Another Man’s Wife
Plus 3 Other Tales
David Bernstein
Another Man’s Wife
Plus 3 Other Tales
By David Bernstein
Copyright 2011 David Bernstein. All Rights Reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Cover design by David Bernstein
Interior formatting by Kody Boye
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Garrett Mulney had been making love to Beth Wilcox when her husband came home. The sound of tires scrunching across the pebbled driveway alerted the lovers. The two paused, still in oneness, listening. The room, moments ago alive with moans and whispered profanities, now suspended in quiet like an old forgotten graveyard. Garrett jumped up as if Beth’s body had become a rotten corpse.
“It’s probably a delivery truck, silly,” Beth said.
Garrett peered out of one of the bedroom’s windows. It was a blue pickup, shiny with large tires.
“It’s Harold,” Garrett said, his glistening penis losing its stiffness as he stood naked.
“What?” Beth yelled. “He never comes home early.” She grabbed her lover’s clothes and threw them at him. Garrett caught the pants; the rest falling at his feet. “Get dressed and go out one of the windows.” The garage roof was a few feet down and would make for a safe and quick exit.
Garrett and Beth got dressed in hurried fashion. Beth made the bed while Garrett attempted to open a window.
“Won’t budge,” he said, tugging hard, veins showing in his neck.
“Go out another then.”
Garrett tried the other two windows, but the result was the same. Frustrated, he punched the wall. A small framed picture of Beth and Harold skiing somewhere in Vermont fell from its hanging place. The glass cracked, sending a line across the face of husband and wife, but the frame held.
“Sorry,” Garrett said. He bent to pick it up.
“Leave it,” Beth yelled. “Get out of here.”
“Where?”
“Go out the bathroom window down the hall,” Beth said, fluffing Harold’s pillow.
Garrett sped down the hall. Harold hadn’t come inside the house yet as far he could guess. He tried the bathroom window, it was locked too. “Damn it,” he mumbled. “What’s with this place?”
Beth was at the end of the hall, standing atop the staircase. Garrett waited, watching for a signal. She yelled a whisper, “He’s at the front door,” her hands fluttering at her sides like a butterfly’s wings.
Garrett came out of the bathroom, “Window won’t open in there either.”
“Hide in the closet,” Beth said. She ran to the door next to her bedroom and opened it. Garrett hurried over, unsure about Beth’s plan, his widening eyes indicating his displeasure. Beth shot him a desperate glance, her face, pale like she was about to vomit and ushered him in. “Wait here and be quiet.” She shut the door.
The closet was roomy, a walk-in. A small amount of sunlight came in from under the door, not enough to make anything out except for a couple pair of men’s boots off to the side. Garrett waited nervously as sweat began building in the crux of his back and under his armpits. He held is breath as he heard Beth’s voice approaching. She was talking to Harold, nonstop, as if to keep him busy. Garrett squirmed a few inches away from the door as Beth and Harold’s shadows blotted out the sunlight that shown across his sneakers.
Garrett Mulney had been delivering groceries to the people of Mayfair for three years. He was a good looking twenty six year old. He’d met Beth six months ago while she was shopping in the local grocery store, G-Mart. They flirted, she was in her early forties, but Garrett found her extremely sexy. The flirting eventually led to an ongoing affair. Every Tuesday and Thursday Garrett would deliver Beth’s groceries, and her orgasms. Monday, Wednesday and Friday where reserved for the other women on his routes, each believing they were the only one he serviced. Beth got him for two days, making her his favorite. He became known as the Milk Man, a nickname given to him by the G-Mart’s owner, an 85 year old man who delivered milk during the 1950’s.
The closet door sprang open, startling Garrett. Beth stood before him, panicked. She held out her hand. It was cold and clammy like the body of a slug.
“C’mon,” she said. “He’s in the bedroom changing.”
Garrett, still clenching Beth’s hand, flew down the stairs. The two adulterers moving like two practiced ballerinas, quiet and graceful.
Beth tried the front door, it was locked. “Try the back. Go, go, go,” she said, shoving Garrett away.
Garrett took off, running through the living room, arriving seconds later in the kitchen. Garrett hesitated, afraid to fail again. He walked to the backdoor, took a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob. He turned the knob, but it too, like all the other windows and doors, wouldn’t open. He felt more defeated than frustrated, like a beaten fighter after a long bout.
“Well?” Beth whispered harshly from around the corner.
“No, it won’t open. What’s with your house?”
Beth came sliding around the corner, her socks acting as if the polished wood floor were made of ice. “Harold’s got to fix this dump.”
Garrett lived in a small two bedroom apartment with his wife. They both had low paying jobs and struggled to pay the bills. Beth was being a bitch for complaining about her large house, which by most people’s standards was above normal. She had three bathrooms, a three car garage, an in-ground swimming pool and a hot tub on the first floor porch.
“Get in the cellar,” she said before sliding across the ceramic tiles to the cellar door.
“I’m not hiding in there.” Garrett crossed his arms, refusing to move.
“If he finds you, he’ll kill you.”
Harold was a six foot four inch mass of a man. He always wore work-boots and blue jeans. The few times he’d come into the G-Mart, he was quiet and mild mannered. To Garrett, he resembled a grizzly bear on tranquilizers. Nonetheless, the man was intimidating in his appearance.
“Get in there, now,” Beth demanded, bouncing up and down like a spoiled child.
“Honey,” Harold’s voice boomed from around the corner like a distant clap of thunder from an approaching storm.
Beth’s eyes lit up as if a hundred watt bulb were behind them. Garrett absorbed her fear and jumped through the doorway, Beth quietly shutting the door behind him.
Garrett paused on the first step down as he heard muffled, but audible words.
“Did you get a new cell phone, babe?”
“No, why?”
“I found this on the night stand.”An object, small and plastic sounding, smacked against the kitchen table, before sliding across it.
“I found it earlier in the parking lot of the grocery. Thought I’d take it home and see if I recognized any of the numbers. Maybe call them and let them know I had their phone.”
Garrett nearly tumbled backwards, catching himself on the handrail. He quickly checked his pockets. His phone was gone. In the rush to leave he had forgotten to take it.
“Well, did you?” Harold asked.
“Yeah, no one I know.” Silence followed for a few seconds before Beth spoke again. “Let’s go out for a bite since you’re home early.”
“Not in the mood.”
“We hardly ever go out, please?”
“I got work to do in the cellar. I can’t.”
Garrett spun around. The stairs were dimly lit from a what looked like sunlight. He had to get down the stairs and hide. His first step was fine, but the second one creaked loudly, as if he’d hurt it. Garrett cursed to himself. He remained motionless, letting out a slow breath. He’d have to wait and avoid any further noise. Beth would think of something, but before Garrett could take another breath the doorknob behind him began to squeak.
He spun around on his toes, making sure to leave the pressure on them. The door was slowly opening, leading to his impending end. He held tight to the banister, not sure what else to do, like cornered prey. A section of the kitchen came into view, followed by the back of Harold’s checkered flannel.
“I’m tired of this,” Beth yelled. You’re always busy with something. Can’t we just spend the day together?”
Garrett braced himself, getting ready to shoot up the stairs and try to make it past the big fellow. He had to get caught sooner or later, weren’t all cheaters? His wife would be pissed. Maybe even leave him. Garrett was about to make a move when he heard the familiar ring of his cell phone.
Harold let go of the doorknob causing it to swing open further. Garrett could now see Harold’s entire back. Beth was standing a few feet across from him. Her eyes bulged with terror, like a swimmer seeing a shark’s fin approaching. She met Garrett’s stare.
Garrett tried to reach the door, but was too far away. The creaky step kept him from moving. There was nothing he could do.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Harold asked.
Beth proved immobile, her eyes off of Garrett. The phone chimed again. “What for?” she managed.
“To see if maybe it’s the owner or someone who knows the owner?” Harold rubbed his head, like a huge gorilla at the zoo.
Beth looked at the phone. She seemed frazzled and unsure of what to do. Garrett, silently, was mouthing for her to pick it up, but he realized it was a bad idea. Drawing Beth’s attention might bring Harold’s as well. Eyes followed eyes, it was human nature.
“I’ll answer it then,” Harold said sounding annoyed and before Beth could grab the phone, Harold had it. “Hello?”
Beth shot Garrett a quick glance. She was shaking like a junky needing a fix. Garrett waved her off.
“Ah, no miss. This is Harold Wilcox. My wife found this phone in the parking lot of the grocery, up in Mayfair.
Garrett felt nauseous. A small amount of bile upchucked into the back of his throat. He quickly swallowed it.
“Garrett Mulney,” Harold said. Beth, who was inching her way towards the cellar door, looked up at her husband.
“I’m afraid I’m not heading back into town today, but maybe I could drop it off at your place if you’re nearby?”
Garrett’s mouth had a cottony feel to it, and his throat was on the verge of a tickle. He tried gathering saliva to moisten his pallet, but none could be gathered. Nervous about having to cough Garrett wiped the sweat from his forehead and arms, transferring it via his fingers to his mouth. The sweat was salty, but the tickle in his throat was gone.
“Hmm, that’s the other side of town,” Harold said.
A few moments of silence followed. Harold was nodding his head, as if in some agreement with Garrett’s wife. Beth had stopped moving, she was within a legs length of the cellar door. Any further and she might cause Harold to turn, bringing Garrett into his view.
“That’s an idea, sure. We’re at 755 Lancaster Lane, be here all day.” Harold was smiling and polite. Garrett felt a tiny amount of sadness for him, but it was ultimately his fault his wife was cheating. He thought about his own wife. He wasn’t proud for cheating on her, but he was a man and they, by nature, were cheaters. Each woman was different. Some liked it rough, some wanted to role play, while others just wanted a good bang. He loved his wife very much, but a man was a man.
Garrett watched as Beth’s demeanor changed. She stopped shaking and crossed her arms. Garrett heard a tapping, her foot was the cause.
“You’re welcome,” Harold said happily, “but hey, if you want to thank someone, thank my wife, Beth, she’s the one responsible for all this.”
“Unbelievable,” Beth said angrily.
“Okay, see you then,” Harold said before hanging up. He gently placed the cell on the kitchen table. He looked at Beth. “What?”
Beth pointed towards the cell phone and when Harold’s glare was off her, she kicked the cellar door closed.
Garrett watched as Beth, Harold and the kitchen vanished. The force at which the door slammed almost knocked him back. What was Beth doing?
“You son of a bitch,” he heard Beth yell. “You told that lady to come here so we wouldn’t be able to go out, didn’t you?”
Garrett smiled. Beth was quite the actress.
“No, sweetie. I don’t feel like heading out today. Besides, the guy probably needs his phone.”
“Bullshit. You’re an asshole. When is she coming?”
“Around two or so. Come on, babe. Let’s do your thing; hang out in bed and watch movies all day and night.”
“Fine,” Beth answered. “But that means you’re all mine. No cellar. I’m sick and tired of you disappearing down there.
“For you, anything.”
Garrett heard them leave. It sounded like they went into the living room, but he couldn’t know for certain. He’d have to wait until Beth got free and could signal him. At least he could rest easy knowing Harold was off limits to the cellar.
Garrett walked gingerly down the steps, each one a potential landmine. He felt safer knowing the basement was off limits to Harold, but he still had to be careful. He reached the bottom, his breathing normal again.
The cellar was damp and the air stale, like a swamp at dusk. Garrett glanced around. The cellar was smaller than he’d imagined, only running half the length of the house. Four support beams, telephone pole width, stood like tired old relics. Large, rusted tow truck sized chains hung from nails on each beam, burdening them further.
The floor was half plank board, half compacted dirt. Steel shelves lined three of the walls, each filled with various sized cardboard boxes, faded coffee and paint cans, and a number of plastic storage units, probably used for sorting small screws and nuts.
Shovels, rakes, hoes, sickles, and other home improvement tools hung from the wall adjacent to the staircase. Harold was an apparent do-it-yourselfer.
A cement staircase led to a pair of storm doors, another possible way out if things got hairy. Garrett walked over and inspected them. The stairway was clean, like it was swept regularly. The storm doors seemed solid, made of high gauge steel, but what Garrett found pleasing was the locking feature. Storm doors locked from the inside using a simple latch. He’d wait for Beth before trying them; the heavy steel might make for too much noise and alert Harold.
Above all, the rest of cellar was dusty. Garrett’s intrusion stirred the room. Dust particles could be seen fluttering in the sun’s rays like thousands of tiny creatures taking flight. The cellar had one small window. It looked rusted in place as if it hadn’t been opened since the house’s construction. The number of cobwebs covering it only added to Garrett’s speculation that the window wasn’t used. He was easily spooked by the cobwebs, but it was the spiders he really feared. Garrett had developed a minor case of arachnophobia at the age of ten when a spider’s egg hatched near his bed, sending thousands of baby spiders crawling over his skin while he slept, until waking. It was something he was never quite able to forget.
Garrett surveyed the cellar again. Two of the corners had spiders in them, sitting on webs. They were of a decent size, but it was the one’s he didn’t see, the one’s hiding that he was concerned about.
He walked over to a workbench. It was worn and stained with a number of colors, mostly crimson. He found a woman’s fingernail near a vice grip attached to the table. The big oaf had his wife help him with his chores. It was no wonder she looked elsewhere for sex. He left the fingernail alone, jumped up onto the table and waited.
Garrett glanced at his watch for the third time since entering the cellar. It was 3 p.m. and still no sign, not even a hint of Beth. His wife had probably picked up his phone already, now wondering where he was. Staying put was no longer an option, he had to get out. He’d be quiet and as soon as he was outside, he’d run straight into the woods behind the house, before working his way to his car. He’d left it on Baker Street, three blocks away.
Garrett sat back down on the workbench, calming himself with slow deep breaths. He tried ignoring his watch, but found himself poking a look at it every so often. He never imagined he’d have to wait so long. He was thirsty; his stomach, warm from lack of food. Time seemed to be slowing down and with nothing to keep him occupied, it would remain so. Garrett’s watch read 4 p.m.
“That’s it,” he said softly, lunging himself off the table and walking over to the storm doors. Quietly, Garrett moved the L-shaped pin, the mechanism that held the doors from opening, and pushed upwards. The heavy doors held. Garrett tried again, exerting himself, using all his strength. A crack of sunlight came through, but something was keeping the doors from opening, a lock no doubt. Harold was some kind of security freak. Garrett turned around, and not but an inch from his face was a large hairy spider hanging from a web. He skidded backwards, banging his head into the cellar doors and giving himself a huge headache. He watched as the eight legged creature went back up its web. Garrett crouched, straining his neck to keep an eye on the spider as he went under it and waddled his way over to the workbench.
Garrett sat cross-legged atop the table, tucking his legs and feet in close to his body and every so often craning his neck, looking upwards, making sure no more creepy crawlers were descending upon him. He began to come up with excuses for his whereabouts, first his wife. It would require some damage to his car, but with the bump on his head, it would work. He’d hit a tree, head-on; say he’d swerved avoiding a deer. The bump was on the back of his head, but he’d say it wasn’t the accident that knocked him out, it was the fall he took getting out of his car. He’d say he woke up in the grass, got back in his car and drove home, perfect.
Garrett had tried staying awake, slapping himself, thinking of spiders, but hunger and weariness overtook him. He managed to lay down in a fetal position where he eventually nodded off.
Garrett awoke, sitting up immediately, disoriented. The lump on his head reminded him where he was. He could barely see across the room. The sun had all but vanished. Where the hell was Beth? She must not have been able to get away, maybe even fell asleep. Garrett pressed the illumination button on his watch. The soft light was almost blinding, he squinted. It was 7 p.m., Beth must be up. It was time to leave.
Garrett climbed off the table, took a step forward, jumping back quickly and bashing his hip into the workbench. The pain was hard, like he’d been hit by a hammer. A web had touched his nose and Garrett was hysterically brushing himself off, wiping his face, running his fingers through his hair and checking his chest area. Any webs that may have been on him were off, along with any spider that made it, but the sticky sensation, like an invisible string, was still with him. He told himself it was only a phantom feeling, nothing was there. Garrett crawled back onto the table, deciding to wait, where it was safe. His right hip throbbed, but it was nothing to fuss over.
The cellar was quiet, the air musty and his vacant stomach growled as it churned in its own acids. Two more hours had passed when Garrett looked at his watch again. He found it harder and harder to stay sane. 9 p.m. was the limit, he couldn’t take it anymore. His wife would now have the police involved, and even though he wasn’t missing for 24 hours, they’d at least keep a look out for his car. For all he knew, his wife had seen it down the street if she’d gone that way. She’d surely contacted his work numerous times, making them worried too.
He’d come back late from deliveries before and had been reprimanded for it. It was the customers, his loyalists, whom shopped religiously every week, and demanded no one else deliver groceries. Garrett always delivered everything as requested, and with the new Super Center going in a few miles from town, G-Mart needed to please its customers. Garrett needn’t worry about his job so much as his wife. He needed to get out, call the police, see if his wife was looking for him, give him a feel if his plan could work.
Garrett decided he’d go up the cellar stairs and listen for any evidence of people. From there, he’d assess his situation and make a move. Using the light from his watch he walked cautiously across the room, stopping only when he bumped into another string. This time it was heavier and didn’t have that sticky feeling to it. A pull-string dangled from a light fixture, bulb included. The temptation to pull was overwhelming, as if his life depended on it. He began to have a tug of war with himself. A quick pull and his darkness problem would vanish. The fear of someone, Harold, seeing the light was too great. Maybe he could tug the string, look around and absorb his surroundings, check for webs in his path. He would only need a few seconds. No, he couldn’t. Any amount of light, especially a flash of light, could attract Harold to his presence. He had no way of knowing where the man was. In the kitchen? Outside? In the bedroom? Taking a crap? If only Garrett had looked around more, earlier, when the sun was still shining, maybe one of the boxes had a flashlight in it. He wasn’t about to go prodding amongst them now, his watch’s light would have to do. Garrett proceeded toward the stairs.
He climbed each step slowly, using the foundation as a guide. The rickety steps hardly concerned him. Thirst and hunger had jumped to his highest priority. It almost seemed like getting caught was a secondary, maybe even a thirdly concern. He kept his composure, allowing his mind to control his actions, not his emotions.
The same blackness engulfing the basement, filled the top of the staircase, the kitchen lights were off. He’d hoped for a sliver of light, a glow from beneath the door, something he could use for hope. He kept on nonetheless.
At the top step, he bent low, putting his ear by the bottom of the door. A cool breeze, fresh air, flowed across his face, revitalizing him. Silence, however, filled his ears.
Garrett reached up, found the doorknob, turned it and pushed. He closed his eyes. “Please, please, just open,” he whispered and tried again. The door was locked. Garrett’s hand fell hard to the step. Defeated, he wanted to cry.
Composing himself, Garrett stood up, anger overtaking him. It was time for action. The door was thick, but enough bashing would bring it down. Who cares if he’s caught, he had to live. Garrett took a step back, put his hands against the walls and brought his leg back. He was about to bash the door down when a roar of thunder erupted from the cellar. Someone was opening the storm doors. Two consecutive screeches, one, a pause, then the other, like two banshees screaming in the night.
Garrett inched his way down a few stairs, crawling on his chest, his feet behind him. He peered around the corner, where the sheetrock wall ended. Intense light poured in from the outside through the open storm doors. Garrett lay protected in shadow.
Harold came down the storm door steps, a huge black bag, plastic in appearance, slung over his right shoulder. Garrett could hear a car’s engine running. The light must be from a vehicle’s headlights.
Harold walked to where the string for the light was, and clicked it on. The bulb did its job, engulfing the entire room, like a tiny sun. Garrett squinted against the blinding light as Harold strode over to one of the shelves, grabbed a piece of the support and pulled. The entire shelf came away from the wall, opening like a door. The items on the shelf hadn’t moved an inched, as if they’d been glued in place. A shiny metallic door with a key pad attached, stood where the shelf had been. A small red LED emanated above the pad, indicating it was locked.
Garrett watched, frozen in place, like a tongue to a flagpole on a frosty winter eve. Harold punched a sequence of numbers. Garrett couldn’t quite make them out, but noticed a pattern, the number 7. The red LED became green, followed by a sharp beep, like a microwave’s at the end of its countdown. Harold went in, leaving the door slightly ajar. He came out a few minutes later, bag free, shut both hidden doors before clicking the light off and left the way he came. The light from outside disappeared as Harold drove off.
Garrett came down the stairs, the cellar as dark as ever, like the inside of a bat’s wing at midnight. Using the light from his watch, Garrett found his way over to the shelf-door. The metal was warm where Harold had touched it. Garrett tried pulling, but the shelf remained where it was. He tried again, still nothing. Frustrated, he felt around until he came across a button. It was on the inside of the shelf-door’s handle. Garrett pressed the button with his forefinger and pulled. The shelf came away from the wall, exposing the menacing red LED light. He tried the key pad, using the pattern he’d noticed, 4, 1, 2, 3, 6, 9. The door beeped and the red LED was replace by a friendlier green one. The heavy, vault-like door popped open, like an airtight refrigerator releasing its suction. Garrett went in.
The place was spotless, air-conditioned, and resembled a sterile operating room. The room was lit by overhead track lighting. A large, stainless steel operating table, complete with straps at the top and bottom, stood in the center of the room. Large halogen lights floated above it.
A long counter ran along the back wall, above it were cabinets. Bone saws, rib spreaders, hacksaws, ice-picks, hammers of various shapes and sizes, a sickle, a number of scalpels, and other surgical and not so surgical implements lined the counter, and all new in appearance as if the owner polished them regularly.
Garrett walked over to one of the cabinets and opened it. The room seemed to spin as his stomach cramped up, getting ready to vomit. Jars and cube shaped containers, each one filled with separate items, surrounded by a golden fluid, filled his vision. Some had eyeballs, others teeth and ears. One box had what appeared to be scrotums, another penises, the one next to it, vaginas. Others had toes and fingers.
Garrett closed the cabinet and backed away. He looked around for the black bag Harold had carried in. It was in a corner, folded neatly, each side seemingly even in length, next to a large freezer-like storage container.
Garrett walked over to the container. It reminded him of the ice-cream cooler at work. He opened it.
Frigid air chilled his lungs making him cough. He had to back away, as if excusing himself, before returning. Garrett waved away the frothy air, revealing a woman’s foot, the toenails painted candy apple red. He pulled his hand away and watched as the rest of the figure came into view.
The body was naked, except for the head which had a ski-mask over it; canary blonde hair shown from beneath it. Garrett was relieved it wasn’t Beth. For a minute he’d thought maybe Harold had suspected she was cheating and killed her. Looking closer, he noticed a tattoo below the navel, causing him to lose his breath. The number 8 with a rose entwined within it.
“It can’t be,” Garrett gasped, quickly yanking off the mask. He trembled, staring into his dead wife’s lifeless eyes. They stared accusingly back at him. It was Garrett’s fault his wife was dead.
“You think I didn’t know?” a voice said from behind.
Garrett spun around. Harold stood in the doorway holding Beth’s severed head by the hair, a huge hunting knife in the other. The knife’s blade was stilling dripping with blood. Harold tossed the head towards Garrett. It rolled awkwardly like a log with nubs, flopping and bouncing towards Garrett, stopping inches from his feet. Beth’s head was reduced to a tangled heap of brunette hair leaving only the raw fleshy neck exposed.
“You can have her,” Harold said, before pulling a gun from his pants and shooting Garrett. The gun was quiet, letting out a soft splatting sound. Garrett fell into darkness.
He awoke sometime later, naked and strapped to the cold stainless steel operating table, a gag filling his mouth. Standing above him was Harold, holding a scalpel, dressed in a surgeon’s garb, face mask and all.
“Glad you’re finally awake.”
Garrett tried speaking, but the gag made his words intelligible.
“You’re going to scream a lot and I hate that.” Harold lowered the scalpel to Garrett’s stomach. Garrett tried pleading through his gag. Harold paused, taking the scalpel away. “I can’t understand what you’re saying, but I suppose you want to know what I’m going to do?” Garrett mumbled something inaudible. “I’m going to remove small pieces of you, skin, bone, organs, building to bigger, more significant parts, and see how long I can keep you alive while doing it.” Garrett tried speaking again. Harold shook his head. “My record is ten hours, I’m hoping to improve that with you.” Harold lowered the scalpel and began cutting.
Garrett screamed for the next twelve hours.
Corbin Ray couldn’t use a straw or speak clearly, certain words ripped from his vernacular. He lay in his hospital bed, listening as the physicians and surgeons spoke. He’d heard all of it before, numerous times, but formalities were part of the process.
The procedure had only been performed on a handful of patients within the last four years, each one with set backs, rejection and infection the most prevalent, but ultimately all had succeeded.
Corbin was given a list and told about the plethora of drugs he’d have to take for the rest of his life, immune suppressants the most crucial. There was also the chance of his body rejecting the transplant, leaving him more scarred and disfigured than he already was.
“How much worse could I look?” he joked, to the crowded room, drool oozing down his chin. Everywhere he went people gawked or turned away, disgusted. In his mind, there was no downside.
After the pre-op question and answer session, Corbin picked up the handheld mirror. The image staring back at him was grotesque. No amount of time would get him used to himself. It had taken him months, numerous visits to psychologists and anti-anxiety drugs, to build up the courage to look at himself. A day didn’t pass without that nightmarish day ripping through him like a chainsaw.
He’d been on vacation, surfing off the coast of Malibu when a Great White shark sunk its teeth into Corbin’s face, ripping it off before swimming away as if the flesh had tasted rotten. His upper lip, nose, right cheek, ear and part of his jaw had been taken, including nerves and the ability to smell. The worst thing of all for Corbin had been his inability to smile. Something he’d taken for granted, but loved doing.
He’d lost his fiancée, job, and many friends, even shutting out the ones who’d stuck by him.
He lived alone in his downtown Poughkeepsie apartment, almost never leaving. He worked on projects from his home, doing interior design jobs for companies and took a position as an online customer service representative, using chat as the form of communication.
Groceries, DVD’s, magazines, were all delivered, always left outside his door. He had become a recluse, only speaking with his mother on occasion. His only friends became internet chat buddies and ones without the use of a video camera.
The operation took twenty hours. The doctors replaced bone, nerves, before finally placing the new face over his gutted old one.
Corbin was in and out of consciousness, supplied intravenously with pain medicine, for hours after the surgery, his mother by his side the entire time.
When he awoke, fully, the reality of the procedure hit home like a baseball bat, his face feeling as if thousands of needles were being driven into his skull.
Recovery was a bitch, but the nurses made sure he did what he was supposed to do, including taking walks up and down the hallway, using his breathing device to expand his lung function, and always making sure he took his meds. It took months of recovery and loads of pain medications before the soreness and swelling were gone completely.
A year went by, the physical therapy proving itself as Corbin gained the use of ninety percent of his facial muscles. He could smile again, the most important thing for him to be able to accomplish. The right side of his upper lip and right ear remained numb, the nerves shot.
Eventually, Corbin had gotten his life back, reuniting with old friends. He’d apologized for shutting them out, they understood.
Throughout his recovery a few news stations and newspapers wanted to do stories on him, but he refused, simply saying, “I just want to live a normal life.”
It took a while for his mother to get used to her son having someone else’s face, her joy at his happiness and return to a normal life easily trumped her uneasiness about his looks. It was her boy on the inside.
“You may look different,” she told him, “but you’re more your old self than you’ve been in some time. I’m so happy for you.”
Corbin applied for jobs in the interior design field and landed one quickly, his reputation on work he’d done preceding him. He’d even met a woman in the logistics department and they began dating. Life was turning out well for Corbin, things falling into place, until the blackouts and nightmares started and changed everything.
Corbin dreamed of a little girl, dressed in a black sun dress crying over a grave. A woman, also dressed in black, stood beside her, tears streaming down her face.
He’d tried saying hello, but they didn’t see him. The name on the tombstone was blurry as if he needed glasses, but everything else was crystal clear.
Each night, he had a different dream, but always with the sad little girl and woman being a part it. He’d awake crying, breathing rapidly as if he’d sprinted a mile. The sleepless nights began taking a toll, he became increasingly irritable. Maybe it was the drugs? His doctor had changed them recently, hadn’t he? He’d make an appointment when he got to his office the next day.
The following morning, after another horrible night’s sleep, Corbin ate a hearty breakfast, scrambled eggs, sausage, toast with butter and downed a large cup of black coffee. He left the house and was about to get in his car when he woke up on his living room couch. He must have been dreaming, but when he looked at himself he saw that he was dressed for work, briefcase on its side on the floor.
He went to the kitchen, the clock read three p.m. He must have blacked out. Maybe he had felt dizzy and had to lie down. Possibly he was having a side effect to the new meds. He’d never had any before. He called the office, told them he was terribly sick last night and had slept in.
That night Corbin dreamed, but not of the little girl and her mother. He was in his car driving across town and stopped in front of a large white house in Cedar Grove Estates. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his new face, something that had never happened before. On occasion at seeing himself in a dream, it was always his original face that starred back at him. His brain being the only part of him rejecting the transplant.
He got out of the car and stood staring up at a large white Victorian, with black shudders and neatly trimmed hedges. The name on the mailbox read, Weatherly. He got back in his car, slammed the door shut and woke up.
He thought nothing of the dream and was grateful to not have to see the little girl and her mother.
The remainder of the week flew by with no unsettling dreams, replaced with good nights of sleep. Corbin had put the troublesome time behind him until the following Monday.
He was getting ready for work when he blacked out again, awaking a few hours later. Overwrought and unsure of what was happening, he made a doctor appointment and was seen immediately. His transplant making him a priority.
At the doctor’s office he received angry stares and few disgruntled murmurs from people in the waiting room as his name was called within minutes of his arrival. Skipping the waiting room was about the only perk his surgery came with.
“Corbin,” the doc said, entering the small examining room. “How’s it going?”
“Until a week ago, great,” Corbin said, hating the doctor’s office, more so since his surgery.
“Let’s have a look.” The doctor reviewed Corbin’s chart, flipping through pages and rubbing his chin.
The stethoscope was cold on his back and warm by the time it reached his chest.
“No congestion or blockage,” the doc said before moving onto other instruments. He checked his temp again even though the nurse had already done so, his ear canals, and nasal passageways. All were fine.
“Been taking any new over the counter medications?”
“Nope.”
“Eat any new foods?”
“Nope.”
“Go anywhere new? Out of the country?”
“Nope.”
The doctor held his finger under his chin as if in deep thought. “Everything on my end checks out. I’ll send you over to Doctor Rein’s office to get an MRI of your head. We’ll take some blood before you leave and should have the results in a day. Rush order for you, Corbin.” The doctor winked.
“You don’t think it’s the transplant?”
“Definitely not. It’s taken to you like it was yours all along. Hardly a blemish on it.”
“Thanks, doc.” Corbin said, feeling a little better.
“No problem. The nurse will be in shortly to get your blood and I’ll phone Doctor Rein’s office that you’ll be there within the hour.”
The next day the doctor called Corbin on his cell. The blood test and MRI were normal on all accounts.
“Any idea what it could be?” he asked.
“Who knows? Could be the weather or stress. Either way I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Take a few days off from work, get some rest. Any more problems, give me a call.”
“Thanks for the speedy service, doc, I really appreciated it.”
“For you, Corbin, not a problem.”
Corbin had placed a lot of hope in doctors’ hands before his surgery and wasn’t about to stop now. He hung up the phone feeling assured that he’d be fine.
That night he had a dream he was driving in his car and stopped at the Hunter and Gun Depot just outside of town. He’d never had an interest in guns, never owning one, but he went into the store nonetheless.
The place was a hunter’s haven. Camouflage jackets, t-shirts, hats, and pants lined the isles. Some items were mixed with a roadside orange, giving the matter a cautionary ware. Displays for bows and riffles and turkey callers assaulted him from everywhere. A few customers patrolled the isles. Corbin approached the glass counter. Knives of various sizes, compasses, and numerous other survival equipment lay inside the glass counter’s display.
.30-30’s, SKS’s, .22’s, shotguns of varying gauges, all lined the wall behind the counter, locked together like a chain gang in a coma.
Corbin wasn’t sure how, but he knew the names of the guns and the one he wanted.
“May I help you,” an elderly man said. He had bushy white mustache, red, white, and blue striped suspenders and a hat that read, “Rob Me and Die Trying.”
Unsure why, but feeling compelled, Corbin said, “I’ll take the .12 gauge single pump action and a box of buckshot.” Why had he just asked for a gun? And how the hell did he even know what to ask for, let alone the type of ammo? The elderly man rang Corbin up.
Corbin placed the items in the trunk of his car before settling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut, immediately awakening to the relentless beeping of his clock-radio’s alarm.
He remembered the dream as if it had been real, its vividness haunting long after waking. What were these strange dreams he was having? Corbin, needing answers, got in his car and drove to the Hunter and Gun Depot store.
He parked out front and went in. His mouth hung open like a sedated psych patient’s. The store resembled his dream down to the littlest detail. All the cardboard cutouts of deer, the camouflage clothing, but the most disturbing part of all was the elderly, mustache and suspender wearing man. Corbin had never been in the store, having barely glanced at it while driving by.
“Back already?” the man said, spotting Corbin.
“Was I in here yesterday?”
The man smiled. “You playing some type of game, mister?” His stare disapproving.
“The gun, I bought a gun.”
The man’s eyebrows went up, confusion evident on his face. “That’s right,” he said. “You need something else?”
“No,” Corbin said. “Thanks, sorry I bothered you. Bad day is all.” He left the store quickly, racing home.
Corbin tore through his house, searching for the shotgun. He checked the closets, basement, attic, under the kitchen sink, the garage, and the entire yard, but found nothing. He sat on the couch when he was done, exhausted. What the hell was going on? Anxiety, like an electric current, coursed through his body making his mind scramble for reality.
Corbin went to his medicine cabinet, downed a few anti-anxiety pills and within minutes, had calmed. He called his doctor who told him to speak with his psychiatrist.
“It must be an old memory,” doctor Rosenburg said, over the phone. “Your subconscious is releasing it as a defense mechanism to a recent trauma or stressful event. Hence, the buying of the gun.”
“I’ve never been in that store, doc,” Corbin said, his voice a bit shaky.
“It’s not uncommon for patients who’ve undergone a drastic experience, such as your procedure, to have memory loss or memory gain.”
“Bullshit,” Corbin said. “How the hell do you explain the gun knowledge? I’ve never owned or cared to own one.”
“You may have seen it on a television show. Shotguns are pretty common. Buying it was most likely your mind’s way of telling you to get protection. You may feel vulnerable and exposed. I’ll make you an appointment and we’ll adjust the meds if necessary.”
“Doc, the guy recognized me.” Corbin felt his insides churn, a panic attack on the threshold of his mind, but the medications held.
“Can you see me tomorrow?” the doc said, “say eight a.m.?”
“You think something’s wrong?”
“No, no. Maybe a minor adjustment. Sometimes the anti-rejection drugs can have an adverse reaction to psychological medication.”
The next morning the psychiatrist lowered Corbin’s usual dosage of anti-anxiety drugs, telling him it was most likely the combination. It was time to lower the dose anyway, eventually wean him off completely. He left the doctor’s office feeling a little more confident than when he’d entered.
Later that night, shortly after diner, Corbin blacked out again. He awoke five hours later, blood splattered on his shirt, the shotgun resting on the living room coffee table.
He must have done something. Feeling nauseous, he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He washed his face with cold water in the sink after flushing the toilet. With a water beaded his face, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “What have you done?” he said, speckles of blood dotting his shirt like freckles.
Corbin ran downstairs, stripped naked, shoes and all, tossing the items into the fireplace before burning them. He smashed the stock off of the shotgun and threw both pieces into the fire, after making sure the gun was empty. He’d seen enough movies, knowing to pump the gun until no more shells ejected from the chamber, and any blood evidence on the gun would be destroyed in the fire.
He showered, bleaching the tub when he was finished. Having no idea what he’d done, he needed to be careful. The police could be on the way to his house. Destroying evidence was key to keeping him out of jail while he figured out what the hell was going on.
Unable to sleep he watched the news. It was the same garbage every night, murder, death, floods, fires, accidents, and a plethora of other negativity, but he had to watch. When the news was over, Corbin felt satisfied that nothing during the broadcast had involved him. Finding himself bushed he went to sleep.
Corbin dreamt. He found himself in his car, driving across town to Cedar Grove Estates and parking in front of the large Victorian house from the earlier dream.
He climbed out of the car, grabbed the shotgun from the backseat and began loading shells as if he were a seasoned S.W.A.T. officer. He scaled the stairs, light emanating from the windows, someone was home. The sidewalks were barren, void of people as if the neighborhood were nothing but model homes. A calm breeze, like a cool whisper, blew across his face. Corbin knocked on the door, began pounding, angrily, when no one answered.
“Yeah, yeah,” a man’s voice said from inside, “hold on a sec.”
Corbin heard the jumbling of a lock opening, the hairs on his neck upright with anticipation. The door opened.
“What is it?” the man asked, annoyance in his voice. He stood about six feet, his t-shirt hanging off his bones, revealing him to be a frail, almost sickly, looking person. Corbin’s eyes watered as an overwhelming stench of alcohol assaulted his nose. The man took a moment to focus, a look of horror coming over him. “You,” he said, putting a hand over his heart, his eyes the size of ping pong balls. “You’re dead. I killed you.”
Corbin, unable to control his hatred, kicked the man in the gut sending him tumbling down a small set of carpeted stairs. Corbin ran into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Standing in the small foyer way, Corbin looked down the crumpled heap. The man, thankfully, was still breathing.
Corbin walked down the stairs, the man moaning in pain. “My head, I hit my head.”
“Get up, asshole,” Corbin said. As if hearing himself from a distance and only allowed to watch.
“This can’t be. You’re dead. I hit you with my car.”
Corbin dragged the man to his feet. “Walk,” he said, prodding the man’s back with the gun.
“You’re alive, but how?” he asked.
“Shut up,” Corbin said. They climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “Sit.”
The man sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Corbin glanced around. Empty bottles of whiskey and cheap vodka filled the sink. Bills and moldy, what looked like bread, cluttered the kitchen table. The counter was lined with filthy dishes and smears of dried grape jelly.
“I have a problem,” the man said. “I like to drink.”
“Yes, it is a problem.”
Corbin, rage igniting his innards, whacked the man upside his head with the butt of the weapon. The man cried as he held his scalp.
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” He tried groping Corbin’s shirt like a beggar. “Please, please, I’m so sorry. I got out of my car, checked on you, but you were a goner. All messed up and broken. I couldn’t stay, there was nothing I could’ve done and the cops would’ve arrested me.” Corbin raised the shotgun, pointing the barrel at the man’s skeletal chest. The man’s crotch began darkening, the stench of urine filling the air. “Please, don’t,” the man pleaded, hands and fingers grouped together in false prayer. “I’ll get help, besides, you’re okay now. You didn’t die.”
“Look at me. Really look at me,” Corbin said.
The man’s eyebrows scrunched together, a look of confusion upon his face. “I don’t understand. You walked in here without a limp. You’re body was broken. I saw your bones sticking out of your skin. Only your face was untouched.” The man’s expression turned to fright, as if he realized the man before him wasn’t the man he’d killed, but a resurrected monster. The pitiful man trembled, as if electrocuted, and reached out to touch Corbin’s face.
“This is for leaving my wife without a husband and my daughter without a father.” The man’s chest exploded as Corbin fired the weapon. The body tumbled over backwards, chair and all. The blast was deafening, Corbin’s ears rung as his nostrils filled with the odor of cordite.
“I saved your face too,” Corbin said.
The graveyard was at rest, a low hanging fog hugged the ground, tombstones showing through like frozen ghosts. The cemetery dated back to the mid 1800’s. It was named after the Grending family, the first prominent people to settle the area. No new graves had been dug for years; the weeds and tall grass flourishing. With no relatives left alive to visit, the graveyard had begun melding into its surroundings, becoming a part of the landscape.
The place was miles from town, and off of the main roads. The wild vegetation and rancid odor from the nearby bog kept people away; the town forgetting the long dead. It was the reason Brian Hinkerly, a dentist, had bound the ghoul there.
He parked his Chevy Tahoe behind a blossoming lilac tree, hiding it from view of the road. The nearest residence was a good three miles away, but he had to be vigilant. If a body was ever discovered, the ghoul unable for whatever reason to finish its meal, Brian wanted no one to be able to identify him. As desolate an area as Grending Cemetery was, there was always the chance someone could wander into it. In today’s world no place was too remote or unreachable.
The young woman, Harriet Baker, lay in the back of the truck. Brian opened the rear hatch, grabbed a lantern and slung the strap over his shoulder. He would need two hands for the task ahead. The woman was beginning to stir. He grabbed her ankles and yanked her out of the vehicle. The woman landed hard on the muddy ground, splattering Brian’s plastic covered shoes with muck. Her feet and wrists were bound with barbed wire while duct tape covered her mouth. A line of mucus trailed from her left nostril like an alien worm.
Brian shut the hatch, locked the car and grabbed the woman’s ankles before he started dragging her.
She shook her head back and forth, her long blonde hair wild and picking up twigs and leaves. She attempted to scream, but the duct tape over her mouth kept her quiet. He laughed at her writhing and inaudible pleading, dragging her up the inclined rocky path to the graveyard.
He stopped outside of the cemetery gates. They were wrought iron, made from fine craftsmanship, with two gargoyles perched atop. Years of rain, wind, and snow, rusted the iron work, making them appear ancient.
He always kept the gate partially open, enough to fit himself through. If anyone came along, he wanted it to look as if no one had visited the place.
He brought the woman through, pulling her a few feet inside the yard before letting go of her ankles. She continued to struggle and moan in pain, her back bruised from having been hauled over jagged rocks.
Brian pulled a small gutting knife from his pocket. Easily concealed, it was his favorite weapon of choice for small, deep incisions. He bent down next to the whining female and sliced a one inch line down the inside of her right wrist. Then he did the same to her left wrist. The blood flowed from the wound, darkening the bottom of the tall grass. It kept coming, as if she was overfilled; the heart pumping faster to counteract the loss of pressure. Brian watched, feeling a rush of pleasure. He supposed it was what normal people got out of great sex. Copulation, to him, was unfulfilling, like a lion eating lettuce for dinner. A slow, agonizing, kill is what got him off.
“Yes,” he said to the woman as she stared, horrified, at him. “This is really happening. That water I offered you earlier had an anti-coagulant in it. Don’t want you clotting now, do we?”
The woman’s eyes went wide and she began to shake, tears flowing from the corners of her eyes. Brian watched as the minutes turned to hours, transfixed by the gruesome scene. Her fear filled him with power as if he were taking a piece of her soul. The woman had gone from screaming and crying to docile and sleepy. She had a couple of inaudible pleadings, her strength fading. Her eyelids slowly began to lower, death seeping in. He loved to watch his victims fight, but it was useless. Death always came. He knew when it was time, leaning in and lowering his ear to her mouth, waiting for it. It came, the last breath. He shuddered, moaning in ecstasy.
The sun dipped below the horizon just after the woman passed. He took hold of the lantern, and using a lighter, ignited the wick. It had four glass sides, three covered with black paint to cut down on the glow. It was unlikely he’d be seen, but took precautions anyway.
With dead flesh lying about, it wouldn’t be long before the ghoul came out of the bog, the place it dwelled. The creature needed a constant supply of dead meat and lived off the swamp’s critters when human flesh wasn’t available.
He heard the ghoul’s moaning before seeing it emerge out of the gloom from across the way. The creature ambled over, almost limping. Its skin, covered in rot and littered with oozing sores, had an olive tint to it. Eyes like swollen olives were sunken in to its skull, the pupils nothing more than tiny specs of black. The ghoul was hungry for dead human flesh, the bodies in the yard all but decaying skeletons with no meat left. Brian marveled at the creature; something dead, yet alive. He had offered it living flesh once, but the thing refused. The monster had instead torn the woman’s throat open, and waited for her to die, then feasted on the corpse.
The ghoul had been resurrected from Brian’s first victim, a woman he’d picked up hitchhiking. He brought her to his house where he slashed her throat, killing her. Her tremendous loss of blood was euphoric, but hadn’t lasted long enough. It took him until the fifth kill to find his ultimate pleasure--the slow bleed-outs. He buried the woman in his backyard, afraid to transport her remains and dump her body elsewhere. The fear of getting pulled over was too great. It was, he’d imagined, how a lot of criminals were caught.
After his sixth kill, he realized he was a novice serial killer and would need guidance. Using the internet he researched thousands of websites and articles about serial killers. Since he was one, he needed to study them, learn their ways and mistakes. One day while searching the web, he came upon a link leading him to a website called, Raising of the Dead for Personal Gain. It had a site counter at the bottom. He was visitor number four since the site’s inception ten years ago. Strange, he had thought at the time. From the material on the website he learned about zombies and ghouls. Zombies ate the living and ghouls ate the dead, the latter often roaming graveyards at night and feeding off of the corpses. At first Brian had thought the whole thing a joke, not taking it seriously. He sent the website’s owner an email, asking what he needed to do in order to bring a person back from the dead and serve his needs. He received a two word reply: The Undeath.
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