Sometimes I pray for the end to come, sitting here in the dark unable to look at myself. Sometimes I make believe it's a dream and that at some point 1’l1 wake up, but I know I’m only fooling myself. There is no hope for me, no hope at all.
It seems like only yesterday that I was walking down Pepper St., the main thoroughfare of this quiet little town. Perhaps it was, I can't be sure anymore. Sattlerville is just
one of many hick towns I've been through in the short time I've been on the outside. Were the truth known, I've spent more time behind bars in my thirty-three years on this earth than I have on the outside. By profession, I'm a cat burglar, but my record speaks for itself as to my proficiency. By necessity, I am reduced to being a shoplifter.
Sattlerville seemed like just another town when I first checked it out. Small stores mostly, with only one or two big enough to suit :my purposes. Jamieson's Department Store stood out as the most likely prospect for my business.
Jamieson's is a one-story affair with several departments stretched out to accommodate the various and sundry items so dear to the hearts of tourists and fashion-conscious town ladies. The weather-stained. brick and clapboard building occupied the better- half of a smell city block, its garish sign over the main entrance proudly proclaiming the owner, J.G. Jamieson, had been in business since 1909. Mannequins in fashionably disgusting apparel
decorated the windows on either side of the revolving door that made up the only entrance available to customers.
On a perfect spring day I made my way through these doors attired in what I hoped would be a conservative, and of necessity, inconspicuous outfit. My loose-fitting trousers were specially made with deep pockets, my windbreaker likewise fitted with deep pockets concealed on the inside.
I had no trouble finding what I wanted, pocketing it with practiced stealth and moving on to the next department. I did notice the complete lack of security precautions throughout
the store, but at the time gave it little thought, so intent was I on completing the job in record time. Had I stopped to look a little closer at the various items I’d stolen, I would have noticed also the lack of price tags. Stranger still, the computer age coding, so common nowadays on grocery items, was also missing.
I remember too well the inward smile that threatened to bubble forth and crack my expressionless facade as I picked up a Baby Ruth at the check-out and put my money on the counter. I remember too, the odd way the clerk rang up my purchase, sliding the candy bar across a clear plate glass imbedded in the counter top, face side up. "Must be some new-fangled computer hook-up", I remember thinking to myself as I left the store.
The air smelled fresh and sweet as I walked the short distance to my hotel room. Had I known it would be the last time I would walk in the sunlight, I would have lingered longer, sucking up each breath as if it were my last.
Once in my hotel room, I emptied the contents of my pockets onto the bed. Watches, rings, lighters, pocket knives and various other small, but pawnable items cascaded onto the
faded blue coverlet. Well pleased with myself, I took time out for a short nap before giving my haul closer scrutiny.
When I woke up about an hour later, my loot still sprawled beside me as I had left it, I felt refreshed and eager to start the second faze. An antique-style pocket watch caught my eye and I picked it up, turning it over in my hand to examine the scrollwork on the back. I took out my magnifying glass to get a closer look and as I did, some letters started to form on its shiny surface. Instinctively I dropped it and rubbed my eyes to clear away the last of the cobwebs of sleep or whatever it was that made me see what should not be there. I again picked up the watch, this time more carefully to be sure there was no mistake. There under the scrupulous eye of the magnifying glass were the words that have sealed my fate:
SHOPLIFTER:
PRAY FOR THE NIGHT
AND SHUN NOW THE LIGHT;
REPENT WHAT YOU STOLE;
GOD'S MERCY ON YOUR SOUL.
Still not believing was I was seeing, I put the watch back down on the bed and proceeded to examine the rest of the loot. Each one bore the same ominous message, barely a smudge to the naked eye, but horribly clear under the glass' cruel glare.
Shaking, I sat down on the bed to think things out. As I sat, I idly scratched the palms of my hands which seemed strangely itchy. The pain this produced shocked me out of my stupor. I looked at my hands, open sores oozing puss where I had unconsciously scratched. The tips of my fingers started to itch too and without thinking I rubbed them together to relieve it. The skin came away as they touched, the pain of raw flesh on raw flesh making me cry out.
Heedless of the now constant pain, I quickly scooped up the booty within the folds of the coverlet and raced to the door. I cried out once more as the searing agony of turning the knob and the resulting loss of flesh it caused was once more driven home. Out to the street I ran and on to the source of it all; Jamieson's, the sound of the name reverberating in my brain. As I ran, the sun beat down on my head, the itching on the exposed flesh increasing unbearably. With tears streaming down my face, I pushed my way through the revolving doors, the touch of the wood against my sides tearing fresh patches of skin from my body.
The young girl at the information desk looked at me questioningly as I dropped the hated bundle on the counter in front of her.
"Take these," I said, “I stole them this morning and now I'm returning them.”
"I'm sorry, sir," she replied, "but stolen items cannot be returned. It's store policy.”
"But that's impossible," I screamed back. "I'm a shoplifter, I admit it. And I want to be arrested."
"I'm sorry, sir, " she said again. "Shoplifters are not prosecuted in this store, sir. It's store policy."
“But that's crazy,“ I screamed back even louder than before. I demand to be arrested.”
"I’m sorry, sir,” she said for the last time. "There's nothing I can do."
With that she turned away from me, ostensibly to do some unfinished paperwork.
Realizing there was nothing more I could do there, I picked up the bundle for the last time and threw it across the floor, the backward glance of the scattering wastage almost worth the agony it caused my pain-racked body.
The return to my hotel room and its soothing semi- darkness was painful beyond belief. Now even my feet fell victim to the carnage. Each step rubbed flesh from my soles and the toes and sides of my feet. Even my clothes caused me pain.
Now as I lay motionless on my bed in the darkness, I pray for deliverance. Soon it will come, it has to. There is not much left to lose. Were I able to turn on the light and see for myself what has become of me, I'm sure I would wretch out what little is left. But I cannot. I have no hands. Nor can I run away. I have no feet. Sometime during my fevered.sleep, they rotted away as will the rest of me in good time. In good time...
Happy Halloween. A volume of Horrible Haunts & Twisted Tales taken from the horror books La Belle Rouge has written every October for a decade and a half. If you have read her works in the horror genre, you know the invitation is for you to enjoy thr
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