Authors: Brandon Massey

Twisted Tales (8 page)

BOOK: Twisted Tales

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Mark’s mouth had dropped open.

“You want next, brotha?” a scruffy-looking guy asked him. “It’s gonna be a while, we got us a tournament goin’.”

“No, thanks,” Mark said softly. He took his CD player off the nightstand. One of the men looked at him suspiciously. “This is mine,” Mark said, wondering why he felt he had to justify himself to these graceless people who had invaded his private space.

He retreated to the basement. In a junk-filled corner, near the washer and dryer, he found an old recliner that his granddad used to relax in, years ago. Mark dropped into the chair, tilted his head back.

Dust sifted through the air. He sneezed.

Creaks and thuds issued from the ceiling. Upstairs, they had turned the living room into a dance floor.

Mom never would have tolerated this. She would have kicked all of those people the hell out, granting them some choice cuss words along the way.

But Mom was gone. The house belonged to him now.

Although she might as well have given it to Willie.

The next night, Mark again cleared the boxes away from the secret door in the supply closet.

It was a quarter after seven. He hadn’t even started cleaning his assigned restrooms.

But he wasn’t worried about them, or Mr. Green, either. Not anymore.

He pressed the icy panel. The wall floated away.

Beyond, the mysterious darkness beckoned.

He moved to within a foot of the portal, and got on his knees. Cool sweat streamed down his face, turning icy when kissed by the frigid air blowing from the doorway.

The magic door led to a marvelous place. He was certain of that; the mere memory of the divine music stirred his spirits. Music that sounded so good had to come from somewhere wondrous. It was from somewhere better than here, this cold world, where beloved mothers died in their prime, and sorry, weed-head stepfathers squandered life insurance money on flashy cars and chased women half their age and slept with them in beds that still carried the scent of their dead wives and ridiculed their stepsons who were only trying to make an honest living working as janitors, and mocked them for collecting rejection letters on first novels from faceless literary agents who didn’t care; this hateful world, where nothing was fair and nothing seemed worth living for anymore, and every day was gray and every night like a black void, because the one he most loved in all the world was gone, gone forever, and he couldn’t even tend the home she had left him, couldn’t even preserve her legacy, because he was too damned scared to stand up for himself...

Weeping, Mark thrust his arm inside the passage. Coolness covered his skin. The heavenly music struck up, pleasure surging through his nerves like a drug-induced high.

An involuntary gasp of joy escaped his lips.

He edged closer, put his foot inside.

The music increased in volume.

He dipped his head, to squeeze inside ...

. . . and the silver locket dropped off the chain and clattered against the floor. Striking the floor made it pop open to the photograph of Mark and his mother.

He paused. Stared at the picture.

His mother’s wise eyes penetrated him.

He no longer heard the music, though it continued to play in the back rooms of his mind. But he heard, quite clearly, his mother’s voice. Her words broke into his thoughts as if she was standing beside him.

Where do you think you’re going, Mark?

“Mom?” he asked.

It looks like you’re running away from your responsibilities.

“I ...” he started, and couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. Shame sat like a lump in his throat.

Did I raise you to be a quitter, Mark?

He swallowed.

“No,” he whispered. “No, you didn’t.”

He reached to pick up the locket.

That was when he heard something in the darkness beyond the doorway, coming toward him with a sound like sharp claws cutting across ice.

His heart clutched.

The thing scuttled toward him, viper-fast.

Frantic, he backpedaled away from the door.

On the other side, something monstrous howled. It was a roar of anger, of hunger. An utterly alien cry.

Mark’s blood ran cold.

He scrambled away to the opposite wall.

Staring into the blackness, Mark glimpsed a vision out of a nightmare: a rippling mass of green-black scales, a flash of luminous yellow eyes, and a maw of large, jagged bones that only could have been a mouthful of deadly teeth.

Then the panel slid back into place in the wall, keeping the creature at bay on the other side. A final, furious shriek echoed in Mark’s ears.

Then, silence claimed the room.

He was safe.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he chanted. His knees shook so badly that he had to sit on the floor.

He had been grasping the locket tightly. When he opened his fist, the edges had etched a red circle in his palm.

Hands trembling, he slipped the locket back onto the chain. How it had fallen off just in time to save him from wandering through the gateway, he had no idea.

No, that wasn’t true. His heart knew the truth, even as his rational brain labeled it impossible.

His heart knew a lot of things, including what he had to do next.

Steady again, he got to his feet. He moved the boxes to conceal the door.

It was only a temporary measure. He was going to return here on the weekend and seal the doorway with a layer of bricks.

Afterward, he walked out of the supply closet. Mr. Green marched down the corridor. His eyes gleamed with suspicion.

“What were you doing in there, Mark? It’s a half hour into your shift and you haven’t started on the first pair of restrooms!”

“I’m going home,” Mark said. “Dock my paycheck, whatever. I promise to come back to work. But first, I’ve got to kick someone out of my house.”

Hitcher

“Get your nose outta that damned book and check out that piece,” Raheim said.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Raheim’s Chevy Tahoe, I looked up from the sci-fi novel that I was reading and pushed up my glasses on my nose.

“What?” I asked.

“Look what’s coming up on the side of the road. Damn, Scottie, sometimes I gotta wonder whether you even
like
women.”

I ignored his comment—there was a long story behind it—and looked out the window.

“Oh,” I said.

Raheim laughed.

It was early evening, the sun dipping into the horizon. We were cruising on a winding rural road outside Atlanta, on our way to see Raheim’s girlfriend and her friend, with whom she was hooking me up. I had never met this “hookup” date and had no idea what she looked like, but Raheim claimed that she was cute. Not as cute as
his
girlfriend, Shonda, of course, but in Raheim’s words, “better than you could do on your own, Scottie, so you better thank me.”

The woman on the side of the road made even Raheim’s girlfriend look homely by comparison.

Raheim slowed the truck as we drew closer, giving me a clear look at her. The woman stood near the open trunk of a black Honda Civic; I noticed that the hood yawned open, too. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her skin was the color of coffee, and her hair flowed to her slender shoulders in lush waves. She wore tight black jeans and a red halter top that ended at her midriff.

As I looked at her, my mouth grew dry. Embarrassed by my own reaction, I had to glance away.

The woman turned and watched us as we rolled closer. She waved, and gave us a smile that gave me heart palpitations.

Raheim quickly pulled over in front of the Honda.

“You’re stopping?” I asked. “We’re running late for our dates.”

“Shonda can wait. Ain’t no way in hell I’m passing this up.”

I couldn’t say that I blamed him. But I hated to be late for anything, and especially for a date with a new woman. I guess it was the gentleman in me.

“Maybe you should call Shonda and tell her we’re running late—”

“No.” Raheim flipped down the sun visor and examined his dark brown face in the mirror. He smoothed his well-trimmed goatee. “After I see what’s poppin with this thing here, I might not
wanna
see Shonda tonight. You dig?”

“But what about her friend?” I asked. I really wanted to ask,
What about me?

“She was fat, anyway.” Raheim shrugged. “You ain’t missing nothing.”

“But you’d said she was cute.”

“Her face is.” Chuckling, Raheim slugged me in the arm—a playful but painful gesture—and opened the door. “Watch your big brother at work, Scottie. Watch and learn. And keep your mouth shut.”

He hadn’t needed to say that. I was tongue-tied around most women, anyway.

Raheim got out of the Tahoe. So did I. Darkness gathered around us like an old friend. Forestland lined both sides of the road, and deep in the woods, the night creatures had begun to conduct their concerts.

I shuffled closer to the Honda. Raheim strutted into view on the other side of the car, broad shoulders thrown back proudly, acting every bit of the famed University of Georgia linebacker that he’d been in his younger days. He met the woman near the rear of her car and started talking in a smooth, playa patter that I envied but never could replicate.The woman listened, her lovely eyes sparkling. She shook my brother’s hand. Then she glanced in my direction, gave me a smile.

Blushing, I looked away.

I looked under the Honda’s hood. I didn’t know a thing about automobiles, but at that moment, I wished I had majored in automotive engineering, instead of biology. I could have fixed the woman’s car and won her everlasting gratitude, and possibly a date—

Something shifted in the front passenger seat.

The windows were tinted, concealing the Honda’s interior. But I had seen ... something.

I leaned closer to the glass.

A small, pale hand brushed across the window.

I let out a startled sound and stumbled backward. My feet got tangled together, and I lost my balance and hit the gravel on my butt. Shame burned my face. I’d always been a klutz.

Raheim laughed. “What the hell you doing over there, man?”

Her face concerned, the woman came over to me.

“My son’s in the car,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m sorry, he must’ve startled you. He seems to enjoy doing that.”

She offered me her hand. Her eyes were kind. Caring.

Suddenly, I was in love. Just like that. I had never been in love before—I’d had plenty of crushes on women, but infatuation wasn’t the same thing. I knew that I was in love with this woman. I felt the emotion stirring at the deepest level of my heart. It was love at first sight.

She helped me to my feet.

“My name is Elana,” she said.

My lips were so dry that I struggled to form words. “Scottie,” I finally managed.

She smiled. I smiled, too.

Coming around the car, Raheim grunted and said, “So are we gonna take a stab at fixing this car, or what?”

Raheim got a toolbox out of the Tahoe, set it on the ground in front of Elana’s car, and began fiddling under the hood. Leaning against the car, Elana watched him.

I watched her.

I wondered if she felt the same, sudden connection to me that I’d felt to her. Emotionally, I believed that maybe she did; I couldn’t forget our shared smile. But logically, I thought the idea was ridiculous. Why would she be in love with me? I was a thin, bookish guy who, much to Raheim’s chagrin, sucked at sports. I was almost thirty, but had little experience with women, and none with a woman of her caliber. It was pure delusion for me to think that she felt anything at all for me—other than pity.

As Raheim worked under the hood, my gaze wandered from Elana’s perfect form to the passenger window. Like a strange sea creature that rarely surfaced, her son remained hidden behind the smoky glass. I was curious about the kid, but didn’t want to appear to be nosy. I had once dated a woman who had a small child, and she had been very protective of him, consenting for me to meet the kid only after we’d dated for over two months. A month later, the woman had dumped me, declaring me “poor father material.” I’d been crushed.

But eventually, I’d moved on—to yet another heartbreaking encounter. Rejection had followed me since I was a teenager. It was tempting to give up, to relegate myself to a depressing life of lonely bachelorhood. But I nursed a hope that, one day, I would meet someone special—and she would think I was special, too.

“Try to start it now,” Raheim said to her. Straightening, he wiped his hands on a towel.

Elana got inside the car. She turned the key in the ignition.

The engine clicked but didn’t catch.

“Shit.” Raheim tossed the towel on the ground. Anger compressed his features. He seemed to be personally offended that he had been unable to fix the car and save the day.

Elana slid out of the car. “Well, you tried.” She looked from Raheim to me. “Thanks for stopping for me. Guess I’ll call a tow and wait.”

“You can call a tow, but we aren’t leaving you alone out here,” Raheim said. “We’re in the boonies, and it’s dark. Get in the truck and I’ll drive you and your kid home.”

For once, I agreed with Raheim. Elana glanced at me, as if seeking my approval, and I nodded.

“You guys are so sweet.” Her smile was magnetic. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for being so kind.”

Raheim winked at me, and I knew exactly what he was thinking:
I have a few ideas for what you can do.

My stomach turned. Raheim wasn’t worthy of a woman like Elana. In his mind, women had been placed on Earth to cater to his desires—sexual and otherwise. And because of his looks and charisma, he found a lot of women who were willing to give him just what he wanted. But Elana seemed different, better.

But that wouldn’t stop Raheim from making a run at her.

“I’ve got to get my son,” Elana said. She opened the passenger door. “Come on, sweetie. These nice young men are going to give us a ride home.”

The boy got out of the car, and—how can I say this without sounding like a weirdo?—I suddenly felt cold. As if an icy breeze had wrapped its fingers around me.

The kid looked to be about nine or ten. He was shorter than usual for his age, and very thin. He wore a black pullover—with the hood draped over his head—jeans, and sneakers. Although the voluminous hood concealed his face in shadow, I saw a flash of ghastly paleness, and dark, glimmering eyes.

Even Raheim seemed affected. Worry crinkled his features.

There was something about this kid that made me uncomfortable. But I couldn’t say anything. If I dared to voice my opinion I would lose whatever remote chance I had with Elana.

Elana took his hand—I noticed that he wore dark leather gloves—and they walked toward the Tahoe. She smiled at us.

“You can ride up front with me, Elana,” Raheim said. “Your boy can ride in the back with Scottie.”

Great.
I didn’t want to sit anywhere near this creepy kid; I would’ve rather let a cobra coil on my lap, but what could I say? I was in love with Elana. I’d have to accept her kid, too. A mother and her child were, as one woman had told me, a “package deal.”

As Raheim got behind the wheel, I opened the rear passenger door. Elana helped her son inside. I began to wonder if the kid suffered from some kind of strange medical condition. She treated him as delicately as a ceramic figurine that might shatter if bumped or dropped.

But it would be rude to ask her a question like that. Besides, her bare arm grazed against my hand as she helped the boy inside, and the brief contact sent electricity jazzing through my veins, plunged me into pure erotic sensation, and wiped all questions out of my head.

Elana bent deeper inside, securing a seatbelt over her son. Her butt was only inches away from the front of my jeans, and her halter top rode above her waist, giving me a glimpse of a tattoo painted on the small of her back: a lush black rose.

I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss those rose petals.

“There you go,” she said, her son safely belted on the seat. She flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes and turned to me. Her perfume, a scent that reminded me of wildflowers, filled my head.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a voice so low it might have been a whisper. “I need to get inside.”

“Oh, yeah.” I stepped back. “Sorry.”

She brushed against me again—deliberately, it seemed—as she opened the door and climbed into the front seat.

She likes me,
I thought. I went around to the other side of the SUV and got in.
I think she really likes me.

I was so enamored of the possibility that Elana would reciprocate my love that I didn’t immediately realize that her son was watching me with his strange, dark eyes.

The kid was staring at me. At first, I ignored him, gazed out the window as Raheim steered back onto the road. But I felt the kid’s attention on me still.

Either his mother hadn’t given him good “home training,” as my mama would say, or he had some kind of problem.

I looked at him. The hood had slipped back a bit, revealing more of his face. His skin was pale; he looked like an albino. He had a small mouth, with narrow, red lips. A thin nose. And not a single hair on his head; he was completely bald.

I shifted in my seat.

The boy’s eyes glinted like cold metal. He hadn’t said one word since I had first seen him, but an intense intelligence shone in his gaze. Whatever his problem was, mental incapacity wasn’t one of them.

“My name’s Scottie,” I said. “What’s your name?”

The boy’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. His tongue slithered out, and slowly probed his lips as if in search of crumbs. Finding none, it disappeared inside his mouth again.

He kept his gaze on me throughout this strange display. His small, gloved hands had balled into fists.

The kid was creeping me out.

“His name’s Johnny,” Elana said, hooking a glance over her shoulder at me.

Driving, Raheim said, “The boy can’t talk for himself?”

I wanted to shrink in the seat. Although I was admittedly curious about the boy’s odd state, good manners sealed my lips shut. But when Mama had been teaching us good manners, Raheim hadn’t been paying attention.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but my son has a condition,” Elana said.

“What kinda condition?” Raheim asked.

“Raheim, come on.” I leaned forward between the seats, being careful not to touch Johnny. “It’s really none of our business.”

BOOK: Twisted Tales

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