13 Drops Of Blood
by
James Roy Daley
An electronic edition published by
Necon Ebooks & Books of the Dead at Smashwords
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Collection copyright 2010 by James Roy Daley
Copy edited by Cynthia Gould
Book design by James Roy Daley
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents:
HORROR
MONSTERS
ZOMBIES
SCI-FI/FANTASY
DARK HUMOR
∞∞Θ∞∞
COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
“The Exhibition” copyright 2009.
First appeared in Brutality as Art, by Snuff Books.
“The Confession” copyright 2007. Original for this anthology.
“Baby” copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.
“A Ghost in my Room” copyright 2007. Original for this anthology.
“Jonathan vs. the Perfect Ten” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.
“The Hanging Tree” copyright 2010.
First appeared in The Zombist, by Library of the Living Dead Press.
“Thoughts of the Dead” copyright 2010.
First appeared in Through the Eyes of the Undead, by Library of the Living Dead Press.
“Summer of 1816” copyright 2007.
First appeared in History is Dead by Permuted Press.
“Fallen” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.
“The Relation Ship” copyright 2006. Original for this anthology.
‘‘Suffer Shirley Gunn” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.
“Humpy and Shrivels” copyright 2009. Original for this anthology.
“Curse of the Blind Eel” copyright 2009.
First published in Dark Jesters by Novello Publishers.
∞∞Θ∞∞
ALSO BY JAMES ROY DALEY:
NOVELS
The Dead Parade
Terror Town
ANTHOLOGIES
Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 1)
Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 2)
Classic Vampire Tales (Vol.1)
∞∞Θ∞∞
Introduction
Dear literate horror fan —
When I started putting this collection together I figured everything would fall under a single, simple heading: horror. After all, I consider myself a horror writer at heart. Now, for those of you keeping score, I’m well aware that being labeled a ‘horror’ writer in today’s literary world is like being labeled a ‘porno’ director in the film world, but I, for one, don’t care. Horror is that thing I grew up on, that friend Mom says is a bad influence. Some of my earliest memories connected to the genre include me curled up in a ball, watching Jaws while my mother and father discussed whether or not I was old enough to be seeing such a thing. I remember being absolutely captivated by ‘Salem’s Lot late one evening, alone in my brother’s bedroom, the feeling of terror consuming me as Ben Mears and Mark Petrie made their into the basement of the Marsten house, weapons in hand, danger all around them. I could hear my family in the room below — safe, secure, acting as if everything was normal in the world. For me, it wasn’t. I had a pillow covering half my face, my knees were nailed to my chest, and my heart was pounding clean out of my body as the goosebumps on my arms tried to crawl from my skin and hide in the corner; I couldn’t believe the images on television could be so intolerably wrong. Who would create such a thing?
And I loved it. Oh boy, did I ever.
Strange, huh?
Well, maybe not for you. Maybe not to the people that figure reading a book called 13 Drops of Blood is a good way to go.
Horror. I can’t imagine myself hiding behind sub-labels such as Dark Fantasy, Dark Suspense, Visceral, Supernatural, Gothic, Noir, Dark Fiction, or my least favorite of all — at least when dealing with horror stories — Speculative Fiction. Ugh. This is where I shake my head.
For me, a horror writer hiding behind a label that’s currently more accepted by the tea-sippers is a writer embracing the art of selling the reader lies. And why? Marketing? Is that the reason? Or is it to appease some eccentric echelon of self-value, to demonstrate the arc of personal growth?
It’s sort of sad, really. Sad, unless of course, the writer in question believes the art falls under such a label. Then it’s a different thing: to each his own. But still, something doesn’t add up here. It’s disappointing to watch millions of people embrace horror on the big screen, knowing that if you crack open a book the same story will need to be toned down and slapped with a different label… a softer label.
What are you reading, honey?
Who me? Oh, I’m reading a fantastic Dark Suspense novel. It’s about this cannibal that owes a chainsaw store. He runs around town, chopping off people’s heads with the newest power tools. I think you’d like it. It’s called ‘Conscious Desires.’ What are you reading?
I’m reading a very interesting Speculative Fiction book called ‘The Passion.’ You should totally check it out. It’s about a guy that gets buried alive and ends up chewing on a corpse to survive. It reminds me of that Viscerally Gothic novel about the family that lived in the sewers for so long they mutated into werewolves. You know the one… ‘Irresistible Amour.’
That’s nice, dear. Sounds very literary.
Yuck.
I’m a horror man. I always have been, I suspect I always will be.
That being said, I did notice that the stories in this anthology didn’t exactly fall under the same category. Some were slanted one way while some were slanted another.
I considered pulling some of them from the book and putting together a different type of collection, one with an unfailing direction. I decided against it. The range of stories inside this book sits well with me.
A writer compiling a collection of stories is, in many ways, like a musician assembling an album. Sometimes the music on the album will have a consistent flow, and each track will touch the listener in a similar manner. Sometimes an album will take the listener on a journey; each song will be distinctly different than the one before it. Either way, there is no right or wrong. There is only the art form, the artist, and those that appreciate what has been offered. In the end, the artist puts together a collection that feels right. Everything past that is fodder for public scrutiny.
This collection is an excursion rooted in horror. It will take you, literate horror fan, along more than a few unexpected paths. Hope you enjoy the journey. Lord knows you’re in for an unconventional ride.
∞∞Θ∞∞
HORROR:
Scott and Penny Beach stood in line for a long time before they were admitted into the exhibition. And while they waited, they couldn’t help wondering if the show would be worth the bother. Penny didn’t think so. She didn’t think anything was worth a wait of longer than fifteen minutes. She suggested to Scott — not once, but several times — to forfeit their spot in line, toss the two hundred dollar tickets into the trash, and head to the nearest bar for cocktails, her treat. Each time she suggested this, Scott only smiled.
Normally he would have gone for it; Scott hated waiting in line as much as she did, but he didn’t want to miss the exhibition or throw away money needlessly. It wasn’t in his nature.
The exhibition was called The Horror Show, and Scott was a horror enthusiast. He had books, DVDs, posters, video games, and autographs. To say he was excited would be an understatement; he had never seen a horror exhibition before.
The front door opened, the line inched ahead two spots and Penny dragged a finger through her hair, saying, “I forgot to ask… what are the reviews like? They any good? Is it gross… is it creepy?”
“There are no reviews,” Scott said with a smug expression materializing on his face.
“Is this opening night?”
“Not really.”
“Okay Scott, I’ll bite. Why are there no reviews?”
Scott nodded and grinned. “This is a one night only event.”
“You never told me that.”
“I thought I had.”
“No. You said it was scary, but you didn’t tell me that.”
Noise from a streetcar disrupted their conversation. The couple watched it move along the avenue. Scott’s eyes fell upon a three-story building that was shamefully vandalized. Two men stood near the building’s front door. One man — a tall fellow with thick eyebrows — kicked a dead pigeon with an oversized boot as the other man coughed and mumbled. Both were dressed the same: in tattered, unstylish clothing. Shaggy beards and scruffy hair seemed to be the look of the day.
“By the way,” Scott said, “thanks for coming.”
Penny shrugged. “No problem.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world. I’m sure you’re not used to it, and I know you don’t like this type of thing.”
“That’s not true. I like art shows quite a bit. I just don’t like those stupid movies you’re always watching. Most of them are terrible.”
“It’s hard to argue, but I still love them.”
“Yeah, I know. But… they’re so fake, Scott. They’re poorly written and the direction is awful.” Penny stopped herself from saying more, which she could easily do. She liked good movies. Scott liked shit. His fascination with that type of trash made her doubt his intelligence. Were all men enthralled in such foolish rubbish?
She looked to her shoes — her sixteen-hundred-dollar peach gala shoes — the ones she wore to her sister’s wedding thirteen months earlier and hadn’t put on since. Without meaning to, she let out a sigh, holding her Prada handbag in her arms like a baby.
Scott knew what she was thinking: she was bored and wanted to go home. “You know, Penny,” he said. “You’re really beautiful tonight. You look extra gorgeous, like a princess.”
Penny’s eyes lit up like little suns. “Really?”
“Oh yes. You look as lovely today as the day I married you.”
The suns eclipsed. “That was only two years ago, jerk.”
Scott laughed. “I know, and you still look good!”
Penny punched Scott playfully and kissed him on the mouth. Scott ran his hand down the back of Penny’s dress and gave her rump a little squeeze. As Penny pushed him away, the front door opened. Two people stepped inside the exhibition and the door began to close.
Before it did, Penny stepped free of the line and said, “Mister doorman?”
The man at the door hesitated. “Yes?”
“Can’t you let more than two people in at a time? We’ve been waiting for an hour!” Penny flashed her dimples and tilted her head. A curl of hair swooped across her thin eyebrows, bouncing up and down.
The man at the door smiled. Long teeth sat deep within his mouth. He had cheekbones like elbows, and when he spoke there was a rumble in the back of his throat that sounded like someone digging gravel with a shovel. “I’m sorry Miss… two at a time, that’s the way we do. It makes for a better show.”
Penny’s eyebrows lowered. “Oh.”
“And for your information,” the man said, “I’m not a doorman. This is my family’s exhibition. My name is Denoté.”
Before Penny considered a response Denoté closed the door with a BANG. The people in line, who had quieted down and listened to the exchange, began talking once again.
Scott said, “Well… now we know. Two at a time.”
After a while Penny opened a pack of cigarettes and lit a smoke. The guy waiting in front of them bummed one and shared it with his date. He was an older man with long hair and a tattoo of an eagle on his neck. The tattoo was well designed and inked with a skilled hand. Penny thought it made the man look dignified, not trashy. It was something she would never have admitted.
The tattooed stranger introduced himself as Gary Somers. In time, he said that he worked in real estate.
Scott laughed. “You don’t look like a real estate agent.”
“I know.” Gary responded proudly. “But I’m a nice guy and pleasant to work with. I get a lot of referrals and repeat business. You’d be surprised. This city is loaded with people that prefer working with an agent they relate with. Most sales guys have no soul; it’s like they’re manufactured in a real estate factory where sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll never existed. Here’s your haircut, suitcase and nametag. Don’t forget to smile politely. How can you have faith in someone when you don’t trust them?”
Scott nodded. Gary was a little over the top maybe, but he seemed honest and straightforward.
The door opened and two more stepped inside, laughing as they entered. As the door closed, Gary’s date — a woman who had introduced herself as Angel — said, “Have you noticed that people go in and nobody comes out?”
Penny dropped her smoke on the sidewalk and crushed it with her shoe. “No, but now that you say that… yeah.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Backdoor?”
“I guess.”
Time crawled. Penny touched up her makeup in a dark window. More people entered the exhibition in pairs and nobody left through the front door.
Finally it was Gary and Angel’s turn to go in.
“See you on the other side,” Angel said.
Scott smiled. “Have fun.”
Thirteen minutes later the door opened and Denoté led them to a ticket wicket. The lady behind the glass said, “Ticket please.” Her name was Page.
The tickets were big and gaudy and said THE HORROR SHOW – ONE NIGHT ONLY in giant bold letters. Below the letters, a mediocre drawing of an evil looking skull looked semi-daunting. In the bottom corner of each ticket was the price: $200.00, tax included.
Scott handed both tickets over.
Page said, “Names?”
“Scott and Penny Beach.”
Page typed the names into a computer.
Scott and Penny were led to a door. Above it was a security camera.
Before Denoté opened the door, he said, “Mind your step. The art isn’t merely on the walls. It’s on the floor and ceiling too. It’s in the air, the atmosphere. It’s everywhere; it’s alive. There’s only one exit, located at the far end of the building. This show is a one-way street. You can’t leave through the front door unless you do it now. You won’t have a chance to revisit the exhibitions once you pass them, so enjoy the art while you can. I hope you’re not faint of heart. This exhibition is hardcore, designed to scare you to death.”
“Sounds good,” Scott said. He noticed a smudge of blood on Denoté’s shirt; it looked like a handprint. Scott figured it was part of the show. “Looking forward to it.”
“Thank you,” Penny replied. Her voice was hardly a whisper.
Scare you to death. She didn’t like the sound of that.
As Denoté opened a second door, Penny wondered why she had allowed Scott to bring her to such a place. This wasn’t a gala, this wasn’t the theater, this was… well… she didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t for her. She knew that much.
Scott and Penny stepped inside the next room. It was small: twelve feet by twelve feet. There was a single light hanging from a black ceiling. The walls were black; the floor had black tiles. On the far side of the room was a white door. There was no art inside the room, no furniture either. It was just an empty room that seemed very dark. The corners were only shadow.
One corner was hiding something: a small camera.
The door behind them closed; they heard the CLICK of the lock.
Penny turned around, startled. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The door wouldn’t open. She knocked on the door with her knuckles hard enough to make them red; then she slapped the door with her palm.
Scott placed a hand on her shoulder. “Babe, what are you doing?”
“I don’t like this,” she said flatly. “I don’t like being locked in.”
“Why not?”
“It — ” Penny stopped talking and looked Scott in the eye. She was going to say it frightened her. But wasn’t that the point, to be frightened?
“Are you scared?”
Penny laughed in spite of herself. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Should I remind you that — ”
“I know,” Penny interrupted. “That’s the whole idea, to be scared. But I expected paintings and sculptures, not to be taken prisoner.”
“Prisoner! We’re not prisoners!”
“They didn’t answer the door.”
“He didn’t,” Scott corrected. “It’s just one guy.”
“What about the ticket lady?”
“What about her?”
Penny wrapped her arms around Scott’s body and kissed his cheek. “Just don’t try any funny stuff, mister,” she said. “I mean it. This stupid event is going to freak me out enough without you shouting ‘BOO’ in my ear.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Penny, I love you. And at two hundred bucks a pop, I shouldn’t have to shout ‘BOO’ in your ear.”
“That’s true.”
“Actually, you know what I heard? I heard that tickets for this thing were going for ten thousand.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and we paid two hundred.”
“Not just us,” Penny said. “I heard other people in line saying the same thing. Two hundred bucks.”
“Huh.”
After considering Scott’s words Penny said, “Ten grand is bullshit, babe. Either someone lied or they were talking about a different show.
Scott nodded. “I guess. Ready to move on?”
Penny looked at the room. “Is this it?”
“Looks that way.”
“Well… this is dumb.”
Scott made a face that suggested she was right. “There goes two hundred dollars.”
“Each,” Penny said with a smile, but she didn’t care.
Her folks were rich.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Lawrence Whitely and his wife Elizabeth sat in the back of the car, listening to Mozart. When the car stopped the driver turned off the music, stepped out, opened the back door, and held out his gloved hand gracefully. The driver’s name was Nathaniel Lewis; he was dressed in a pristine black suit and had been driving for Mr. and Mrs. Whitley for eleven years.
Elizabeth took Nat’s hand and was assisted onto the carpeted sidewalk. “Thank you,” she said, shuffling from the car.
“I’m fine, Nathaniel,” Lawrence interjected. “No need to help. This old coupé is still running smooth, thank you very much.”
“No problem sir,” Nathaniel said, tipping his hat with his fingers. He wasn’t surprised; Lawrence never wanted help, even when he needed it.
Lawrence grinned. “I’ll call you around ten-thirty, maybe eleven. You can pick us up then.”
“Very good sir.”
Lawrence and Elizabeth walked up the carpet. A young man in a burgundy suit opened a door. A man in a black tuxedo asked if he could be of assistance. His nametag said Donnie Polanski.
“We’re here for the Horror Show,” Lawrence said.
“Ah… very good, sir. The party is being held in the President’s Conference Suite. Right this way.”
Don Polanski led Mr. and Mrs. Whitely through luxurious hallways. When they arrived at their destination Lawrence handed the man a fifty-dollar tip.
“Thank you sir,” Don said, and he tucked the fifty into his breast pocket just as neat as he pleased. “Have a good evening.”
Inside the room, a man in a grey suit approached. “Good evening sir. Good evening my lady. Here for the show?”
“Why, yes.”
“Excellent. May I see your tickets please?”
Lawrence reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two tickets. They were small and elegant, with stylish gold letters written in script. There was no photograph on the tickets, but in the bottom left hand corner it said: $10,000.00 – one night only, limited to twenty tickets.
“Very good,” the man said with a brown-toothed grin. “A car is waiting.”
∞∞Θ∞∞
Scott and Penny Beach stepped inside the next room, the door closed behind them. They heard the CLICK of the lock, and with that the music began — though ‘music’ may have been the wrong word. It was a note, a low and hauntingly steady note; the type often heard in horror movies when things turned tense.
Scott smiled; he liked it.
Penny didn’t.
The room was twice the size of the first. Like the other room, it was painted black with a single light hanging from the ceiling.
On the left side of the room, three photographs had been pinned to the wall. Each photograph, taken with a Polaroid, was placed five feet away from the next. Above each photograph a small reading light illuminated the image.
They approached the first picture.
It was the image of a dog, a large brown rottweiler. Looked strong.
Penny took Scott’s hand, squeezed it, and together they approached the second photograph. This was the image of a table saw, the kind commonly used in a wood shop.
“I don’t get it,” Penny said.
“Me neither.”
They approached the third photograph, slowly, almost cautiously. There was a feeling growing between them that the couple didn’t want to address. They were becoming nervous, and not in a good way. They expected art, not this. Not cheap photographs and canned music. This was dark and disturbing, true, but there was nothing artistic about it — at least, not from what they had seen so far.
As they reached the third Polaroid, Penny turned away.
It was the image of a body, a corpse, mutilated beyond comprehension. The stomach was gutted, the chest was mangled; entrails washed the floor around it. A hand had been chewed off; the throat was opened to the bone. Glossy eyes were forever frozen in a gaze of terror.
It took Scott a few seconds to recognize the corpse as a woman, and a few more to see the rottweiler in the background.
“That’s fucked up,” Scott said.
Penny glanced at the image a second time, saying, “Do you think it’s real?”
In the far corner of the room, near the door they had entered, a wall began sliding up. It made a sound like an escalator. They heard a deep, sharp bark, followed by two more. There was nothing canned about it.
There was a dog in the room with them, a rottweiler. It ran towards the couple quickly. Its snout was arched into a brutal snarl, with teeth long and white. Its ears were pulled so far back they looked aerodynamic.
Penny stepped away, lost her balance and fell. Her dress yanked against her shoulders; her purse slipped from her fingers and slid across the floor.
Scott watched his wife drop.
His mouth was agape; his eyes were wide with terror.
Looking away from her, he saw the animal leap and he screamed. With his hands held in a distressing pose of defense, he thought he was about to be torn to pieces.
Miraculously — as if God himself intervened — the dog came to an abrupt halt in mid-air.
It was chained to the wall.
“Jesus Christ!” Scott cursed as the animal was hurled to the ground.
The dog lifted itself to its feet, yelping. The hair on its back pointed north. White foamy drool hung from its mouth like a beard.
“What the fuck is that!”
Penny was shaking; she was close to tears. “Help me up,” she said. “Scott, give me a hand.”
Scott helped his wife to her feet, still cursing and angry. “This isn’t art! This is bullshit! Are you okay, honey? Are you all right?”
Penny wrapped her arms around her husband. Her dress — her beautiful peach colored dress — was torn on one side. “Look at me,” she said.
The dog growled and barked several times, drowning her words.
“I’m not happy about this,” Scott said. “This is bullshit.”
“I know it is. Lets get out of here.”
As the dog barked again, Scott screamed, “SHUT UP!” He was furious now. That fucking dog was not cool.
Hand in hand, Scott and Penny walked towards the white door, eager to move on. The floor was sticky. The white door had spots of blood on it.
They entered the next room; the door closed behind them with the familiar CLICK. This time, the sound pissed Scott off. He tried opening it. Sure as shit, it was locked. Not that it mattered — they couldn’t go the other way. Not with that fucking dog in the room.
The new room was bigger than the one before it, but designed similar: black ceiling, black walls, black floor, white door and spooky music. But this time, four pieces of art hung from the wall on their left, placed inside three-foot glass cube cases. The art seemed to be ‘actual art’, not photographs.
Scott said, “Wait here.”
He took a step away from Penny and away from the cases, wanting to investigate the dark corners of the room.
Grabbing his arm, Penny said, “Are you crazy? Don’t leave me here! You’re going to trip some invisible wire and a gorilla will jump out and tear my friggin head off!”
Scott felt the urge to pull away from Penny and tell her to shut up.
He didn’t.
“You’re right,” he said, feeling terrible. This wasn’t her fault; it was his. He was the one that brought them here, not her. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little upset about that last room.”
“That’s okay, but don’t leave me.”
“I won’t.”
They walked away from the art, checking out the dark corners. There was nothing to see: no secret doors or hidden panels, no levers or tripwires. Having found nothing waiting in the darkness, they approached the first piece of art.
In the top right-hand corner of the glass cube was another Polaroid print, labeled FIFTY-ONE – MARTIN McCAMMON. It was the photograph of a twenty-year-old man. He had dark skin and dark eyes; he was not looking at the camera. In fact, he didn’t seem to realize that he was being photographed.
Beneath the photo, a corpse was humped together in a pond on blood; it looked like the same person. The legs were cut off, the arms were off; each limb looked like it had been sliced a thousand times. In the center of the kid’s face, a deep cut traveled from chin to forehead.
The glass was smudged red, like someone had opened the lid and dropped the corpse inside.
The case must be airtight, Scott thought. Otherwise the blood would be dripping out of it.
They walked across the sticky floor. Inside the next case they found another photograph. This one was labeled THIRTEEN – CHRISTINE S. HUSTON. It was the image of a woman. On camera she looked pretty. Inside the case she looked like ground beef.
If Scott had to guess, he’d say someone had taken a chainsaw to her.
Inside the third case they found comparable art. The photograph was labeled EIGHTY-NINE – OWEN GLENN. A teenager had been ripped apart.
“God,” Scott said, amazed. “These look real, don’t they?”
“What if they are real?”
“Yeah right.”
“No, think about it,” Penny said, completely serious. “What if this is real? That doesn’t look like a special effect to me. That looks like a dead body.”
“You’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, have you?”
“That’s not the point. Look at it! It’s real!”
“Why would anyone do that to a person, and then display it? You’re being stupid.”
“No I’m not. They’d do it for the money.”
“Money? What money?”
“The two hundred dollars.”
“They only sold a hundred tickets, babe. That’s all that they put on sale. What’s two hundred times a hundred?”
“It’s twenty grand.”
“Twenty? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Still… twenty grand isn’t enough money to kill for.”
“No? This is a ‘one night only’ event. Think about it. They set up shop, rent this shit-hole for next to nothing, kill a couple bums, take our money and hit the road.”
“I think you’re being insane. I also think the people putting on this event were hoping to draw this type of reaction, and with you, it’s clearly working.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“What way? I don’t want to fight, babe. But think about what you’re saying! So this is what, a snuff show? I bought tickets in advance! It’s promoted in the newspaper!”
“So what? They could take the money and run, couldn’t they?”
Frustrated, Scott put a hand to his head. This sucked. First, the dog scares the shit out of them — and not in a good way — and now this. He wished he had stayed home. “I suppose.”
“I’m ready to leave, Scott. I’m tired. I want it to be over.”
“Me too.”
They walked to the fourth display. It was different than the first three. It still had a photograph (without a number), and it still had a body, but this time the art was a dog. It looked like the same dog that tried to eat them, only mutilated.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Lawrence and Elizabeth were led from the conference room, down a hall and through a set of doors. There were several black limousines waiting. They sat inside the nearest one and the car began moving. Fifteen minutes later they arrived in a part of the city that neither Lawrence nor Elizabeth had been to before. The buildings were condemned. Derelicts loitered on the street.
“My,” Lawrence said. “There sure are making an effort to capture the mood, aren’t they?”
Elizabeth huffed. “This is dreadful. I can’t imagine what encouraged you to buy tickets for such an event.”
“Variety is the spice that makes life worth living, my dear.”
“Well, I could do without this.”
The driver opened their door but didn’t offer a hand.
Mr. and Mrs. Whitely pulled themselves from the car and were led into an alleyway. Elizabeth wondered if they would be mugged. They reached a door. The driver knocked three times, paused, and knocked again. The door opened, and Denoté led the couple up a flight of stairs. The stairs looked terrible. They hadn’t been renovated in fifty years.
Lawrence opened his mouth but decided not to say anything. His blooming questions would be answered soon enough, he figured. There was no point in inquiring about the location.
They entered a room that had been renovated, walking past two very large, very ugly, men. They looked like escaped convicts that were forced to wear suits. One man was missing a handful of teeth. The other had a scar that ran from his eye to his chin, and a tattoo of a swastika on each temple.
The walls of the room were freshly decorated; pot-lights had been installed in the ceiling. There were elegant paintings on the walls, most of them from the 1800s. There were freshly cut flowers sitting inside stylish vases. There was a fully stocked bar and a man in a tuxedo handing out cocktails. There was a piano with a highly talented musician. His fingers rolled across the keys effortlessly; light jazz comforted the room. The piano sat upon a circle of coffee colored carpet. Where the carpet ended, the room had been remodeled with dark hardwood floors. Stainless steel baseboards circled the space. And on the far side, several large windows had been installed next to each other. Television monitors were above them. Tables and chairs created a living room type atmosphere.
Mr. and Mrs. Whitely were offered a drink and led to their seats. Lawrence requested bourbon. Elizabeth asked for a glass of red wine.
The man sitting in the chair beside Lawrence introduced himself as Buck Million. He wore an oversized brown suit and cowboy boots made of alligator skin. He said, “You’ve missed quite a show so far, folks. Yes, sir. Don’t know how they do it, but it’s fascinating, worth every penny.”
Lawrence and Elizabeth smiled at the man and looked through the glass. They saw nothing.
“Not there!” Buck said. “Don’t look down there, not yet anyhow. The action is in the monitor right now, sure it is. See? Look at ‘em. They’re getting ready to move! You’ll know when the action is down there. The lights shine.”
“Down there?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yep… down there, and they’re putting on quite a show.”
Lawrence looked at the monitor. A man and a woman were standing in a dark room; looked like they were arguing. The man lowered his head and reached for the doorknob.
Buck said, “Oh boy, here they come. You’re gonna love it!”
Lawrence thought that he recognized the couple, but he wasn’t sure. The image was too grainy to distinguish faces.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Scott stepped through the door with his shoulders raised. The floor creaked. The room was dark. He couldn’t see anything. Standing inside the doorway, Penny held the door open. The light from the other room was the only light they had.
“What should we do?” Scott asked, with his voice echoing off the walls.
“Why is it so dark?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t see anything!”
“Me neither.”
The light in the room behind them flickered, and turned off. Now there was only darkness.
“Close the door,” Scott said.
“Honey, I’m scared.” Penny squeezed Scott’s hand hard enough to let him know that she meant business. “I don’t like this.”
“Close the door.”
“Why? What do you know that I don’t?”
“The only thing I know for sure is that I want to get out of here. I was in a funhouse one time, inside a very dark room, like this. The objective was to find the door on the far side, but they were tricky, see? I put my hands on the wall and I circled the room. But the door I was looking for was closed. Touching it did nothing; it felt like the wall. I had to circle the place twice before they opened it. Point is… I think were in a funhouse, babe. We need to find the door on the far side.”
“I hate this place.”
“Me too. Is the door closed?”
Penny stepped ahead and allowed to door to close. They heard the CLICK. New music came on, which was a lot like the old music, but with a slow and steady pulse: BOOMP. BOOMP. BOOMP.
Scott said, “Let’s follow the wall and get the hell out of here.”
Penny agreed.
Hand in hand, they followed the wall to the nearest corner. The floor seemed shifty and unstable.
“What’s wrong with the floor?” Penny asked. She stubbed her foot on something sharp. “OUCH!”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I cut my foot on something!”
They turned the corner and walked about ten feet before Scott touched a glass case. He wondered if there was a body inside, but he didn’t wonder for long. A light began shining from within the glass, growing steadily brighter.
A corpse was revealed. A photograph was revealed too: SIX – RICHARD GOLDSMITH.
Floor creaking, they moved on.
When they reached the next case the same thing happened: Scott put his hand on the glass and a light began to shine. This time, the art was different. The case had a photograph — but no body.
The photo said: SEVEN-THREE – CURTIS RYAN BERRY.
“Why is it empty?” Penny asked.
“I have no idea.”
Scott could see the room now, not much, but a little. It seemed like a gymnasium. After he put his hand to a few more cases, he’d know for sure. He stubbed his toe on something solid, dismissed it, and moved on.
“There is something sharp sticking out of the floor,” Penny whined. “I think my foot is bleeding.”
“Just keep walking.”
Scott touched the next case with a trace of excitement. Each case revealed more of his surrounding, like he was unwrapping a gigantic gift. Unfortunately, this sensation was short lived and replaced with the feeling of imminent horror.
The light inside the case crept on.
Both Scott and Penny recognized the corpse. SIXTY-EIGHT – GARY SOMERS.
It was the real estate agent.
His body was in pieces.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Lawrence took a sip from his tumbler, looked at his wife and shrugged.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s happening?”
Before Elizabeth had a chance to respond Buck Million barged into the conversation. “Of course you don’t get it! You’re catching this act halfway through the performance. Maybe you guys would be better off waiting for the next round. Go talk to the piano man or something, tell him he’s doing a good job.”
“Next round?”
“Yeah… next round. Every ten minutes or so they sweep up the mess and start again.”
“Do you think we should wait?” Elizabeth asked politely.
Buck looked Elizabeth in the eye. “Naw. This here is the best part, the main part. You should shut-up with the questions and enjoy. Hell, it’s a magic show, that’s what it is. A gosh-darn magic show.”
∞∞Θ∞∞
“Scott,” Penny said. “That’s the man I gave a cigarette to.”
“No it isn’t,” Scott said; his voice was barely a whisper. “It… it only looks like him. It’s part of the experience.”
“Part of the experience? Look! Look at him! Blood is pouring out of his head! See the tattoo? See his eyes! It’s him!”
Scott didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything.
He pulled Penny away from Gary’s box, grinding his teeth together. His heart was beating faster now; his thoughts were reeling. What if it was the man from outside? Could it be him? Was it at all possible?
Had they stepped into a snuff film?
Were they about to die?
Scott dragged Penny across the creaky floor and heard a strange sound. He knew that sound. (Oh God, he knew — but he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t even want to think it.) He slapped his free hand on the next box, wanting to see, needing to see. The light inside the box turned on. The box was empty, with the exception of the photograph. He read the name, not that he needed to: FORTY-FIVE – PENNY BEACH.
“Oh my God,” Scott said. “What the hell is this?”
Penny’s eyes were bright and alluring above her smiling lips. She was wearing the same dress. Her hair and make-up was a perfect match. Yes, the photo was taken today. There was no denying it.
Scott didn’t recall seeing anyone with a camera, but then again, he hadn’t been looking. Someone could have snapped one easy enough.
Penny began weeping. “That’s me! That’s my name!”
“No,” Scott whispered, but his eyes spoke the truth.
The box was for her.
Suddenly there was a deep, low, growl. The strange sound, he realized, had not been his overactive imagination. And this time, he could not dismiss it.
They were not alone. There was a dog in the room.
“Oh shit,” Penny said.
Then the lights came on — all of them.
They were standing in a warehouse. In the center of the room was a large cage. Inside the cage was a dog. It had teeth like daggers.
But could not attack, yet.
The cage was sitting on a riser, three feet from the ground, attached to what seemed like, a pulley system. There was a metal cable linked to the top part of the cage that extended high above the animal.
Florescent lights hung from the rafters. Glass cases were attached to the walls. Must have been a hundred of them. Half the cases were empty, save the photo inside. The others were stuffed with the mutilated dead. On the far wall, maybe twenty-five feet from the floor, several windows overlooked the room.
People watched through the windows with happy, smiling faces.
Looking at the floor, Scott gasped.
Unlike other floors, this one was made of unfinished plywood. And protruding from the wood was hundreds and hundreds of spherical blades. Some of them were fourteen inch in diameter. Some were twelve. A few looked to be sixteen. They reminded Scott of semi-circular shark fins, or teeth, or both.
“Table saws,” he whispered, remembering the photograph. Hundreds of saws had been attached beneath the floor. This took time; someone wasn’t kidding around.
He stepped back and looked at his wife with a new sense of fear.
“Dear Lord,” he said. “You were right. This is a snuff film.”
∞∞Θ∞∞
Buck Million stood up from his chair and lifted a glass in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he hollered, slurring his words slightly. “Let the show begin! Yah-hoo!”
Someone else said, “Here, here!”
Standing at the window, Lawrence and Elizabeth gazed into the room with the saws. Lawrence crumpled his face into a ball.
What the hell is this, he wondered, some kind of game?
Elizabeth saw a man and a woman acting afraid, fake carcasses lying inside glass cases, and saws — probably made of plastic — sticking through slots in the floor. She didn’t bother to look at the actors closely, or to analyze the props. She didn’t care for this type of entertainment; it wasn’t for her.
She walked away from the excitement and sat in a chair near the pianist. The music he played was beautiful. It reminded her of a simpler time, when family was king and people were unadorned and content.
After a fair-sized drink of wine she opened her purse, deciding it was a good time to phone her daughter.
She hadn’t talked with Penny in days.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Scott saw the people watching through the large windows. He waved his hands in the air. One man waved back, smiled, and nudged the woman on his left. Scott waved twice more before his eyes returned to the blades in the floor.
There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of a phone ringing. It was Penny’s phone, ringing from inside her purse.
Scott’s eyes widened. The concept of getting outside assistance hadn’t yet crossed his mind. “Answer it! We need help!”
Penny unbuckled her purse and went for the phone.
A door — snuggled between two glass containers — opened, and Denoté stepped through the doorway, grinning like a wolf. He held a shotgun in his hands.
Penny pulled her phone free. “Hello?”
“Hi Penny,” Elizabeth said, watching the pianist. She sat her glass of wine on a table. “How are things?”
“Mom?”
Before Penny had a chance to say anything else, Denoté pointed to the far wall and shouted, “That’s your exit!”
Scott looked at the exit, and at the saws blocking the path. He screamed, “What the hell are you doing to us?”
Denoté only laughed. “Start the saws!”
As if obeying his command, the saws came to life. The sound was gigantic; it was all Scott could hear. With the saws, the dog began barking hysterically and the music was turned louder to make things more powerful, more surreal. But how much stronger could things get? Wasn’t this intense enough?
Penny shouted into the phone: “Mom? Mom? Can you hear me? Is that you? Oh God, I need help!”
She looked at the floor.
The blades were placed in odd angles, giving her room to walk but not much room for error. One missed step and you’d lose a toe, or maybe a heel.
In-between the blades — blood, meat and bones sat in little piles.
Denoté smiled. This was his favorite part of the show. He loved watching people scream. And although many victims ran into the saws like they wanted to get it over with, most just stood there, too scared to move, afraid of the foreseeable future.
Seeing the woman’s phone, Denoté decided to accelerate the event. The people upstairs might not like it as much but so what? They had enough entertainment to satisfy the sickest elite minds.
He reached into his pocket and clicked a button on a small devise. The dog’s cage began lifting towards the ceiling, setting the dog free.
Once it was able, the animal leapt from its cage, oblivious to the danger on the floor.
Scott saw it coming and screamed in fear.
Penny didn’t see the dog until its blood splashed her in the face.
As the animal bounced across several saws, she carelessly stepped away from the carnage. A 14-inch blade ripped her left foot — and her peach gala shoe — in half.
The pain was immeasurable, beyond calculation. Falling backwards, she dropped her phone and screamed. Before she hit the floor her fingers stabbed her face and her hands squeezed tight. A second blade caught her in the elbow, severing the arm. A third blade hit the small of her back. Blood sprayed nine feet in the air. She was pulled across this blade, losing bits and pieces as she moved.
Her eyes rolled back and her mouth fell open.
The people upstairs applauded.
∞∞Θ∞∞
As Elizabeth listened to her daughter screaming, the people in the room began putting their hands together. Within the clapping and the laughter she heard Lawrence shriek.
“Oh my GOD!” He said with a huff, once he was able to string some words together. He clutched his chest, thinking a heart attack would be unavoidable. He wondered if he was dreaming. “That’s Penny down there! And that’s Scott! What the hell is this?”
Elizabeth came running towards him, pushing away whoever was in her path. She squeezed herself between Lawrence and Buck and looked into the room.
“Where? Where are they?”
The two men that were standing near the door saw what was happening. The man with the smashed teeth grinned. His name was Russell. “Looks like we’ve got a situation, Chez.”
The disfigured man agreed. “Looks that way.”
Chez flicked a switch on the wall and reached into his jacket pocket. A moment later both men were releasing the safeties on their guns.
∞∞Θ∞∞
A red light began flashing. Scott didn’t look at it. He was too busy watching Penny being dragged from saw-blade to saw-blade.
Denoté did look at the flashing red light, and he knew what it meant. There was a situation, and it was time to bring this show to an immediate end.
He lifted the shotgun up, and aimed it at Scott.
Scott noticed; it was time to move.
He began running like an athlete, successfully dodging blades for the first twelve feet. Then the shotgun blasted, his toes clipped the jagged edge of a spinning saw blade, and he went down — arms wide, head back, screaming.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Chez and Russell eliminated people systematically. Russell shot the bartender first, putting a bullet in his head. The man fell back holding a bottle of Sherry. Russ shot the waiter and the piano-man next. The waiter flipped over a chair and the pianist smashed his face against the keys on his way to the floor.
Those mangled notes would be the last he’d ever play.
Chez shot the couple standing closest to him, hitting each of them in the face. They fell like dominoes, one slamming into the other. Then Chez killed whoever seemed easiest, and at this point — they were all easy. Nobody was moving yet. Nobody was running. Everybody was standing in a terror pose with their eyes lit up and their hands in the air, saying things like, “DON’T SHOOT!” And “GOOD LORD MAN, WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”
The time for fun was now.
One man fell onto his knees begging. He was shot in the heart. Another man wet his pants. He was shot in the balls. There was a woman that looked about sixty-years-old. She had white hair and a dress that went all the way to her feet. Putting her hands in the air, she proclaimed: “I surrender!”
Chez laughed at the woman and shot her once in each tit.
Lawrence put his arms around Elizabeth as if trying to protect her. He felt a pair of bullets entering his back. Elizabeth took one in the eye. They fell to the ground together, lumped in a contorted ball.
When Denoté entered the room he didn’t look upset or agitated. He was a professional. This was the business he was in. Sometimes the exhibition went smoothly; sometimes it didn’t. Either way — they got paid and traveled to another country.
He walked from body to body, shooting indiscriminately.
And while Denoté and his two brothers finished their dirty work, Page stepped outside and told those waiting in line the bad news. “There was an accident,” she said. “Someone has been hurt. The show is cancelled.”
When the question of refunds came about she lied, saying a full refund would be issued between three pm and eight pm the following day. Some complained. Some didn’t. And none realized how close they had come to certain death.
∞∞Θ∞∞
George was stripped of his belongings and placed inside one of the small padded room inside the police station, which looked nothing like the interrogation rooms he had seen on television. The room was bright and small, six feet by six feet. There were no dark corners creating a gloomy atmosphere, no light bulb hanging from a cable in the ceiling; the room didn’t have the famous mirrored window that George thought was commonplace. There was no table to pound an angry fist against and no chairs to kick over in disgust. It was just a box, really — a white padded box with two white padded benches on opposing sides. The room’s only door had no knob, only a small murky window you couldn’t see through. There was a security camera behind a bubble in a corner, where the ceiling and the wall collided. The floor was covered in cheap brown linoleum. Both padded benches had stains of blood that were hard to notice, and even harder to ignore once they were seen.
George waited for an hour and ten minutes. Sometimes he would sit, sometimes he would stand; sometimes he walked from bench to bench thinking about what had happened. He was sitting with his elbows pressuring his legs and his face planted into his hands when the door opened. Two officers entered the room and took the opposing bench, introducing themselves as Detective Martin and Lieutenant McKean. Neither man was dressed in a uniform. They had white collars and nametags. Martin had a potbelly and short black hair. McKean looked like an Irish boxer in training. His fists seemed bigger than his head.
Both officers offered a hand; George had no choice but to shake them.
“Before we get started,” McKean said, “I’d like to inform you that today’s conversation will be kept on file.” He pulled a small recording device from his pocket and turned it on. Tape started rolling.
No digital recordings here, George thought. He correctly assumed that tape was favored because it was harder to manipulate.
McKean said, “We record everything for continuity reasons, and to ensure the protection of both parties. We’d like to remind you that anything you say can, and will be, used against you in a court of law. You have the right to remain silent, which means you don’t have to answer our questions. I’d prefer it if you did, of course. It makes things a whole lot easier on my end, but the choice is yours. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes,” George said. His voice sounded steady.
“Good.”
“Are you okay? Can I get you something, a glass of water maybe?
“Sure. Water would be great.”
McKean knocked on the little window located in the center of the door. The door opened and McKean stepped out of the cell, returning a few seconds later with a small paper cup filled with lukewarm water. He handed the cup to George, and said, “For the record, can you tell us what your name is?”
“My name is George Lewis.”
“Address?”
George took a sip of water. “765 Batter Avenue, Oshawa, Ontario.”
“How old are you Mr. Lewis?”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Yes, I work at the harbor, the docks.”
“Oh yeah? What do you do there?”
“I load trucks.”
“Were you working today?”
“Yes, but just in the morning. I had the afternoon off.”
Very nonchalantly, Martin nodded and said, “What time did your shift start?”
George smirked, realizing only then that McKean had begun digging for information. So this is how the big boys roll, he thought. They interrogate you soft and gentle like, so you don’t know they’re doing it. This was a shocking revelation. It was so different than the cops he had seen on television that he wondered why anyone would have scripted anything different.
George smiled. “Do I get to make a phone call? In the movies people are always getting one call and using it to phone their lawyers.”
Martin lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have a lawyer?”
George leaned his back against the padded wall and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about his brother-in-law Dan.
Dan was a lawyer; worked in real estate mostly. He was also a big mouth know-it-all that had a part-time gig as an asshole. The idea of getting Dan involved made George feel sick.
“No,” he said, admittedly.
“That’s what I thought,” Martin said. “Believe it or not, most people don’t have a law firm on speed-dial. If you need to make a call or two for some reason, just let us know. We’re not unreasonable. We’re trying to help you here, Mr. Lewis. Understand? Do you need to make a phone call?”
“Not really, I suppose… but maybe later.”
“Okay. Let us know and we’ll work something out. No problem.”
“Thanks. Can I have a cigarette?”
“Sorry. No smoking allowed.”
“Come on, please?”
“Sorry.”
George pursed his lips together. Of course smoking was forbidden; it was a government building for crying out loud. He said, “I understand that smoking is a no-no, honest. But I’d like a cigarette anyhow, okay? You want to know why? Because I’m going to make things really easy for you guys. I’ll give you a full confession if you give me a smoke. Sound like a deal?”
“A full confession?” Martin said. “Do you have something to confess, Mr. Lewis?”
“My cigarette?”
“Smoking is not allowed. We don’t make the rules, Mr. Lewis. We just follow them.”
“Fine. Have it your way.”
“My way is that you cooperate, so we can get this ugliness behind us.”
George shrugged. “Whatever.”
McKean waited a few seconds, then he hit a button on the recorder. A little red light turned dark and the tape stopped rolling.
He said, “Off the record… let me tell you something, George. I’m telling you this, not so you’ll feel threatened, or in jeopardy, but so you’ll understand. By law we can keep you here for a long while, George. If we have reason to believe that you’re dangerous, or thinking about becoming a fugitive, we can keep you here for a very, very, long time. But if you’re smart, which I think you are, you can be out of here really soon. Helpful people tend to get along better than others, get it?”