Authors: Todd Russell
Mental Shrillness (6 page)
DIFFERENT.
He grabbed the edge of the sheet and started pulling it back.
The face popped up through the covers.
NO, NO NO!
She started rubbing her eyes.
"Regina..." Damon recoiled, raising his hands to his face. The words haunted him. REG, REG, REG! CALL ME REG, BABY, YOU KNOW HOW I LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME REG.
He ran out of the bedroom and tripped over his shoes in the hall.
"Damon?" Another voice called. A soft lovely voice.
Linda.
But how could it be?
Linda walked in from the kitchen with coffee cup in hand. She was wearing a long red bathrobe.
"You fell asleep working on your reports again, Damon. You're working too damn hard."
Damon pointed behind him, speechless.
"Oh, Regina came home late from college last night. I told her she could sleep in the study."
His mother's voice resonated, THAT IS THE ONLY WAY. IT WILL BE DIFFERENT.
"Are you okay?" Regina entered the room. "Daddy?"
He fell to his knees, gripping his face.
DADDY.
He'd always dreamed of having a daughter. Always. It took a long time for the memories to fully deluge him. One by one, a sea of pleasurable remembrances washed over his mind, cleansing the horror.
IT WILL BE DIFFERENT.
Holding his baby girl for the first time. Reg's first day of school. Reg's first heart-crushing breakup. Reg and those hilarious, yet interesting driving lessons with Dad. Reg's graduation with honors from high school.
DIFFERENT.
They thought something was wrong with Damon as he sat there in a prolonged daze with tears racing down his cheek. At some point he pinched himself and stood and hugged them both. His family. Behind them a picture of the three of them hung on the wall which was taken last Christmas. Damon looked at the picture beside that and a secret smile rippled across his face.
It was a framed picture of his mother and father standing beside each other, long before cancer, before Denny, before deaths, before the Illusions. They each held wistful gazes. Damon had never recognized those expressions before as he did then. They had dreams too, he realized. Everyone had them. It was all about how they were manifested.
Although Denny had been unsuccessful with his malevolent intentions, Damon's mother had somehow, someway, discovered the key to merging the gates.
For those with little interest in blog-like commentary on the stories just read—and hopefully enjoyed—you may safely skip this section and will not have missed much. Finger me guilty as charged for also being a reader who enjoys peeking behind the curtain; this section is purely for readers with a similar penchant.
All stories published in this collection were originally posted (or is it digitally published?) in an area at AOL in the mid to late 1990s affectionately known to many of us as AIN (Amazing Instant Novelist). We traveled to AIN through pitifully slow dial-up connections—
if
we could even connect—and then typing keyword: novel. AIN will always hold a special spot in my writer-ensconced heart because it sharpened the saw.
Alas, I was short story prolific in 1997 and partly into 1998 writing dozens and dozens of short stories during this time. Not the first time I wrote short stories—I'll tell you more about that another day—but the first time I ever shared my short story work to a sizable audience beyond my family, friends, classmates, teachers, literary agents, editors and potential publishers.
To my knowledge the AIN community is no longer online and all stories posted there are gone. And with them went a whole bunch of different, creative and sometimes excellent indie writers. Yes, even some published authors posted at and enjoyed AIN.
The way AIN worked was the judges posted a different writing topic for the week and then an army of creative minds would work on posting something to do with the topic with the condition that you stayed within the word length limit. The top three judged places each week received something called Amazing Instant Points which could be turned in for real world prizes. There was often a race to see who could post the first quality story. Oh, and you weren't just encouraged to write, reading and commenting on other works was important too. There was an early Facebook-like community feel there. Great writing exercises, good people and good times. Yes, I miss AIN.
AIN contests were run primarily by volunteers called AMAZN and NOVL. Although I posted some stories using pen names, most of my stories—and all of them here—were posted under my primary screen name: ToddRWrite. After winning a couple of these contests I was approached to become a NOVL, accepted and went on to judge several contests helping to pick the best of the best as NOVL Write. Once you became a NOVL your stories couldn't place any more but you could still have other judges give your stories a silver, gold or platinum mention in the weekly recap when first, second and third place stories were featured. The compensation for being a NOVL was getting your AOL dial-up account comped.
I googled AIN and found one NOVL had setup a Facebook page for former AMAZNs and NOVLs. The last comment was January 2011 and had encouraged others who fondly remember AIN to comment. I did. If any fellow AINites happen to be reading this and we've lost touch please use the social media (ugh, hate that name) contacts at the end of this book and let's reconnect. Would love to read what you've been up to these past 15 or so years.
Enough setup, your tea is getting cold, let's get to the tales,
the stories
. It's your very, very, very last chance to bail to the beginning if you skipped reading the stories first. A good way to end up in the Mental Shrillness ward, you know.
"Memorial Day Descent"
- Mental Shrillness: memories. Though I've never served in the military I have tremendous respect for the many brave men and women who do. They have a job far more difficult than anything I've ever done. There are too many soldiers who came back from 'Nam with bad memories, with horrible visions that have forever scarred their minds. This story won first place in the AIN Short Stories writing contest: "Falling" originally posted at AIN in May 1997.
"Pains in the Glass"
- Mental Shrillness: betrayal. There is something about the way glass cuts flesh that creeps me out. Glass is so smooth when you run your fingers across it but the minute it shatters it divides into multiple menacing weapons ready to pierce, slash and cut. How many materials like glass betray our senses this way? Originally featured in the debut issue of FRIGHTNET Online Magazine in September 1997 and reposted at AIN under the topic "Betrayal." Sadly, FRIGHTNET and so many other horror webzines are no longer around.
"Dead Warmed Over"
- Mental Shrillness: love. I'm fascinated by the power of love. It's no wonder so many stories, regardless of genre, have a romantic element to them. What would a guy do that really loved his wife and felt her dead flesh growing colder and colder? First place contest winner for subject "Lovers." Originally posted at AIN in May 1997 and in the STUMP webzine in January 1998. A google search as of this writing reveals that STUMP has gone the way of FRIGHTNET.
"Falling the Bobbitt Way"
- Mental Shrillness: devotion. For those reading who are married I'm sure you remember your marriage vows; the promises to keep them through sickness and health. Tracy goes beyond extreme in her devotion to her sacred marriage vow with John but then someone with mental shrillness always does. Being male I shouldn't need to explain why this story disturbs me. This male cringe-worthy story only appeared very briefly at AIN and was quickly TOS'd (Terms of Service violation) on May 27, 1997 for being "too sexually explicit." It is the only story that I wrote and posted at AIN that was ever removed in this manner. I didn't remember the language being as sexually explicit as it reads today. That's what 14 years of perspective will do. So why include this story? I wanted to have something in this collection—something rare in my AIN posting history—which my AIN writing friends likely hadn't read. It didn't take the AMAZNs long to rip this story down.
"Dueling Eyes"
- Mental Shrillness: voices. The eyes, among our most mysterious physical feature as human beings, are the focus of several stories I've written over the years. Glass eyes in particular haunt me. I used to work with a guy who had this glass eye that never moved and while I tried not to be rude and stare I always felt like his glass eye was staring at me. While my co-worker's glass eye never talked to me, I could see how people who had one might think it talked to them. I think if my eye was ever put out I'd opt for a patch over a glass eye. Originally posted to AIN on March 3, 1998. Among the last of the stories I ever posted at AIN and forms the inspiration along with "The Illusion" for the Mental Shrillness cover art.
"The Illusion"
- Mental Shrillness: death. What trumps the fear of dying? If Harry Houdini couldn't figure out how to come back what chance do non-magicians have? The truth is magicians and illusionists are just bending, not breaking, reality. I have several fears in this story: disfigured creatures, masks, loss of identity and carnival barkers. Oh, carnivals! Is there any other place that's so much fun and yet can be scary at the same time? For some time I'd wanted to post something longer than the 250-1,000 word short stories limit at AIN. Before writing any of the stories here, I'd already completed seven novels, so was yearning to get back to telling longer tales. Because of the word limit, I had to post The Illusion in parts. Eight parts I believe as it's a little over 7,000 words which kind of broke up the story in ways I didn't like. Since it was longer than the maximum number of words it made the entry ineligible for winning any award or the mystical Amazing Instant Points (which I never used, d'oh!). A few years later I reposted this story on my "Scared To Death" website which, well, has been scared out of existence, gone like FRIGHTNET and STUMP. The formatting for "The Illusion" at my website wasn't very good even though it wasn't posted in serialized format. When I became more skilled at editing HTML I never went back and gave this story the proper format treatment. Time has given me yet another opportunity to merge the
literary
gates and format this to how it was originally conceived and you're encouraged to tell me how it worked out.
Six bullets spent from the chamber, six stories comprising this curious collection.
I hope you enjoyed this brief tour inside the Mental Shrillness ward. I had a lot of fun getting these tales out of my mind and revisiting them during the process of compiling and formatting. Think of our time together like coming over in the evening for a few cups of tea while outside a strong wind whips violently through the black. Relax, it's warm inside. With good fortune, time, and perhaps a little favorable prodding we can do this dark dance again with some more twisted tales to get you through the night or take you away from those mentally challenging days.
Horrifically Yours,
Todd Russell
March 27, 2011
Kyle Ekelton drove along the soulless highway against the scythe of time.
He could almost see the tall Medusian woman at the counter, her razory gaze shaving his hope to ribbons. He reached shakily for the windshield wiper switch and instead flipped on a local rock station. Hardly the music to sooth his nerves, he switched to country, then to soft rock, blues, jazz, and finally, again, silence. The black road. Him.
Benny died this way, he thought, they got him on the road...the road...just like me...
Kyle removed the pack of cigarettes from the glove box and whisked away a cold bead of sweat. He had purchased them after his brother had died. No, Benny, you weren't killed. Nobody could pin it on them.
They knew how to leave no clues.
He ripped the cellophane away and thought of Benny's final phone call, "Kyle, don't let them take you without a last—" Benny had been cut as short as his life. Twenty-one years old and the bastards had stolen everything but Kyle's memories.
WITHOUT A LAST—?
Wish?
They'd always given men about to die a cigarette in the old days. Today they gave you a smile and a priest and flipped the switch. Kyle popped the cigarette in his mouth, fumbled for the lighter glowing red, and started puffing. The horror caught in his throat when he saw the haunting digital eyes on his wrist.
He jammed the accelerator.
Running late. Kyle's whole life was a plethora of terse, vertigo-inducing snapshots. Late to the wedding. To the divorce. The baby's birth. Benny's funeral. My own death.
Tommy Guiles, known for his feverish attention to details, had been four short minutes late with the package, but a policy remained a policy. The doctors said it was something sudden and shocking that sucked the blood from the chambers of Tommy's heart.
A mistake was more than a mistake.
"I was right," Kyle murmured aloud, his eyes focused on the speedometer. He hit the steering wheel furiously. The fear inside him ached for the mountains, somewhere away from them. Somewhere he had hope, a break, a chance—something they never had given anyone else. Running away would only prolong the torture.
Ahead he saw the neon sign. Inside she waited for him.
He checked the digital eyes. Eleven fifty-nine. One minute.
Sixty seconds...fifty-five....
He shut the door and raced inside, his tongue hanging at its side.
The sound of a keyboard chattering echoed as Kyle raced down the hall. The thought now was for him, not Benny or Tommy or his estranged wife or son. Time and he waging war. The final seconds. Thirty-five ... thirty ... twenty-five...
An old lady in a black dress sat in front of the keyboard. She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses on her wax-like face and smiled.