FridayFlash » otoh

The Carrier

Posted by Tim at 00:12 on 2012/03/02

Mar 022012

Candace and Hannah were the first to go. They were a wild pair and it didn’t surprise any of us when they burned. They were known to stand outside until the first rays of morning sun tinged the sky and then run shrieking and cackling into hiding. “Working on my tan,” they called it with a laugh. Risk takers. Irresponsible children. Whatever. In truth there were more than a few of us in the community who weren’t at all sad to lose them.

Leonard was next. At first we didn’t even associate it with the women’s demise. We found him, what was left of him, inside his home. We assumed someone had dragged him into the sunlight and then left his remains where we were sure to find them. A message. Over the ages, it wasn’t that unusual. But who had found Leonard out?

Then it happened three more times; Benny, Phil, and Tom all disappeared within days of each other. They were young, sure, but careful. Quiet. Discreet. The community went on full alert and lock-down. No one went out at all. We had enough blood stored to see us through most disasters. And we had our stable of willing victims who would come to us.

That should have kept us safe. It always had. But we had never faced a scourge like this. And the next to go was Grigore, one of the ancient ones. Founder of our local community. Fear and panic raced through us like the fire that had consumed our friends. If Grigore’s centuries of experience could not keep him safe, what chance did the rest of us have?

A dozen more of us would be ashes before we made the connection. It wasn’t until after Madeline — dear, sweet, Madeline, a tiny little slip of a girl — burned right in front of us that we realized we were facing something completely new and insidious. No one, nothing, was dragging us out into daylight. Somehow, the daylight was getting inside us.

It was impossible, but it was happening. We wracked our brains to find what, or who, all the victims had in common. And we found one. One woman on whom all our friends had fed before their agonizing destruction. Like Typhoid Mary from the turn of the last century our Little Mary Sunshine was a carrier, but of some malady we never knew existed. Never believed could exist. Yet once we disposed of her things returned to normal. Of course, normal would never be the same again.

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J.P. Worthett, Consulting Detective

Posted by Tim at 01:45 on 2012/02/24

Feb 242012

I poured myself a shot from a new bottle of bourbon and then secured the bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk. Just then the door creaked open and in strode a spindly sort of fellow — a tall, lean man with sharp, piercing eyes, hawk-like nose, and a square, prominent jaw. He scanned swiftly from the sign on my door which says, “J.P. Worthett, Private Investigations,” to me and stated, “I deduce that you are Worthett.”

Noting the British timbre of his voice I deduced he wasn’t native to the borough. “Please come in and take a seat,” I replied. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

“My name Sherl — Sherman. Sherman… House.” He settled in the chair opposite me. “I should like to consult with you on a singular problem.”

“Okay, Sherman,” I put perhaps a bit more emphasis on the name than was necessary, “tell me about your ‘singular problem.’”

He fished a meerschaum pipe from his coat pocket and fidgeted nervously. His fingers appeared to be stained with ink or some sort of chemicals. “I’ve come from some distance away,” he said, “and my usual confidantes are unavailable. I trust you can keep a secret?”

“So far.”

“Jolly good. I find that explaining a problem to someone else helps me see it more clearly. I’m looking for someone.” He clenched the pipe in his teeth but didn’t light it.

“Who are you looking for?”

“A man. He most certainly is not using his real name, but I’m afraid I don’t know what name, or indeed names, he currently uses. He was recently employed as a math teacher in a primary school.”

“Elementary,” I interjected.

“How’s that? What?”

“Here on this side of the pond we call them ‘elementary schools’ not ‘primary schools,’ but I’m guessing that is not how you lost his trail.”

“Quite.” He returned the pipe to his pocket. “He has also held posts as a private tutor in mathematics, but of course in both instances I refer only to his legitimate covers. He is in fact a master criminal.”

“And how sure are you that he is here amid the huddled masses?”

“Quite.”

I waited for some elaboration, or at least for him to finish the sentence. He apparently determined that neither was necessary. “What does this fellow look like?”

“He changes his appearance quite regularly, but in general he is medium height, medium weight, and medium coloring. Really rather a bland sort, which makes it easy for him to blend in most places.”

“Does he know that you’re in pursuit?”

“Most assuredly. He taunts me at every turn.”

“He communicates with you?”

“We leave encoded messages for each other in the personal ads of several widely available newspapers.”

I let that sink in for a moment. “What was the last message you received?”

He fished a thin packet of newspaper clippings from his breast pocket. “Here are the last several of our exchanges.” He deposited the pages on my desk. I leafed through the series of personal ads and then spread them out side by side on my desk.


THE DOG BARKS AT MIDNIGHT ~M
THE DOG DID NOT BARK AT ALL ~S
DOGS DON'T MAKE MISTAKES ~M
THE PLLOOOTTTT ~S
IT = ITSSIMPLICITYELF ~M
IT = TRIFLE, OF COURSE ~S
NOTHING > TRIFLES ~M
THE GAME IS 12 INCHES ~S
TWSS AND I'M WORTH IT ~M

“That’s certainly an… intriguing exchange,” I said.

“Shall I interpret them for you?”

“No, thanks. I get the gist of it. As you said, he’s taunting you.”

“Quite.”

“And the last one of these, that’s what brought you knocking on my door. You had to find out whether I’m one of his fronts.”

“Quite so, but I could see immediately that such is not the case. You are many things, sir — a war veteran, a lowlife, a cynic, and a drunk for example — but you are basically honest and certainly no master criminal in disguise.”

“Um… thanks?”

“No thanks necessary. I state only what I observe and deduce, you see I–”

“Getting back to your problem, Sherman. May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Go home.”

He seemed frozen for a minute or so, sitting with his fingers steepled, staring at some distant point. Suddenly he jumped to his feet.

“By Jove, that’s brilliant! You remind me of my brother Mycr — er, Michael — whom I value as the finest mind in all of Britannia. Those clues were clearly intended to draw me away from home and divert my attention. Like a fool I followed right down the rabbit hole. No telling what nefarious plot has been hatched in my absence. I must return home at once.”

And with that he was out the door like a shot.

I picked up the phone and arranged to have a telegram sent to London.


WATSON, EVERYTHING WENT JUST AS YOU PLANNED. EXPECT HE WILL BE ON NEXT SHIP HOME. LET ME KNOW IF HE WANDERS THIS WAY AGAIN. REGARDS, WORTHETT.

I grinned and sipped my bourbon.

Note: I like Worthett. I introduced the character here and then he reappeared here and here.

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To the Aisle

Posted by Tim at 00:27 on 2012/02/17

Feb 172012

Contestant Three-Two balanced on the precipice of defeat. She had made it to the final bout and only Six-Five, and a disasterous lapse in concentration, stood in her way. With the trial nearly at an end her confidence faltered. Three-Two was engaged in a battle with an opponent who fights dirty.

Round one had gone to Three-Two while Six-Five got a warning of disqualification. It was a pattern that Six-Five had followed in every bout — get in an illegal hit during the first round, take the warning and hurt the opponent enough to gain an advantage in the last two rounds. It was a strategy that most contestants thought was unfair. It was a strategy that stretched the rules. It was a strategy that worked.

Round two went easily to Six-Five. It was all Three-Two could do to stay on her feet. Six-Five lacked the physical strength of most of the contestants. She was too tall and too thin. But she was willing to hit the most vulnerable areas and relentless once she gained an advantage. The blows were light and would be ineffective had they not been aimed at an injured opponent. The barrage kept Three-Two from recovering from her first-round injury.

With one minute before the final round, Three-Two saw all that she had worked for slipping away. It was now or never. Win the prize that she had dreamed of since she was a little girl or accept the fate that most of them endured. If she failed she would return to the rank and file, doomed to a lonely and bleak existence. Could she fight her way back to the top again? No one ever had. She thought of the boy she had met once. How a single conversation led to her decision to conquer the ring. How each bracket in the tournament had brought her a step closer to this moment. A step closer to….

Three-Two dragged herself to her feet at the sound of the bell for the third and final round. She knew that win or lose this would be the last round she would ever fight. Six-Five taunted her from across the ring, looking for an opening to unleash another attack and take the match. Six-Five was smiling. Three-Two narrowed her focus onto that smile. It was a bit of a reach, but it was a target. And she knew that any contact there would be deeply satisfying. “Wipe that smile off her face,” she thought.

Three-Two managed a glancing blow, but it was enough to interrupt Six-Five’s taunting. Three-Two took full advantage of the pause and moved in with a series of jabs. Six-Five back-pedaled into the ropes. Three-Two stood her ground forcing Six-Five sideways and off-balance. When they squared up again Three-Two was ready with two uppercuts and a roundhouse that did indeed wipe the smile from Six-Five’s face and left her sprawled on the mat. Six-Five was knocked out. Three-Two’s heart fairly glowed with the victory.

The rest of the day was a blur. She had won the match, but there were always last-minute details to attend to — a final fitting of her dress, getting her hair done, applying make-up (specially designed to cover bruises), tying flowers with the traditional five satin ribbons…. Finally she stood at the end of the aisle ready to claim her prize. Her slightly swollen eyes filled with tears as the official intoned, “Do you take this man….”

Note: The inspiration for this piece came from these two businesses that happen to be next door to each other, Modern Bridal Shop and Elite Fighting Academy. At least, I assume the proximity is coincidental, but [cynical, curmudgeonly me] I always imagine they are somehow connected. Or they have some potential for cross-promotion anyway. And then I wondered, what if in some dystopian society this is really one business, not two? What if the path to marriage involves a series of battles [with someone other than your future in-laws]? I further amused myself by working in references to a 1957 song by the doo-wop group The Five Satins. It was a much more ~~cynical~~ satisfying choice than the obvious, What’s Love Got Do With It.

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Cy

Posted by Tim at 00:45 on 2012/02/10

Feb 102012

“Annie,” I whispered.

“Annie,” Chris called out.

And so began the verbal dance. I whispered and he spoke. My words became his words and his face, my face. Together we seduced fair Annie. But he alone could claim the prize of our conquest. For where my words passed easily from my lips to his, Annie’s kisses would never pass to mine. Not so long as…

And so I invited my friend to walk with me some little way. I beseeched him step aside and leave me one chance to woo Annie on my own merits. Now that I knew my words had the power, I was emboldened. Perhaps this hideous face of mine did not matter so much after all.

He refused, as I knew he would. I knew because I would have refused in his place. And knowing, I had arranged to have his misfortune lying in wait. A gang of robbers fell upon him to steal his looks and take his gold for their trouble. It was a savage beating he endured. Not to kill, for I dared not make him a martyr. But disfiguring. Annie might forgive his loss of words if he still were pretty. But how could she love this mis-shapen ape and his unintelligible grunts?

Leaving my friend battered and bleeding in the street I set off in quest of my love. And there, at the window, she took away my breath. “Annie,” I whispered. Then, remembering my resolve…

“Annie,” I called out.

Note: This is a revision of a piece I posted on 22 April 2010 in which I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting a classic. Hey, it’s not like that never happens, right? I hope you enjoy it. Or at least, you know, forgive me.

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YOUR DEAD

Posted by Tim at 00:27 on 2012/01/27

Jan 272012

Phillip began to tremble and felt sick to his stomach. His front door stood ajar, the jamb in splinters. His belongings were broken and strewn all over the floor. Drapes and sofa cushions had been slashed. Walls were covered with spray-painted graffiti. The message was clear enough, he had pissed off the wrong people.

That message was explicit, albeit ungrammatically, in large red letters across his living room wall:

YOUR DEAD

“Like adding insult to injury,” Phillip muttered. “Lousy punks can’t even spell, but they can sure make a hell of a mess. How stupid do you have to be to get that wrong? The idiots probably dropped out of school. I feel sorry for the teachers that had to put up with them before they finally quit. I bet they were nothing but trouble.

“Now they roam around like packs of wild dogs. If I ever get my hands on them, I’ll teach them a thing or two. They think they can just push everyone around. Lucky I wasn’t here when they broke in. Probably too chicken to face me or take me on one at a time.

“I’ll make sure they get locked up and throw away the key. And you can be damn sure every word will be spelled correctly when I see them in court. Every ‘I’ dotted and every ‘T’ crossed. Maybe after a few years behind bars and they’ll decide it’s worth their time to pick up a damn book and learn how to read and write after all.”

Just then three gang members crowded into the room behind him, guns drawn. Phillip whirled around and opened his mouth to speak. Before he uttered a sound, the guns put a final resounding exclamation point on the message. Phillip was indeed dead. And he was the one to learn a lesson that day: Only in bad movies and pulp fiction do the villains stand still for a lengthy diatribe.

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Wallflowers of the Elk Lodge Ballroom

Posted by Tim at 09:23 on 2012/01/19

Jan 192012

Note: Many of you know Helen Howell from over at Helen Scribbles. She’s a frequent contributor to Friday Flash and often records audio narration of her stories. She’s on a break from writing for a few weeks, but she graciously consented to provide narration for me this week. So, while I hope you enjoy reading my story, I also hope you’ll click

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

and enjoy hearing Helen read it to you. Thanks again, Helen!

Wallflowers of the Elk Lodge Ballroom

Rhonda turned to Carolyn and shouted over the music, “Thanks again for inviting me. I haven’t been out dancing in ages. This should be fun.”

“Yeah,” Carolyn shouted back, “they have a dance here every month. I’ve been coming for about a year. There’s usually twice as many women as men, but we can always do the line dances and fast songs even without a partner.”

They sipped their soft drinks and watched the mostly middle-aged dancers gyrate around the dance floor.

“Uh-oh,” Carolyn leaned toward her friend. “See that guy coming in wearing the loud print shirt?”

Rhonda glanced at the entrance and nodded.

“That’s Frank. He wears so much after shave it will make your eyes water from ten feet away.”

Rhonda scrunched up her nose in disgust.

“Yeah, I’m surprised the cloud around him isn’t visible it’s so thick. Good thing there’s no smoking allowed in here; one stray spark and he’d burst into a ball of flame.”

Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock ‘n Roll pounded out of massive speakers at one end of the hall and the two friends tapped their feet in time with the beat.

“Oh, there’s Clinton.” Carolyn waved to a man that looked older than most of the crowd. “He’s a sweet guy, but he keeps his hearing aids turned off. The loud music causes feedback apparently. He’s not too bad a dancer, but he won’t say a word while he’s dancing. Hardly talks at all in here for that matter. And of course he won’t hear anything you say either. It’s almost like dancing by yourself, but with someone next to you.”

Rhonda nodded in acknowledgement.

“Yikes! There’s one to stay away from.” Carolyn glanced furtively to her right. “That’s Hank. We call him the Dance Nazi. Stiff as a board and hard to follow. Pushes you around the dance floor, practically tramples you to death, then he tells you what you’re doing wrong all the time.”

Rhonda averted her eyes and sipped her drink.

“That’s Jeff over there. He’s half the age of most of the people in here. He wouldn’t ever tell me what a guy in his twenties is doing hanging out with us. He’s a horrible dancer, but I gotta give him points for enthusiasm. He really does try hard. He just looks so uncomfortable with his own body though, and forget about him being comfortable with yours.”

The DJ announced that he was going to slow things down a bit and the sweet strains of The Tennessee Waltz enveloped the room. A complex pattern of exits, entrances, and partner-changes rippled across the floor. Soon there was a commotion across the room. A woman stormed off leaving her partner open-mouthed and empty-handed.

“Good for her,” said Carolyn. “I call him Grabby Gus. Saw him here for the first time last month. I danced with him for about 30 seconds and excused myself to the bathroom. I felt like I had been patted down by airport security, the man’s hands were all over the place.”

The crowd settled back into its promenade in 3/4 time. A couple dressed all in blue glided by.

“Mmmm,” Carolyn followed the couple with a dreamy-eyed gaze. “We call them Fred and Ginger because they only dance with each other now. Such a shame because he’s gotta be the best dancer in the place. She’s not nearly as good as he is, but, I mean, look at her. Guys always go for the girls with the big boobs.”

Rhonda fished an ice cube from her glass and munched on it.

“Next fast song they play we should just jump on out there,” Carolyn declared. “We might have to ask the guys to dance or just have fun without them. Most of them seemed pretty shy the last couple times I was here.”

“I wonder why?”

“Guys just don’t know what they’re missing.”

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God does not play dice with vampires

Posted by Tim at 00:10 on 2012/01/13

Jan 132012

I have done the maths and I am here to take a byte [pardon the pun] out of the this vampire nonsense. The solution was so simple, I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. You see, it has to do with that bit [no pun intended that time] about immortality. If vampires live forever, barring any unfortunate run-ins with the likes of Van Helsing [or a jilted ex-lover], then the number of vampires in the world must always be increasing.

I don’t know how often a vampire decides to “turn” one of his or her victims. Some of the popular literature might lead me to believe it is a rather common occurrence. I’m inclined to be more conservative though so I chose once per century as the average rate of getting tired of the conversations with the old partner. ["Remember that time when -- ?" I remember everything. "Did I ever tell you about --?" Yeah, dude. Only like about a billion times already.] Let’s face it, even really good friendships probably last less than half that long [and marriages even less, but that's another story. And a different sort of blood-sucker. Ahem.]

It doesn’t seem like such a lot at first. Start with one vampire. A hundred years or so later there are two. And then another hundred years there are three. And so on. But, here’s where the math gets a little tricky, the growth is actually exponential. Because I figure that every vampire is going to turn one of his or her victims at roughly the same rate. I mean, that makes sense, right? It can’t be just that one original vampire doing it all the time. If you were a vampire and suddenly one day the old bat brings home a new BFF, wouldn’t you go out in search of some new blood too [so to speak]?

So what would really happen is that the number of vampires increases from one to two to four to eight and so on. Every kid that ever fell for the old penny-a-day-for-a-month gag knows that exponents start to turn into really big numbers really fast. So the way I figure it, if vampires exist then pretty much everyone in the entire world, except for me of course, would be a vampire by now and that’s just — excuse me. There’s someone at my door insisting that I invite them in. I’ll be right back.

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And to All a Good Night

Posted by Tim at 11:11 on 2012/01/06

Jan 062012

“Evan, is it true?” asked Bob.

“Yup, I’m out of here.”

“But why?”

“Look, Chuckles the Clown here,” Evan rolled his eyes at the security guard that towered over him, “is only giving me one hour to clean out my desk. Come over tonight and I’ll fill you in.”

The security guard, who never enjoyed escorting employees — former employees — off the property, simply glared at him and said nothing.

…

Bob balanced a six pack on top of the pizza box and rang the bell. Evan opened the door and stood there with a distinctive glassy-eyed stare. Several empty cans littered the coffee table and floor. Bringing more beer suddenly seemed like a supremely stupid thing to do.

“Look,” Bob grabbed the six pack and held it behind his back and pushed the pizza box under his friend’s chin, “I brought your favorite meat-lover’s pizza. Let’s sit down and have a slice or three.”

“Sure. Come on in, buddy. Happy frikkin’ new year!”

Evan dropped into his La-Z-Boy while Bob cleared space on the coffee table. When they had both taken a few minutes to wolf down a slice Bob asked, “So, did they really fire you?”

“Technically, I resigned. But they made it clear they would fire me if I didn’t. They even had me date the resignation two weeks ago so it would look like I gave notice.”

“What the hell? I thought things were going great.”

“Apparently there were complaints from customers. Some said they thought I was making fun of them. Some said they were so put off by my attitude that they would never deal with the company again.”

“No way….”

“Way.”

“But did you explain why you were acting –”

“Yeah, right! Tell HR that some ghost appeared to me in a dream? They would have had hauled me off to the loony bin. No, it’s better this way. At least I leave with my dignity intact.”

“I guess so. I mean, is it?”

“Better? Sure”

“Well, no. I mean is your dignity intact? After all, you were acting in good faith. I’m sure those customer’s feathers could have been smoothed over.”

“Probably, but you know when your boss isn’t willing to back you up there’s not much point in fighting. I guess they figure it was too much of a PR hassle.”

“I suppose.”

“I read some of the customer complaints. The big guys just don’t have the balls to stand up to them. Or they really do think I’m wrong. In either case, I’m better off going somewhere else.”

“So what are you going to do? Where are you going to find another job in this economy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a little savings and the boss did slip me some severance pay off the books. I’ll just have to hit the bricks like everyone else.”

“And when they ask why you left your last job?”

Evan mulled it over for a minute. “I’ll tell them I had gone as far as I could with the company and the only way to advance in my career was to go somewhere else. That’s pretty much true.”

“But you won’t tell them about….?”

“The dream? Hell no. Besides, at this point I figure that’s about the worst advice I ever got in my entire life. I might never smile again.”

“Oh, dude… you know I’m your best friend and I’ll stand by you no matter what, but… well, to tell you the truth, I kind of liked you better after that dream.”

“And see what it got me?”

“Yeah, but except for, you know, getting fired, wasn’t it better for you too? I mean this might turn out to be one of those things that looks bad but turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Hmmpff.”

The two friends ate another slice of pizza in silence. But the words Evan had read kept ringing in his ears like taunting silver bells: “excessively cheerful… disgusting happiness… unfettered joy… out of touch with reality….”

…

In a cloaked ship orbiting overhead the aliens marked their experiment on Evan as an unqualified success.

Note: I trust that this restores the faith in my cynicism that some of you thought had slipped away in my Christmas Spirit flash. Happy frikkin’ new year everyone! ~Tim

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Christmas Spirit

Posted by Tim at 00:01 on 2011/12/23

Dec 232011

Evan grumbled more and more through the month of December. “I just can’t get into the Christmas spirit this year,” he said as if that were explanation enough for his sour mood and boorish behavior. He had no patience for the throngs of shoppers. The ubiquitous holiday music further fouled his mood. He was cross with his coworkers and crass with his friends.

Before long his friends began greeting him with, “Bah, humbug,” before saying hello. But nothing, it seemed, would bring him out of his funk.

And then on Christmas Eve he was transformed. He greeted everyone with, “Happy Christmas!” or “Have a wonderful holiday!”

“What gives?” asked his best friend Bob. “You’ve been crabby as hell since before Thanksgiving and now you’re all sunshine and smiles.”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” said Evan.

“Try me.”

“Okay.”

And Evan told this tale:

When I went to bed last night I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, much less get to sleep. Suddenly I became aware of a presence in the room. Someone — or something — was standing at the foot of my bed!

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the figure said.

“I’m not — I mean who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” I said. I sat up and inched toward the headboard to get as far away from the intruder as I could. “Get out. I have a gun!”

“No you don’t, Evan.” The figure chuckled. “And to answer your questions, I am the Spirit of Christmas and I am here to help you.”

“Huh? You mean like with Scrooge? Not that I believe you, but are you the spirit of Christmas past, present, or future?”

“Ah, well Dickens took some dramatic license in his tale. There are not three Spirits, only me. And while I could show you Christmases past or future, I’m really only concerned with the present. You see, you need help now.”

“What, exactly, do you intend to do to me?”

“Oh, dear. I really have frightened you, haven’t I? I won’t do anything to you except talk to you. I want to explain the problem. The rest is up to you to do with, or not, as you wish.”

“Is this because I haven’t gotten into the Christmas spirit this year — if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“No offense taken, but you see, that is exactly the problem. You keep saying you can’t get into the spirit. What you need to do is let the Spirit get into you.”

I pulled my blanket up to my chin. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is this like some alien probe or something?”

“Nothing of the sort. You simply need to be open to the possibility that people need the gifts you have to offer. Not the things you can buy them, although you may find some of those as well, but your gifts don’t have to cost you a penny. Just take a moment to look at the people around you as you go about your day. Many of them won’t need anything more than a smile or a kind word. And the best thing? You’ll be surprised at how much you gain by giving those little bits of yourself.”

“That all sounds a little too ‘woo woo’ to me.”

“Well,” the Spirit laughed, “the simplest things are often the most profound. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. If you look for opportunities to give of yourself, you’ll find them.”

“That’s it? And you won’t keep haunting me about it.”

“You’ll never see me again, except perhaps in the faces of the people you give to. I promise. Now get some sleep. You look awful.” And with that the figure faded from sight.

I remained curled against the headboard with the covers pulled up to my throat for several more minutes watching and waiting for any further sign of the intruder. Finally I gave a huge yawn and realized how very sleepy I was. I stretched out and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

“It was the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” Evan concluded. “And I found out the Spirit was right. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get into Christmas, I wasn’t letting Christmas into me. Once I relaxed and let it in, everything changed. Most people don’t need anything more from me than a smile and a kind word. And it seems I have an abundance of those to give because I get just as many in return.”

Happy Christmas

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Dead Letters

Posted by Tim at 00:01 on 2011/12/16

Dec 162011

Mike is dead.

Michael yanked open his front door and found the street deserted; there was no sign of whoever might have dropped the note through the mail slot. He examined the page. The text was standard laser printer quality. Times New Roman. The paper was cheap white bond that could have come from any office supply store. He dropped the note in the trash, assuming it was some sort of prank, and resumed getting ready for work.

The next morning another sheet fell through the mail slot and skittered across the floor. This time the same brief message was followed by a map and directions. The starting point was his house. The ending point was called Wabasha Street Caves located across the river near St. Paul’s Downtown Airport, Holman Field. At the bottom was another line of text: Tommy Gun Trouble Friday 7:00.

Friday morning there was no note through the mail slot, but when Michael got in his car to go to work he found a duplicate of the map along with two tickets for the Tommy Gun Trouble Murder Mystery Show on the passenger seat. He knew the vehicle had been locked and the alarm set. He was at a loss to explain how the items got there, but his curiosity was overriding his fear.

While his car warmed up he called his wife. “Let’s go out tonight.”

In its checkered past the Wabasha Street Caves housed mobsters and speakeasies. Now the site specializes in historical tours, weddings, conventions, dances, and other events. Just after Michael and his wife were seated in the ballroom a tall, middle-aged man in a tour guide’s uniform approached.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Michael, “there’s a message for you at the cave entrance. If you’ll follow me, please.” Michael excused himself and followed.

“Who’s the message from?” he inquired. But his guide just grinned back at him and quickened his pace. At the cave entrance the guide glanced back again and then entered a small side tunnel. Michael hesitated only a moment and then hurried in pursuit, spurred on by unbridled curiosity. Twice he lost sight of the guide and then spied him again as the distance between them increased. The third time the guide moved out of sight Michael stopped, determined to give up the chase and return to his wife. This is beyond ridiculous, he thought.

Just then he heard a loud whisper. “Psssst. Over here.” A light flickered just around the next bend. Slowly, he moved deeper into the cave once more. When he rounded the bend he found a flashlight and a pocketknife on a small ledge along with another note. Like the first one he had received this one said simply, “Mike is dead.”

Just then there was a terrible crash as the cave ceiling collapsed behind him, trapping him in total darkness.

…

John was perched on his porcelain throne when a single sheet of paper slid under the door. “Who’s there?” he called. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house. Unnerved, he finished his business quickly and retrieved the page. His breathing became labored and his face paled as he shifted his gaze from the note to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

There was a soft rustling noise on the other side of the door and a quiet voice called back.

“It’s Jonathan.”

His body trembled as he read the brief but ominous message printed in neat laser text on the cheap paper.

John is dead.

.
Note: Michael and John both posted pieces recently with the opening line, “Tim is dead.” This is my revenge.
.

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