Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (20 page)

“
Please,
call me Alex.”

She
failed to respond, instead taking a sip of her tea. He thought he
could lose this one if he didn’t move quickly.

“
May
I ask why you don’t believe in our Lord, Mrs. Bendtner?”

“
I
know God, and let me tell you, he is no savior.”

Alex
nodded slowly, perplexed at this response. Perhaps the old woman was
senile, or on her way at least.

“
I
once felt as you do, Mrs. Bendtner. I was a man without faith,
without direction. Yet I was saved, and I thank God every day for his
intervention.”

“
Intervention?”
she laughed heartily, causing Alex to shuffle uncomfortably in his
seat.

“
He
is no more interested in you than you are an ant. God is cruel, and
enjoys watching us play out our miserable lives in desperation and
pain.”

The
venom in her words took him aback. Recovering quickly, he set down
his plate and handed over one of the pamphlets. She took it from him,
and read it carefully as he spoke.

“
We
at The Church of the Divine would be happy to show you the way our
Lord loves each of us. If you were able to join us a week from Sunday
we…”

She
looked up at him with a smile that held no humor.

“
Love?
What does he know of love? As much as you, I suspect,” she said
firmly, the strange twang of her dialect coming through even more
now.

Somewhere
in his mind, a long-forgotten alarm bell began to ring. The alarm
bell of self-preservation. He pushed it away and continued.

“
I
must disagree, Mrs. Bendtner. I have been fortunate to find solace in
his love.”

She
chuckled dryly.

“
No.
You survived a near fatal heart attack that should have killed you,
and you think God was responsible. But we know different, don’t
we? Do you really think it was God who got rid of Tony Valentine’s
teeth and fingers for you?” she said with a long, ugly smile
that seemed to stretch too far across her face.

He
couldn’t speak.
How could she know?
Nobody knew
. His tongue felt like a
deadweight as it lay on the floor of his mouth, unwilling to
cooperate. Finally the words came out—

“
I’m
sorry… I really don’t know what you are talking about,
ma’am.”

She
smiled, a ghastly, wide smile showing her teeth, which were crooked
and yellow. Her eyes burned with contempt.

“
Oh
yes you do. I know all about you and your kind, murdering dog!”

“
I’m
afraid I’m going to have to leave, Mrs. Bendtner. I’m
starting feel unwell.”

It
was true. Nausea was rolling through him in waves, and he was
suddenly hot. He lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead,
but it felt heavy and disconnected from him. Mrs. Bendtner smiled and
licked her lips greedily.

“
That
will be the muscle relaxants I slipped into the sandwiches. I’m
afraid you won’t be able to move for some time, but the nausea
will pass in a few moments.”

Terror.
He tried to lurch to his feet, his legs immediately buckling as he
fell forwards, crashing into the glass table, which gave out
spectacularly under his weight, sending shimmering diamonds of glass
exploding outwards. He was face down and unable to move. He could see
the fleshy remains of the sandwiches scattered around him, along with
shards of the broken table. He heard the scuffle of the old woman’s
slippers as she stood and moved close to him.

“
Where
is your God now?”

“
Please…
Why have you done this to me?”

“
Because
you and I have something to discuss.”

“
You
are a crazy old bitch!” he spat.

“
Why
don’t you pray to him, for forgiveness? Your God. The Great
Almighty.”

Her
voice was mockingly cold, and that alone was enough to terrify Alex.

“
What
do you want?” he asked quietly, wishing he could see what she
was doing behind him.

“
I
want to talk to you about your sins.”

“
What
sins? I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“
Tell
me about Victor.”

Silence.

This
woman, old and decrepit as she appeared to be, was so much more.

“
I
think you are mistaken, ma’am. I don’t know anyone called
Victor.”

“
Really,”
she said as she stood and approached the fireplace. She picked up her
walking stick with a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. Alex craned his
neck and noticed that it was one of the old-fashioned kind—a
thick length of dark polished oak with a black rubber stopper on the
end.

“
I’ll
say it again. Tell me about Victor.”

He
could hear that European twang again in her voice, the V of Victor
sounding more like a ‘W.’ It was no longer the voice of a
sweet old woman, but that of an interrogator.

“
Look,
I really don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t know
any Victor. I’m here to spread the word of…”

Agony.

She
had jammed the end of the walking stick into the back of his hand,
leaning all of her weight on it, twisting it back and forth. He felt
one of the small bones snap as he cried out in pain. Finally she
released the pressure, though his hand still throbbed hotly.
Returning to her chair and sitting calmly, Mrs. Bendtner lay the
stick across her knees and watched him with cold, cruel eyes.

“
Young
man, do not make the mistake of underestimating me. You have no idea
what I’m capable of.”

He
believed her. Despite the complete absurdity of the situation, he
truly believed that this old woman was dangerous. He looked at his
hand, an ugly round bruise already forming.

“
Look,
Mrs. Bendtner, just tell me what you want, I’m sure God can…”

She
laughed at him, again showing those crooked, yellow teeth.

“
Save
your prayers, young man. Your God is not welcome in this house…
Now tell me about Victor.”

It
was hopeless. She knew. He didn’t know how, but she knew.
Despite the care he had taken to construct a new life, she knew about
Victor. Knew about him. From somewhere deep inside, he found a little
of his old self, a nugget of instinct, a tiny voice that said:
buddy,
she’s got you
.

“
Ok
look, I used to work for Victor, but it was a long time ago,”
Alex blurted through a mouth full of carpet fibers.

She
stood again and shuffled towards him. He could smell her, like mints
and mothballs and dry rot. She was holding the walking stick loosely
by her side, swinging it with intent. She wanted him to see it. Alex
knew well enough from his old life that the idea of pain was often
more effective than the physical response itself. Mrs. Bendtner
seemed to know this as well.

“
Very
good. Now tell me where he is.”

“
I
don’t know.”

“
Do
you really intend to test me young man?”

“
Please,
I swear to you I don’t know. I haven’t worked for him in
a long time, I—”

She
hit him in the face with the walking stick, the wood smashing into
his nose and teeth. His vision swam in and out of focus as he spat
out a great gout of blood, along with two broken teeth. His eyes fell
on the white slivers where they lay, in a pool of red on the carpet.
It reminded him of Tony Valentine, and he felt a dizzy giggle flash
up his throat. He could feel the warmth flowing down his lips and
chin as he struggled to compose himself.

“
Ok,
I’ll tell you what I know,” he spat wetly, touching his
tongue to the jagged remains of his front teeth.

Despite
the heavy sense of fear that consumed him, he still thought he might
have a chance to escape. Already he could feel his fingers and toes
beginning to come back to life. He wondered if the muscle relaxants
she used were old.
Do muscle relaxants have a
use by date
? He wasn’t sure, but it was
the one advantage he might have over this crazy old bitch. He would
talk, talk until he was blue in the face and strong enough to make a
break for it. He watched now as she returned to her chair. She sat
with an arthritic groan, and opened the brown wooden box on the table
by her chair, the one Alex thought may have contained old
photographs, reading glasses, or a half-eaten packet of Werther’s
Original sweets—the general daily clutter of old ladies
worldwide. But this was no ordinary old woman. This was some kind of
monster. He watched as she pulled out a syringe and a vial of clear
liquid. Terror, pure and honest terror raced through his mind.

“
What
the hell are you doing? I said I’d talk. Please!”

She
expertly filled the syringe, watching him with emotionless eyes as
she did so.

“
Relax,
preacher. This is just so we might talk in more comfort.”

He
began to panic as she approached him, her slippers padding along the
carpet as she came.

“
What
are you doing? What are you doing to me?”

She
crouched and jabbed him in the neck, and he immediately began to feel
woozy. His vision danced, and as it faded, he saw one of his
pamphlets now strewn across the floor. The question printed on the
front in bold, black text seemed as relevant now as ever.

DOES
GOD REALLY LOVE US?

It
was a good question, initially intended to stimulate conversation, to
allow him to ease into his sales pitch. After all, wasn’t that
what he was? A salesman of God? The question resonated within him,
and he would have given it more thought, but his eyelids were now
lead weights and he couldn’t keep them open any longer. He
passed out.

2.

He
awoke slowly, and in the haziness of those early seconds he could not
remember the terror of what had been. It was only as he became lucid
that the fear found him again, and he forced himself to stifle the
scream that so desperately wanted to escape.

He
was still in the old lady’s sitting room, although the light
had shifted, the shadows now long and menacing, reaching up and
branching across the walls. He was no longer on the floor, but
instead sat on a sturdy wooden chair. He tried to move, but found
that not only were his muscles unresponsive, he was also securely
tied to the chair. And not just securely, but expertly—arms
behind his back, feet to the chair legs. He was sweating profusely,
unable to breathe through his nose, which was clogged with dried
blood. He suspected it could well be broken. He swallowed dryly,
wincing at the copper taste.

He
looked around the room, which was mostly unchanged, although he could
see it had been tidied. The broken remains of the glass table were
gone, apart from a few missed shards that glinted like tiny diamonds
in the late afternoon sun. He could still see the red stain on the
crème carpet where he had bled, although his broken teeth had
been disposed of. He ran his tongue across the sharp stumps in his
mouth, moaning quietly with the pain. His thoughts were muddled, as
if they were forced to wade through a thick fog in order to present
themselves. He wondered where she was—his insane captor.
Holding his breath, he listened intently, past the irritating
tick-tock
of the huge
grandfather clock against the far wall. He thought he could hear
voices. No, not voices. It was the radio. He could hear the steady
drawl of the DJ as he pronounced what a beautiful day it had been.

Not
for all of us, pal,
he thought to himself as
he tried to formulate some kind of plan. He looked up and could see
the fireplace, and above it, the rows of old photographs that stood
on the mantle. From his seated position he could see himself in the
mirror. He thought he felt bad, but he looked even worse. His face
was swollen, and his nose had an ugly bend around halfway down. His
lips and chin were covered in dried blood. He looked into his eyes
and could see fear reflecting back at him. A bloody, terrified,
thirty-seven year old man who had set out that morning with the sole
intention of spreading a message of love and happiness, and was now
held captive by a crazy old woman with a grudge.

He
heard her coming, the unmistakable shuffling of feet on carpet as she
approached. He instinctively tried to free himself. He wanted nothing
to do with her, this crazy old woman who pronounced her ‘V’s
as ‘W’s. Who kept syringes of tranquilizers and muscle
relaxants in the house, and thought nothing of drugging and torturing
houseguests. She came into the room.

He
was still amazed by how harmless she looked. She was carefully
carrying a tray containing a cup of tea and a plate of digestive
biscuits. The tray also contained several items that had no business
being there. Items that made his stomach knot. A scalpel. A pair of
old red-handled pliers. A small hammer. He watched her form as she
shuffled across the room, eyeing him carefully with her emotionless
gaze. She set down the tray on the table beside her chair, and
lowered herself carefully into the seat. He swallowed his fear as she
again opened the wooden box, only this time she removed a small
notepad and pen, some thick-rimmed reading glasses, an old pack of
cigarettes, and a lime-green lighter. Still she said nothing, her
deeply lined face watching his bloated and bloody one.
Slowly—deliberately so, Alex thought—she took out a
cigarette and lit it, exhaling deeply as she sat back in the garish
floral pattern chair. Alex glanced at the grandfather clock in the
corner, and saw that it was just after four in the afternoon. Still
she was silent. She finished her cigarette and took up the notepad,
and turning to a clean page, she finally spoke.