Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror) (18 page)

With speed I didn’t know I possessed, I jolt forward, away from the tip of the gun and spin to the left. I aim the bear spray and depress the trigger. The liquid shoots out and covers the face of the man.

The long-barreled weapon falls to the ground as the man wails inhuman cries. He drops to his knees, his face already turning a patchy red. His eyes lock shut. He bellows a symphony of agony.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve never hurt anyone before. I’m shy, reserved. I don’t like violence. I resist confrontation. I hate yelling. Yet here is a man, kneeling before me, screaming a tune I have authored.

I knew I had to help him. He was a victim of the trees. It wasn’t his fault. After I help him, I will get out of here. I have to get home and press my new-found leaves.

Besides, how many people actually get shot for trespassing nowadays, anyway? He was just protecting his land, his house.

I holster the bear spray and pick up the long gun.

“Which way?” I ask. It has been a long time since I’d talked. But this wasn’t a time to be passing notes. The man’s eyes are locked shut. He wouldn’t be able to read anyway.

“Whaaaatttt!” he bellows.

“Home! Which way?” I have to shout to be heard over his screams. It gives me chills. I almost run at the sound of my own voice.

He’s still on his knees. He’s using his hands to claw at his eyes in a wasted effort to remove the pain. One of his arms comes undone and he points down the path.

I get him to his feet. It’s maddening how we stumble through the foliage, the elbows of roots sticking up here and there. I thought the man would be tough to guide, but the gun is the real nuisance. With every step it seems to gain weight, getting heavier and heavier.

After about twenty minutes, my stranger stops screaming. He moans a lot, though. His eyes run with tears. Another clearing is coming up and I can see a house. We cover the distance fast because my stranger can walk better now and there aren’t all those trees purposely sticking things in our way, trying to trip us up.

The house is small for a farmhouse. I wouldn’t live in it. There aren’t any trees close to it.

In a window on the second floor something moves. Something flashes by so quick I can’t grasp what it is. We are almost at the back porch and my stranger is still whining. I look at the window again and this time it gives me goosebumps. A woman is peeking out. She’s wearing glasses. She has a telephone at her ear. I can tell she’s quite animated by the way she’s waving her arm and gesturing with her head. Whoever she’s talking to is getting an earful.

This woman scares me more than the trees do.

The stranger mumbles something about a bathroom and I understand him. He wants the bathroom sink to wash his eyes out. The bear spray is giving off a stench. I wish he hadn’t pointed the gun at me. I don’t like hurting people. Why can’t they understand? When the trees are stalking me I need to be left alone. I do bad things when I’m in the woods with people.

It’s not my fault.

Jimmy shouldn’t have touched me like he did.

It wasn’t my fault he died all those years ago when we were ten.

We reach the back door and he opens it. Entering the house is tricky because I can’t stand beside him supporting his arm anymore so he takes the lead by feel.

I wonder why I don’t feel remorse for what I did. Maybe because I’m harmless. He shouldn’t have put a gun in my neck when all I wanted were leaves. Maybe this is a lesson
he
needs to learn.

I follow him out of a room where shoes and coats go, past a washer and dryer and into a narrow hallway. There aren’t any lights on, but I don’t think the half-blind stranger really minds.

I stop at a door where the stranger entered and wait. Why didn’t I put the long gun down? I’m still holding it in the hallway of this stranger’s house. I could’ve put it on the dryer or the washer. I step back into the laundry room and try to lift the long gun up onto the washing machine. It snags on something. I pull hard, but it’s still snagged. I look down and see my umbrella’s wooden handle has gotten caught in the trigger guard.

What are the odds?

I twist the gun and give it one last pull, but this time a roar belts out as the gun fires and jerks in my hands. The recoil bites into my unprepared shoulder, tearing at it like a noose yanking on a neck.

A serious fire shoots through my arm. My eyes widen at how much pain my shoulder is experiencing.

A hole has formed in the drywall. I can see into the hallway, through the hole.

The woman I saw in the upper window appears before me. The pain must be intense because I hadn’t noticed her standing there. She has a large rolling pin in her hand.

Before I can get out of the way, she’s on me. I try to protect my head, but my left arm isn’t working well and my right arm is pinned to my chest. It had been holding my aching shoulder.

She hit me on the head. I’m not sure what I’m feeling now. There’s a pounding, but I can’t breathe too well. My shoulder still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. I try to move my head, but it aches. I move it anyway. I’m screaming now.

The woman is convulsing on top of me. Her weight makes it difficult to breathe. I roll and she falls off. My nose inhales deep, my lungs fill, the pounding in my head drops from a ten to a seven.

Something moves in the doorway. My stranger is there, his face still red. No doubt called by the roar of the long gun and the shriek of the strange woman.

“Asthma,” is all he says before he bolts from the doorway.

He’s back now with an inhaler or puffer or whatever they call it.

I lean against the wall, the gun beside me. The woman is sitting up. She appears to be breathing better. My stranger can see and talk, although his eyes are very red. He’s explaining to the odd woman what happened and how stupid he must have been. He should never have entered the house with pepper spray on his face and a lingering scent on me. He should’ve known she’d get a reaction to it.

The woman says the word,
police
.

I use the wall to stand. Halfway up, I grab the long gun. Might need something to defend myself if the police are coming.

The strange man looks at me with a question on his face. I shrug and gasp. Man does my shoulder hurt. Funny how I took for granted a shrugging motion, and now it tosses coal on the flames of a fire I can’t ignore.

“What are you gonna do, Mister?” the stranger asks.

I don’t talk much to people. They’re okay, but years ago I decided I wouldn’t talk to people anymore. Only when I really had to. I even pretend at times that I can’t talk. I use a pen and paper to communicate with tellers, waitresses, and cab drivers. I point at my mouth and show them with my hands that I can’t use it.

All my life people have laughed at me when I talked. It wasn’t always this way. Only after I was nearly killed by those teenagers. I was beat up to within an inch of my life the doctor said. Brain damage. But it never took away my love of leaves, so it’s okay.

At least I remember why I was beat up. It was because of the death of Jimmy Urdith. No one believed me when I said it wasn’t my fault. They laughed at me then and they laugh at me now.

So I try really hard not to talk to people.

I step away from the man and the odd woman on the floor and lock the bolt on the laundry room door. I use the long gun’s barrel to point them up and out of the room. I push and prod them into the living room.

The redness in the man’s face is diminishing. It looks like everyone’s going to be fine. I’m happy about that.

Except if the police come. Then I will have to explain things. And I don’t want to talk. I just want to pick leaves and go home. I only want my leaves.

Why can’t everyone just let me be?

When I saw the woman in the window on the phone she must have been calling the police. Especially when she saw her man being guided to the house, his face a mask of tears. With me holding the strange man’s gun, it might have made her think I was hostile. Why didn’t I realize this earlier? I shake my head back and forth and smack my temple.

The living room has a long couch where I get them to sit. I use shoelaces to tie up their feet. I don’t want hostages, I only want them out the way while I do a field press on my new-found leaves. Then I will exit this strange house in a strange land owned by strange people, by way of the back door and disappear.

They will never see me again.

I figure the cops will take at least fifteen minutes to get to this remote setting. I had spent ten here already. I need to hurry.

I am happy with all my clear thinking. This is becoming fun in a way. I haven't been in control of a crisis for a long time. Neat how it all comes back to you, dealing with issues that are unpleasant.

I run to the kitchen. I set the long gun on the counter, locate the wax paper and rip a strip off. I flatten it out on the kitchen table and place my satchel down. I carefully take the leaves out of the magazine pages and set them gently on the wax paper. I make sure they are flat and ready.

Now I need newspaper. After a frantic minute of running around the house I can’t find any. I walk into the garage and locate a recycle bin. There’s enough in it for my purpose.

When I get back to the kitchen something’s different. I place the newspaper on top of my leaves and look around. For some reason I can’t figure out what’s different about the kitchen.

It’s time to leave. But first I want to check on the strangers in the living room. I go to the counter to pick up the gun, but it’s gone.

That’s what was different. The gun’s missing.

My stomach rolls. My shoulder still throbs. My head feels like it’s an egg that got cracked. But I need to do what I don’t want to do. I need to check on the strangers in the living room.

When I get there, the living room is empty.

Why are they doing this? I just want my leaves. I just want to go home. I wish everyone would leave me alone. I didn’t ask for this.

It’s the same when Jimmy followed me into the woods that day. We walked and walked, looking at all the trees and their wonderful leaves. We marveled at the colors, shapes and sizes. After about three hours on our own, Jimmy wanted to head back to the teacher and the rest of the students. I didn’t.

We argued. I remember walking away from him. He grabbed my arm and spun me around. I was shocked. He yelled at me. He said we had to return to the group. We had to go back to school. We were supposed to go home.

He had touched me, yelled at me. Those two actions made me run. I always run when people touch me too much or when people yell at me.

Jimmy was found dead a week later. He got lost on his way back to the school bus.

It wasn’t my fault.

I ran from my dad. He always yelled. He died from yelling when I was twelve. Yelled and yelled and yelled. Then his heart blew up.

I come back to the room in my head. The strangers are not where I put them. Maybe they left the house. I’ll get my leaves and go.

I turn and discover the strange man has the long gun. It’s pointed at my midsection.

“Get down,” he says.

Now what do I do? I don’t want to get shot. For my leaves, for my Honey Locust leaves, I get to my knees.

“All the way. To your stomach.”

I refuse to talk so I shake my head back and forth.

The strange man raises the gun to his eye and points it at my face. We’re in a long hallway, the living room opening to my right and I think he might shoot me.

“I said all the way down.”

I shake my head again.

There are footsteps behind me. For fear of being shot, I don’t move. I want to turn around, but I don’t want a bullet for it.

“I thought I told you to get outside and stay outside,” he says to the owner of the footsteps behind me.

“I know, but I can’t leave you alone.” It’s the woman’s voice. “What if you needed my help?”

“I don’t need no help. I was just getting him to the ground so as to tie him up until the police get here.”

“He don’t look like he’s on the ground. He’s only on his knees.”

“I was working on it. Now let me do this.”

The long gun takes up its position, aimed at me again. I push off the wall on my left and dive for the dirty rug on the floor of the living room.

A loud boom echoes throughout the house. My hearing disappears. I race my hands over my body. No blood. No wounds.

I scramble to my feet as my hearing ebbs back. But all I hear is screaming. A woman screaming.

She was directly behind me in the hallway. The gun went off. I wasn’t there to get hit. She got hit.

The strange man is a blur as he runs by the living room alcove. I peek around the corner. He’s on the floor, holding the woman’s foot. It looks like an ankle wound. She’ll live.