Twilight Nightmares (Twisted Tales Special Edition Book 1) (6 page)

The moment I unzip my luggage and throw it open, I realize two things. First, I grabbed the wrong bag at the train station. Second, I only have three minutes to live.

3:00

I eject from my seat, and the chair shoots back. The legs scream as they slide along the wood floor, and it clatters to a stop against my dark oak dresser. The woman downstairs pokes the ceiling—probably with her witch’s broom—and she squawks unintelligibly at me. I don’t give a good God damn what she’s yelling about this time because sitting on my kitchen table is a bomb that’s slowly ticking to an inevitable and explosive end.

I run through my apartment, push through my front door, and spill into the hallway. The sweet scent of fresh tamales fills the corridor, and two children chase a rogue ball toward the stairs leading out of the building.

I stare for a moment at the steps because I want to leave. I can feel every bit of my body urging me to escape the fate of this building. However, the soft laughter of the children makes something inside me snap. I can’t hold my own life to be more important than that of
any one
else’s in the Sunnyvale Gardens apartment building. I need to do something, even if it means risking my life to do it.

Quickly, I spy the fire lever on the wall and pull it. A spray of black ink dyes my skin, and sirens suddenly sing songs of danger to the mostly quiet neighborhood. As everyone probably attempts to file out into the street for safety, I run back into my apartment and sit down at the table. Time is running out.

1:45

Back in that hallway, it seemed like I could be brave enough to take this terrible situation on with all the fervor of a hero, but in reality I feel like a chicken. Anxiety pulls and urges me to leave, and I feel like nothing more than a marionette to that selfish puppeteer of preservation.

I wipe the sweat from my face and look down at the small bomb. The blue LED clock ticks down soundlessly, but somehow it manages to do so in step with my heart. Each tick is a heartbeat, and it crashes hard in my ears seemingly louder than the blare from the fire alarm.

The only experience I have with bombs is what I’ve seen on television. There is always a red wire to cut, but this one has at least a dozen wires that are all the same pale cream color. The wires lead to four small metal canisters and a small black box in the upper right corner of the container.

Daringly—perhaps even a bit rash—I wiggle the wires. I try to pull them out, but the asshole who created the bomb secured them well. I let out a soft whimper of near defeat.

1:15

The feeling of fear and the intense desire to save myself increases, but I’m no longer in a position to get out. Thirty seconds ago, I may have made it out alive. Now, a small clock measures the length of my life in mere seconds.

I wiggle a few more wires, and an arc of electricity reaches from the base of one of the wires to the right most metal canister. At that moment, I think for sure I might see a flash of light and feel the burn of death, but nothing happens. A heavy sigh of feigned relief escapes my lips.

I think to myself,
the little box!

I grab a pen from the table and start to pry at the cover. Something important has to be in there. Why would they secure it so well if it’s meaningless?

:45

The plastic cover pops off, and under its protection is a circuit board.

“What the hell do I do with that?” I ask myself while my cat sits delicately at the edge of the table watching me.

Time is running thin.
So
, I start prying and poking everything I can see. From this to that. Wires, diodes, and a little black thingy.

“Wait a minute! There’s got to be a battery!” I scream, and somehow managed a soft insane chuckle at the irony of not having a minute to wait.

:30

I look everywhere, but I can’t find a battery. After prying at the circuit board a bit, I give up because it’s too secure. I pick a random resistor and manage to break it off. It flies through the air, and my cat attacks it. Time still ticks.

:10

I wiggle this and wiggle that. I pick it up and drop it. Nothing happens.

:05

I run to the window and stare down at my neighbors that congregated outside the building. It looks like all of them but I can’t be certain. The cat affectionately rubs against my leg, and I take a deep breath.

:00

That
mother fucker
, I thought as I sat on my front patio.

That piece of shit
mother fucker
, I thought as I sipped the sweet lemon tea that dripped cold drops of sweat upon my leg.

A lot of
people down in shit-hole mosquito-infested Mississippi would say that the overwhelmingly hot humidity can make someone crazy, but I wasn’t crazy. I knew exactly who my neighbor was, even as he smiled at me and lifted his own refreshing drink from his patio in a toasting gesture. I knew who he was, what he did, and I knew exactly what I was going to do to him.

"Neighbor!" I called out and jumped up from my black and blue foldable chair.

As I approached the two-foot-high yellow and green hedge separating our properties, he said in a thick southern accent, "Nice
day,
ain’t
that right?"

I slapped my neck. The soft tickle was either my imagination or one of those
pesky
little bastards trying to suck me dry. I decorated my face with a fake smile and said, "Heaven's sauna."

He laughed, and all I wanted to do was break every one of his teeth. A well-placed fist delivered to that
spewer
of divisive words, to a mouth that went places it didn't belong.

He said, "I
ain't
seen your wife around. Where's she been?"

You mother fucker
, I thought as I sipped the tea to wash down the acid building in the back of my throat, and then I smiled even bigger.

“She’s out doing God-knows-what.
Prolly
out
buy’n
up all she can
get’r
hands on down at the Sunday Swap.”

“I suppose
yer
prolly
right.” He said, sipped his drink, and continued. “
Give’r
my best, will
ya
?”

I kept the contempt I had for the man close enough to my heart that I felt it beating as a second one in my chest. They drummed against each other in a battle more fierce than that of Menelaus and Paris.

“Sure will.” I said, "So, I heard you was a lawn mower aficionado of sorts?"

The man’s eyes seem to light up, but I wasn’t sure whether it was that I had taken interest in him or his stupid love for lawn mowers.

He said, "Yes, sir. I even enter in the annual Cutters Contest!"

"Well, I got me a little torch for that now." I lied.

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, and you'll be happier than a tornado in a trailer park when
ya
here what I
got’ta
show
ya
."

"What's that now?"

"Got me a Dover, fifty-seven horsepower, all-wheel-drive grass eater."

The man's mouth dropped. "Well, Ho-lee shit! You
are
a good
ol
' boy,
ain't
ya
? I always thought you was a big city boy from Jackson, but it sounds like you got chops, son!"

“Born and raised in Alligator,
Miss’ippi
.” I lied again. “So,
wanna
see the Dover?”

"You bet
yer
ass!"

I swung my arm wide, and ushered him through a small opening in the bushes. When he finally squeezed between them, I led him to the back of the house by way of the side gate.

Near the back corner was a small shed that my father constructed nearly fifty years ago. He was just a boy back then, but when his family moved into this house, my father’s father made him build it. It was, of course, for the safety of the entire family and any of the curious kids in the neighborhood. Well, the ones still alive, that is.

"It's right back here." I said, reached to the shed, and opened the door. I gestured for Ross to go ahead, and as he walked in, I threw my tea and grabbed him from behind. I put my arm around his neck and tightened. He was a weak son-of-a-bitch, so he had no chance to escape.

He managed to choke out a few words as he tried to pry himself free of my arm, "
What’re
ya
doin
’?"

I used my foot to kick away the rug hiding a hole in floor. Inside
that
deep recess was a thick darkness, and even deeper still was an unsettling evil that lurked within that withered earth for probably centuries. I didn’t know much about it other than it had an insatiable hunger, one that I’d neglected to feed for decades until three days ago when my wife
disappeared
.

"You mother fucker," I screamed with so much anger that foamy spit textured the side of his face. "You never sleep with another man's wife. Never!"

A deep growl erupted from the tunnel before us, and he tried to plead but I squeezed his neck harder to cut him
off
.

“I can't never change the past," I said. "But I sure as shit can make myself feel better,
good
ol
' boy
."

With that, I pushed him in. As he fell, he managed to grab onto the ledge. I let out an angry growl, grabbed the shovel from the hanger on the wall, and stabbed his fingers. He cried out in pain, and let go. I heard his scream cut short when the sudden stop knocked the wind out of him.

I listened and waited. The hungry growls grew louder, and then Ross began to scream. At first, it sounded clear, but it eventually mottled with the thick wet sound of a blood-filled throat. Soon, the screaming ceased, and all that
was left
were the sounds of flesh ripping and jaws chewing.

After covering up the hole, I returned to the patio. I poured a fresh glass of iced lemon tea, and sat down. For the first time in weeks, I felt a genuine smile form upon my lips. Life was finally good.

My wife shook her head, unable to speak. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that I gagged her, but I preferred to believe that she was just in complete awe of my clever ability to show her my world.

I obnoxiously cleared my throat, and said, "Dear Nancy—that’s you—and Salina, I know that I've been really busy lately and haven't been able to be the man, husband, and father that you both need me to be. However, there also has been a lack of understanding for my needs as an author. Therefore, here is a list of demands that will help to secure a reasonable position and also help bond our relationship as a family blah, blah, blah... look,
lemme
just get to the goddamn point."

My daughter, who'd just turned sixteen, had fear twisting her face, but despite that, she was a spitting image of her mother’s beauty, which was good because for whatever reason, the women on my side of the family were no better looking than the frogs frequently flattened on a highway.

"Here's the deal. I live in this
world
. This dark place that neither of you seem to understand. I
can't be expected
to just go back to being a normal dad or husband after living in this tiring and scary world for the last twenty years. I just can't, and all you do is fucking nag." I said, and motioned to my wife, but then I pointed the knife at my daughter. "And you. All you want to do is hang out with your friends, send
Instagrams
of your foot to everyone on the planet, and spend several hours on that
FaceSpace
or whatever the fuck you call it. I can’t watch you every second of the day worried that something is going to happen to you, sweetie. So, in order to be the writer I need to be, I need to be in this dark world with no interruptions, and the only way I can think to do that is to, well, actually
live
in it."

I stood, walked to my daughter, and thrust the knife into her chest several times. My wife's high-pitched scream escaped her lungs and filtered through the gag into a muffled yet still very audible cry of terror and sadness. I don't think she understood why I did what I did, but it was important for my future that I do what was necessary to succeed. How could I be the greatest horror writer of all time without first giving in to the dark creature that lived inside of me?

I looked down, and there was only a slight ring of blood around the outer edge of my hand closest to the blade. It was strange, because for so long I'd written about how people stabbed other people and that the blood ended up all over their hands. Well, I could honestly say that was no longer going to be the case, except I could mean it metaphorically. Right? Yeah, especially since I've killed my daughter for success, so in a sense I
did
have blood on my hands. How wonderful.

I turned to my wife and her eyes burned deep red. Her brows furrowed with anger, but there was also a glint of sadness and fear that assured me I was having a lasting, though soon to be short-lived, effect on her. A look that would forever permeate my work.

I said, "I understand you're upset, but let me remind you that you both are doing so much more for me now than you ever did. Obviously, you're not cooperating willingly, but that's the beauty of it. I'm learning so much more than I could have ever hoped for."

I moved close to her, and she flinched. I took a deep welcome breath, and stabbed her several times. She screamed until the last breath wheezed from her, and I looked down. My hands were mostly clean, but there was still a ton of blood all over them. I smiled, walked to my desk, and started writing a novel that just
knew
would become a top seller.