I hope you enjoy this excerpt from one of my old horror/thriller/suspense stories. Thanks for reading.
Sandy rubbed his arm, concern bleeding through her complexion; her cheeks turned scarlet. “At least you’re here, and you’re okay, don’t worry about the rest.”
Mike stood silent.
Sandy pulled him off to the side and looked him straight in the eye. “Is there something else you want to tell me? I’m here for you.”
Mike embraced her again and stroked the back of her head. “It’s… it’s…”
“Go ahead, just say it,” Sandy urged.
“I.. I…”
“Yeah… You what?”
“I went through all that to see Nathan… like, like I promised, and… forget it… I’m tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Sandy shrugged. “That’s fine, but if you don’t talk to me you’re not doing yourself any good. It’s better to let it out. By the way, did he have the book you needed?”
“Forget about the damn book. Forget about everything. I just want to go home and sleep.”
Just past 1:00 a.m. Mike had driven Sandy and Melanie home and then returned to his apartment. Exhausted, he undressed and took a warm shower. The water beating down on him diminished his tension, though scarcely enough to calm him fully. The imagery of that crazy man with the knife in his mouth still sickened him; it flashed repeatedly and with vivid detail behind his closed eyes. He now regretted not divulging all to the cops. He had shown weakness, a characteristic he had hitherto rarely exhibited. He had faltered under immense strain. The description of the van, the bodies, the blood, the man’s features—these details had been and still were fresh in his mind and, when a chance to take a stand had presented itself, he had failed to set the record straight. Not his first mistake, nor his last. He refused to gamble with others’ lives. What he needed now was rest, and a chance to brainstorm a plan. Oh how he craved morning.
Having finished his shower, Mike, wrapped in a robe, walked to the bed and sat on the edge. Enervated, his body aching, he closed his eyes, let his thoughts go askew. Then he opened them and stared at the walls, hoping a resolution of some kind would materialize, as if by magic, as if by miracle. He looked up at the ceiling and did the same thing. No solution there either, just a fan with four blades. Not a resolution anywhere, nor a shred of hope to cling to. All thoughts of his bright future had become nebulous as the seconds passed. Though he had followed the rules and had put himself in a favorable position for when the world would open itself to him, should that time come he wouldn’t know what to do under such insidious duress. His mind drifted uncontrollably in and out of nothingness. Regret, though he had done nothing to deserve feeling it, had given him a heavy heart, a blighted soul, rendering him indecisive, confused, numb—utterly lost and coping with feelings of overwhelming insignificance.
Coming out of his trance, trying to snag out of thin air some degree of inner strength and clarity, he glared at the telephone on his night stand. Each button represented a reason to him, a plausible reason to call the police. It was what he had to do, afraid or not. He couldn’t let that son of a bitch get away and forever haunt his every move, his every thought. Maybe he could grab Sandy and skip town, leave his life here far behind and start afresh elsewhere. Whatever it would take to extricate himself from potential harm. However it would play out, he had to find the guts and face it. After all, would anybody care about him if he skipped town? Who on earth, he wondered, would have any respect for a frightened coward? What difference had his life made thus far? So what, he had played by the rules, had prepared himself for what the future might bring, for what he had hoped would happen as adulthood drew nearer. But the revolting truth was hovering over him, around him, like an unbreakable curse. It’s not that he didn’t want to live and be strong—he feared he would never be able to truly, wholly, live again.
In spite of his darkening conundrum, he picked up the phone, brought it to his head, the dial-tone humming in his ear. With his index finger he pressed 9, his face glistening with perspiration. Wiping it away, he swallowed; his throat dry, coarse, grainy, discomforting—tantamount to an indescribably painful sore throat.
He pushed 1, his shaking finger hanging only inches above the numbers. He thought of Sandy again, imagined the man’s thick fingers wrapped around her neck, choking and squeezing the life out of her, her eyes rolling back, a sharp knife down her throat. God…what a morbid visualization.
He pushed 1.
The phone rang.
The line picked up.
“911, what is your emergency?”
The tears poured down his reddened face as he gathered breath to speak; his chest heaved, the veins of his neck bulged. “So sorry, I just woke from a bad dream and… and was shaken up, I… I apologize.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, sir?” the operator asked. “Calling 911 is serious business. Do you understand that?”
“Y… Yes ma’am. Goodbye.”
Hanging up the phone, Mike wiped his tear-stained face and went to the closet for his pajamas. Having what in his mind was an out-of-body experience, his thoughts became increasingly murky and muddled; he could neither sit nor stand for any period of time. He opened the closet door and grabbed clothes from the shelf, then walked to the bathroom to hang up his robe. As he placed the terrycloth robe on the hook, he felt a cool breeze.
Mike turned, stiffened, felt his heart shift into a strange beat; he felt fire in his chest.There was a plastic bag sitting on top of the toilet underneath the window, blood seeping through the plastic, dripping down the side of the toilet bowl. He moved toward the bag. The breeze ruffled the flimsy shower curtain, the rings rattled, water, dripping from the shower head, plopped onto the tub. Blood was smeared across the tiles, up the wall and over the sill to the outside. He picked up the bag, unraveled the plastic. Fearful of what he might find, he turned his head away. His hands shook, his head twitched, torrents of terror flowed through him, bringing on lightheadedness, nausea, disorientation. Rain angled in through the screen and peppered the tile floor.
A great lead in for those interested in what is going on with Mike. Psychologically, it appears that Mike might be the murderer with the knife. But it's hard to tell at this stage. For me, a case of too much information on one hand, and too little of the other.
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