands tightly around his throat,
he begins gasping for air. His eyes bulge from their sockets as
their vessels fill with blood. His tongue, tainted with particles of
food, whisks around his wide-open mouth. Without warning,
bursts of food begin to surge from his throat, spewing onto the
walls and table. He stands, still grasping his throat, then falls to
the floor. His body jerks violently as it tries desperately to find
oxygen.
“Melissa!” shouts Morgan.
Everyone in the restaurant returns, the mindless chatter con-
tinues as if never interrupted. It is as if she had temporarily left
reality and has now returned.
“What are you staring at?” asks Morgan.
“Nothing.” With a menacing glare, she grits her teeth. She peers
through the opening in the partition at the unsuspecting man as
he enjoys his Japanese feast. She continues to allow the evil to
surge within her body, creating shooting numbing, electrical currents. Unexpectedly, the detective begins choking, followed by
short coughs and gasps for air.
“Art! What’s wrong!” The blonde woman in a skin-tight silk,
red dress jumps to his side. “Someone, help! He’s choking!”
Employees from the restaurant move into action quickly; one
young man lifts the detective from the table to attempt the Heim-
lich maneuver. The detective holds his throat tightly, desperately
attempting to squeeze out the element that blocks his breathing.
With one swing, the detective knocks away the employees who are
trying desperately to help him. Struggling to stand erect, he collapses onto the table, falling on a half-empty glass of wine. The
table sways for a moment, then collapses. Detective Peterson rolls
over in despair. Tiny daggers of splintered glass now pierce his
chest. His white shirt is wet with blood. His date screams franti-
cally as more and more restaurant patrons attempt to assist him.
The detective soon loses the battle for air as his eyes halt, and his
hands fall helplessly to the floor. His neck, severely bruised, dis-
plays the tight grasp he had on it. Food-filled saliva pours down
the sides of his face as one man attempts CPR in a last effort to
revive him.
Melissa’s body relaxes. She is fully satisfied. The evil withdraws
and leaves her nauseated.
“I hope he’s going to be okay,” Morgan says, standing over the
partition, viewing the event.
As Melissa’s rage calms, she remembers the young child who
called her Mother. She even remembers the child’s command to
kill him. Her eyes grow dim as she presses her head against the
partition, looking downward. Then, with a quiet voice not heard
by anyone else, she speaks, “Did I do that? Did I just kill some-
one?”
“Is that the cop from the hospital?” Morgan asks.
“Let’s go, Morgan!” she says with added strength.
“We haven’t eaten yet.”
“Please, can we go?!” Melissa stands quickly, looking away from
Morgan.
“Okay, we’re leaving. Where do you want to go to eat?” he asks
as he stands, pushing his chair under the table.
Melissa’s voice becomes low and shaky. “Home. I just wanna go
home.”
As they pass the crowd of concerned patrons, they see a sudden flash of lightning through a window, racing across the sky.
Evening descends quickly. The black clouds engulf the setting
sun. Soon, streams of heaven’s tears come pouring from the sky,
drenching everything it touches.
Melissa walks aimlessly out into nature’s fury.
“Melissa, wait a second!” Morgan rushes up to her, placing his
jacket around her shoulders. “You’ll catch pneumonia.” Melissa
ignores him as she strolls casually to the passenger side of the car.
The storm sends strong gusts of wind that give Morgan a forceful
push.
The drive back is quiet. The two are suspended within their own
thoughts. The enormous raindrops continue to beat heavily upon
the windshield as the squeaky wipers attempt to clear the view.
“Somethin’ is wrong with me.” Melissa suddenly breaks the
silence.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Morgan. I know when something is
wrong with me!”
“Don’t get upset. Maybe some rest is all you need.”
Melissa silences as beads of rain continue to drip off her soaked
hair. The rain-swept road is barely visible as the headlights pierce
the evening shadows. Nature’s fireworks ignite the sky above. The
crooked dashes of lightning bolt through the sky as thunderous roars follow. The roads are barren. It’s as though the earth
has swallowed up all who have traveled the streets this evening.
Houses are dark as though the electricity has been suddenly cut.
Off to the side, a dangling power line sparks furiously, bouncing
against the wet curb. The gusting winds slam against the car as
Morgan valiantly attempts to keep a straight course.
“Where the hell did this weather come from?” asks Morgan,
looking up at the sky. Melissa ignores his comment as she begins
to ask herself questions.
I wished him dead, I imagined it, and it happened. The child
called me Mother, then she disappeared. No, what am I talking about, that can’t happen. I couldn’t possibly wish someone
dead. Could I? At that same moment, Melissa feels a strange
presence as Morgan turns onto their block. Looking up through
her dangling wet hair, she sees something on the corner as they
pass. Her eyes flutter as the steady rain ricochets off the win-
dow. She spots the silhouette of a man on the corner, standing
quietly, large raindrops bouncing off him. He stares at the car
as it passes. His face is cleverly hidden under a black-brimmed
hat. He stands within the dense rain-swept shadows. Strangely,
Morgan also feels this man’s presence as he brings the car to a
screeching halt.
“Did you see something?” says Morgan, as he stares into the
darkness.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, just something, or better yet, someone?” Mor-
gan asks, relentlessly panning left and right. Melissa looks back at
the once-occupied corner and sees that it’s now abandoned. She
wonders how Morgan could know someone was there if he didn’t
see anyone. And why is he stopping like he’s frightened?
Morgan continues down the street, past a few houses, then proceeds into his driveway.
“I want to see a doctor.” Melissa’s voice trembles.
“You don’t need a doctor.”
“Fine, I’ll just pack my shit and go find a goddamn doctor!”
“I can give you all the medical help you need!” Morgan replies.
“Yeah, like you helped that guy at the restaurant. Where was all
your medical stuff then?” Melissa glares, forcing a staring match.
With a strong sigh of frustration, Morgan concedes, “All right!
I’ll take you to see a doctor!”
“When?!”
“I’ll make a call. Tomorrow.”
“Fine.” They both exit the car. Melissa stares at Morgan, and,
for the first time, she doubts his intentions. Is he tryin’ to be my
friend? He feels like a watchdog. He reminds me of...of Mr. Nich-
olas, just giving me a place to stay, asking for nothing in return.
The old colonial styled home doesn’t look or feel like a home but
more like a prison with invisible bars.
“It looks like our electricity’s gone out. We must be connected
to that downed line,” Morgan states as the raindrops pound his
head. Morgan opens the door and reaches for the light switch.
“Yep, we’re out too. Wait here. I’ll go get the flashlights.” Mor-
gan walks cautiously to the back of the house, feeling his way, as
Melissa waits patiently on the porch. Moments later, Melissa feels
nervous when the gusting winds send debris swirling around her.
She takes a few short steps toward the darkened doorway, when
suddenly she feels that presence again. She turns quickly. Standing
in the middle of the lawn, facing the house, is that man’s silhouette once more. The dangling power line at the end of the block
brightens the shadows; now he is easily seen. His face is still hid-
den, and his body blends into the bushes. He is wearing all black,
with a black-brimmed hat protecting his head and face from the
downpour.
“Can I help you, Sir? You lost?” she asks in a concerned tone.
The man doesn’t answer as he remains quiet and steady, with his
arms draped by his sides. Melissa feels no fear as she squints to see
a face. She takes a few steps away from the doorway; then a piercing pain rips through her body, causing her to fall to one knee.
Melissa looks up, her eyes glowing that devilish witchy green. Her
voice is low but becomes powerfully deep. She speaks, remaining
crouched on the porch, “I see you have found me.”
“It wasn’t hard,” Father Johns answers.
“Why are you here, preacher? This house has been consecrated
for worship. You do not belong here.”
“Who are you? What is your name?”
“I am the unrelenting power you choose to ignore...I know no
mercy...I am ferocious and brutal...I am all you define as cruel. Get
out of here, preacher...away from my rostrum, or I will kill you,
just like I killed your assassin!” Lightning bellows from within the
clouds. Suddenly Father Johns feels the house come alive. Its win-
dows become more like eyes, the open doorway its mouth. The
trees along its sides drape in the winds, becoming arms reaching
out to grasp him.
“Sarah was trying to help her friend,” Father Johns answers.
“To help her friend, she would have had to destroy me! I will
not be destroyed!”
“I know you do not yet fully control Melissa!”
“I will! Look at the black rain that falls upon you.” It laughs.
“Your precious scrolls do not foretell this phenomenon,
preacher?” the snickering beast asks. Looking up, the beast allows
the water dripping from the porch roof to soak its face as it continues speaking, now using Sarah’s voice, “I am a part of the
prophecy now...thank you, Father. You have done wonders for me.
Without you, I couldn’t have made it. This black, gritty rain that
smells rancid, stale, dead, is the blood of battle that rages on the
other side. It smells...wonderful.”