Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (60 page)

The hidden pill dissolved in John’s stomach, quickened by
gulps of Great Lake’s finest. The beer settled at the top of his throat and he
fought the acidic burn.

Sarah pushed him back on the couch and unbuckled her black
leather belt, laughing as she imagined him trying to claim rape. John spilled
the remainder of his warm beer, dropped the bottle to the floor, and – moving
his hands to her hips – slid down the garter straps and pushed the miniskirt up
to reveal the tops of white, fishnet stockings. John’s body slid beneath hers
and into a familiar position. His vision blurred and Sarah’s words took on a
wavering quality, as if she spoke underwater. He felt her hands tugging at his
underwear and he saw black pants at his ankles. John’s cell phone slid from his
pocket and hit the cement floor.

***

John awoke shivering. His chattering teeth pulled him from a
fitful sleep. The stench of vomit and piss pulled at the remaining contents of
his stomach. He sat up and glanced at the black plastic through nauseous double
vision. John picked up the phone and flipped it open, expecting the screen to
come alive. He squinted to prepare for the bright shock of a compounded
headache. When it did not happen, John fumbled for the on button, bringing the
inanimate object to life. The smudged LCD screen finally lit, but John dropped
it to the ground as rays of pallid green bored through his skull like a rusty
drill. Shrill beeps emanated from his phone in rapid succession. John rubbed
his eyes with sweaty hands, his body convulsing before looking down at the
display.

What the fuck is going on?

He forced his eyes to focus on the screen, struggling to
read the characters on it. The phone looked back at him through an imaginary
fog, which obscured the display. John held the phone outward and turned in a
slow circle. Bits and pieces of memory raced through his head. John yanked at a
white collar hanging from the button on his black shirt. A dime-store rosary
twisted as the cheap plastic cut into his throat. The air felt cold and damp,
weighed down with silence. Opposite the steps, John ran a hand along the wall
and found the light switch. He flicked it up and down several times, failing to
dispel the inky blackness. Stumbling over empty beer bottles, he crawled to the
circuit panel. Using the weak light from his phone’s display, he saw all of the
breakers faced right, locked in the “on” position, but still failing to deliver
power to the house. More beeping shot from the tinny speaker on his phone, the
source still a mystery. John navigated the basement furniture and tried
climbing the stairs. He reached the solid, oak door and listened.

Nothing.

Flies crawled under the door and buzzed around his head, an
unusual occurrence for late October in Ohio. A sour stench, which forced John
to heave again, accompanied the insects. The locked door forbade him entry to
the kitchen.

“Hey!” he said. ”Is anyone there?”

John pounded on the door with his right hand until it became
numb. He kept reassuring himself that Reggie would throw open the door at any
moment, and everyone would have a hearty laugh at his expense.

John waited.

He sat on the top step, straining again to focus on the
phone’s display. His eyes chased a floater from the edge of his vision as the
letters on the screen materialized. He pushed the envelope button, which
retrieved the first three subject lines from the inbox.

whr r u

johncall

help

Chapter
2

Jana had typed the text messages the night of October
thirty-first. The date on the main screen read November first.  Fumbling, John
pushed the wrong button, retrieving his sent texts folder.

wish u whr here

Sent at one in the morning on November first. John selected
the message and noticed three phone pictures attached to it. The hourglass spun
on the screen while retrieving the first picture. Although dark and grainy, he
had no difficulty recognizing himself in the photo, lying on the couch in
Reggie’s basement. John’s head tilted up at an angle, his mouth was covered
with a wide grin, and his eyes stared at a naked woman. Sarah stood to the
side, one hand resting on his thigh and the other holding her right breast.

He gasped and scrolled down to the second picture. Long,
blonde hair fell down to the top of her waist. She sat astride him, looking
back over her left shoulder at the phone, which must have sat on a high stool. The
third and final picture knocked the wind out of John. With the phone held above,
two white breasts and strands of blonde hair enveloped John’s head while a look
of stupidity plastered his face.

Sarah was always good at serving a cold dish of revenge.

Using the phone as his flashlight, John staggered back down
the steps. He collapsed onto the loveseat at the opposite wall to avoid the
smell of his own vomit. John wiped tears from his cheeks and his thumbs moved
across the keyboard before he recognized the “No Service” icon that had just
appeared on the display. He shut the phone off and back on again.

“No Service”. John walked back up to the top of the steps
and held the phone high above his head.

“No Service”.

He recalled seeing 5:06 a.m. on the display before losing
the signal. If that were true, someone in the house would be waking soon. They
would hear him, find him, and everything would be fine. But John didn’t believe
that lie even as his mind formed it. He tried to open both closet doors but the
locks refused to give. John considered launching a shoulder into the door but
knew his collarbone would snap before the wood budged.

John took a quick inventory of the room using light filtering
in from the glass block windows. He noted two
couches, a treadmill, a TV, a chair, and a stack of board games on a shelf. His
stomach rumbled and grinded with a low moan, and his lips began to crack at the
corners.

The pictures and the text kept tumbling through his
thoughts. Although the carrier delivered them to Jana, she did not reply. Her
text messages arrived prior to his, with her cryptic, desperate phrases. Without
any bars, John succumbed to the confines of his new prison.

Reggie’s basement sat beneath the living room and masked any
indication of the time of day. John looked at the top of the steps and saw a
thin, gray line appearing at the bottom of the door.

John opened his phone and pointed it at the chair, aware of
one less bar on the battery indicator. He angled the screen to the floor in
such a way as to provide enough light to get to work. John turned the chair
over and unscrewed one of the legs. The wooden spindle gave way, and he repeated
the process with the other three legs.

He climbed the steps and tried to shove one of the legs
under the door as a wedge. The tight gap kissed the ceramic tile, not allowing
any leverage. John took one leg and brought it down hard on the glass doorknob.
The handle shattered, but the brass innards kept their composure, keeping the
door locked. John climbed back down the stairs and decided to try his luck on
one of the closet doors. If he could get into Reggie’s tool chest, his chances
of getting through the kitchen door would improve.

John brought the chair leg up and struck the door with it. Shards
of wood shattered and flew across the room, but the door held strong.

John slid down the wall, fighting a rush of sobs. He thought
of Jana and reread her fleeting text messages. Visions of Sarah and her
drug-induced sexual depravity made John’s head hurt, followed by bouts of
vomiting.

Headaches pounded the inside of John’s skull while cramps
wracked his stomach. He shivered from the cold damp rising out of the basement
floor. The black shirt and collar provided meager protection from the unheated
house. Dark, black circles formed on the edges of his vision and took John into
the realm of the unconscious.

Chapter
3

“All clear!”

The shout woke John. Panic seized his heart as he lurched
upright. Pain shot through his legs from cramps that imposed their will on his
muscles.

“Sir, there appears to be a basement.”

“Then secure it, Private.”

The taste of danger sharpened John’s senses. His legs
burning, he dragged himself behind the couch on the opposite wall. Within
moments, he heard the crack of wood and saw the gray November light hit the
landing near the kitchen. Gleaming black boots crushed the remains of the glass
doorknob as they crept down the steps. John took a deep breath, inhaling as
much of the renewed air as possible.

He watched as two sets of legs hit the bottom step. Red
pinpoints of light raced around the room. They flashed over him a number of
times but never remained long enough to reveal his position. John held his
breath and bit into his tongue, trying to ignore the crippling leg cramps
seizing the muscles.

“Clear.”

A sharp report rang through the air followed by the acrid
taste of burning gunpowder. Before the reverberations faded, a second gunshot followed
the first. John heard the boots smash each of the closet doors as the hinges
protested with a squeak.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

The two men kicked beer bottles around the floor, pointed
their flashlights around the room, and walked back up the steps towards the
kitchen. John exhaled, watching tendrils of smoke dance in the air.

Chapter
4

The light pouring through the open kitchen door climbed high
on the wall until it disappeared completely. John listened from behind the
couch, still unwilling to chance exposing himself. When the light faded, he
crawled out.

Two gaping, black mouths yawned at him where closet doors
had previously stood. He flipped the cell phone open but did not hear the
customary start-up chime. A ragged crack ran the length of the screen, and the
battery had come loose from the clip on the back. In his desperation to hide,
he’d landed on top of the phone. John shoved it into a pocket and felt his way
toward the nearest closet.

The intrusion had scattered the planks of the doors, and
hinges sagged from the wall. With no light, John ventured inside the black
canyon. A smeared, glass-block window provided enough of a glare for John to
recognize the flashlights on the shelf. He grabbed one and flicked the switch. Nothing.
He slammed it to the ground and grabbed another one. The torch blasted the room
with blinding light. John stumbled over the shards of the door as his eyes
burned and watered before becoming accustomed to the brightness. John swept the
beam around the cramped work room until he noticed a wealth of tools. Grabbing
the gym bag off a low shelf, he emptied its contents on the floor. Old
baseballs and street-hockey balls rolled under the shelves. John collected a
hammer, screwdrivers, a hand ax, and plastic wrap, and shoved them into the
bag.

John turned off the flashlight and crept toward the steps. The
house sighed with the setting of the November sun, as aged boards protested the
temperature change with cracks and pops. The stench of urine mingled with the
greasy smell of heating oil. He shivered from the approaching chill of night,
while climbing the first step toward the kitchen. The wooden plank sagged under
his weight. John’s palm felt the ruddy surface of the textured wall, guiding
the rest of his body upward. He felt his heart slamming against his rib cage,
threatening to burst from his chest. John mumbled, trying to ignore the pulse
in his temple.

The door to the kitchen stood wide open. From his position
on the steps, John saw broken glass scattered on the ceramic-tile floor. The
duffel bag on his shoulder swung with each movement, the contents poking into
his ribs. He set the bag down on the top step and waited. He listened. Convinced
of the emptiness, John stepped into the kitchen and out of his old life
forever.

Chapter
5

The cold November sun sent weak rays onto the floor of the
old house. The temperature dropped with ease. As his eyes adjusted to the
lighting, John’s vision came into focus. The black cape from a vampire costume
fanned out across the floor, with a pool of dark liquid shimmering under the
partygoer’s chest. The hardy flies that survived the bitter day buzzed above
the corpse. The woman dressed as the Bee Lady slumped in a kitchen chair next
to the overturned table, her open eyes fixated on the motionless ceiling fan
above. Mascara ran down her face and smudges of black lipstick caressed her
chin. Three ragged holes of flesh desecrated the woman’s chest.

John stumbled and lunged for the sink. He heaved into the
stainless-steel basin, but nothing left his body. He laughed in spite of
himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Hints of winter seized the house,
rattling the old windows inside their rotted, wooden frames.

He stepped over the Count and opened the refrigerator, his
primal need for food overpowering his aversion to death. The lure of pork preceded
a gentle, cool waft of treated air. The fridge bulb did not turn on, so John
flicked on the flashlight and exposed the leftovers of a ham dinner on the
second shelf. John shoved it into his mouth, savoring the salty burn. Without
hesitation, he ripped open a two-liter bottle of soda and poured it down his
throat. The stinging carbonation forced him to pause until his eyes stopped
watering. He felt a surge of adrenaline enter his bloodstream. Without even
pausing to close the icebox, John devoured the entire ham and attacked several
hard-boiled eggs. His hunger subsided to intestinal pain while his body shook
with the flood of calories and protein. John dove for the powder room adjacent
to the kitchen and found it devoid of dead bodies. 

John forced himself to ignore the dead bodies as he riffled
through Reggie’s cabinets looking for anything of sustenance that would last
without refrigeration. He grabbed a reusable shopping bag from Heinen’s and
filled it with packaged goods. Rice cakes, peanut butter, crackers, and other
dry items dropped into the sack. From the fridge, John grabbed another
two-liter of soda. The silent dead called out with survivor’s guilt.