Scary Stories:

A Collection of Horror

Volume 1

By

Billy Wells

Scary Stories: A Collection of Horror – Volume 1

Copyright © 2013 by Billy Wells

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the members of the Wannabe Writers group for editing the stories and giving me weekly support and encouragement.

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STORIES IN THIS BOOK

SOMETHING IN THE  ATTIC

Norma went to the attic to get her costume for Halloween. After reading from an old book that belonged to a grandma who was burned at the stake during the Salem witch trials, she lapsed into unconsciousness.

FIDO

George lost his job and needs to leave his hometown and start a new life. A rich recluse seems like an easy target to get fast cash except for a sign on the wall surrounding her estate, "Beware of Fido".

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

Four friends make New Year’s resolutions to overcome phobias in the coming year. A month later, three of them have met with unexplained deaths, and the only survivor keeps having nightmares that they were murdered.

RED HATS MASQUERADE BALL

A retired psychopath's favorite past time is wreaking havoc on people she doesn't know.  She can't wait to blind and disfigure a group of ladies with an exploding gag gift at their upcoming Halloween party.

THE ICE MAN

A woman and her boy friend try to convince her bridge partner that her husband is an infamous hit man who has a reputation for unspeakable acts and cruelty.

THE MAKEOVER

A plastic surgeon seeks revenge for being framed by a malicious, wealthy client who bribes the judge, jury, the attorneys, and the warden to make sure he serves hard time in prison for ten years.

THE BLIZZARD

Helen’s Christmas holiday with her husband at her parents’ secluded estate is disrupted by the worst blizzard in over thirty years on the very night a maniac has escaped from the local asylum.

IT LURKS ON THE MOUNTAIN

Three hunters are missing and bloody body parts of headless torsos have been found at Widow’s Peak. Is there really a hairy monster on the mountain or is Bubba Rexrode up to his old tricks?

COLD CALLS

Mortimer will stop at nothing to find new clients for a  failing funeral parlor business passed down to him by his ruthless father.

THE TOMB

The museum director has offered Brian one last chance to keep the job he has held only because of his father's legendary accomplishments. He must find the last undiscovered Egyptian Pharaoh’s tomb, despite ancient beliefs that breaking the seal will bring death to all mankind.

SOMETHING IN THE ATTIC

It was Halloween, Norma's favorite day of the whole year. She couldn't wait for the night to come when there would be magic in the air. Tonight would even be more special since her parents said there would be a full moon. She loved to see all the scary costumes, and she couldn't wait to snack on all the goodies after the tide of trick or treaters stopped coming.

Her parents had gone shopping, and she had nothing else to do but go to the attic and find the costume she would wear tonight.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she saw a group of boxes near the window with the words "HALLOWEEN" written in black Magic Marker. As she moved closer to them, the ceiling became lower, and she had to crouch to avoid hitting her head on the rafters. Several dead wasps littered the top of the insulation on the floor.

As she started to pull down the carton of Halloween paraphernalia, she noticed the familiar, but weird black box covered in a strange fabric labeled “GRANDMA HECATE” beside it. Just like last year, the strange box intrigued her, and since it was only early afternoon, she decided to rummage through it before selecting her Halloween costume.

Grandma Hecate had passed away five years before when Norma was only eight years old. For most of her life, Grandma had lived in a small cottage at the edge of the swamps in Louisiana. When she became too senile to care for herself, she had moved in with them in New Orleans. Norma remembered all the wonderful presents Grandma had given her when she was a little girl. She also recalled how Grandma always smelled like cinnamon when she crawled up on her lap to listen to bedtime stories.

Inside the carton, she found a mishmash of souvenirs, old books, boxes of ancient photographs, and several Cabbage Patch dolls. And like last year, she picked up the old diary with yellow, brittle pages and opened it.

Norma knew the diary had belonged to her Great, Great, Great, Great Grandma Priscilla, who her mother said the Puritans burned at the stake during the Salem witch trials. Grandma Hecate had told her scary stories about what happened to their beloved ancestor over three hundred years ago. She said it was a terrible time in American history and very traumatic for our family.

This strange black book always fascinated Norma. She had never seen anything like it. Turning the yellow pages that had come loose from their binding, she marveled at the Satanic passages her Grandma said were incantations to various goblins and demons. Much of the writing written in dark red ink looked like blood. She remembered reading some of the passages when she came to the attic last year for her Halloween costume.

Putting Priscilla’s book aside, Norma noticed a small ragged volume tucked vertically between the other books. Pulling it free in a cloud of dust, she began to browse through it. The condition of this coverless book was much worse than the others. The pages were even more dog-eared and had turned almost orange in color. She immediately assumed it was even older than the black book that dated back to the late seventeenth century. On the top of the first page, someone had written, “To Hecate, for your eyes only. Simon.”

Norma didn't remember seeing this book before and began reading the first page with great interest. After reading a few more pages, a strange feeling came over her. When she tried to get up, she lapsed into unconsciousness and slumped to the floor.

* * *

When Norma awakened several hours later, she found herself dazed and disoriented with her head resting against the box of Grandma's Hecate belongings. Night had fallen, and turning to look outside, she saw the full moon framed in the window and gasped. She’d never experienced such an odd feeling. She wondered if she’d had an allergic reaction to something in the attic. Had a wasp stung her?

Immediately, she placed the old book on the floor, and struggling to her feet in a stupor, she scurried down the stairs in a panic.

“This was unbelievable,” she thought. She had somehow fallen asleep and had not done one thing her parents had asked her to do to prepare for Halloween, the most important night of the year.

Racing to the cupboard, she grabbed several bags of candy. The kitchen clock read 8:05. She grimaced at the thought she may have missed the entire parade of trick-or-treaters. Most parents would not allow their children to beg for candy much later than eight o’clock in this neighborhood.

Norma trudged out on the front porch dejected and disappointed. She doubted anyone would come this late, but then, to her surprise, a diminutive zombie dressed like something from the Walking Dead TV show shambled up to the picket fence. A shorter monster wearing a Freddie Krueger costume, complete with plastic knives on his fingers and a fedora hat, stood beside him ready to spring into the yard.

As the zombie started to pull the catch to open the gate, both monsters spotted Norma sitting in the shadows and froze in their tracks. The zombie withdrew his hand like he’d touched a hot potato, and the two of them ran screaming down the street.

Norma couldn't understand what had happened. Then, looking down at what she was wearing, she realized she had forgotten to put on her Alice in Wonderland costume. It was the best one she had to lure unsuspecting humans right into her mole-covered hands. She’d gone to the attic to get it but forgot to put it on. She had never blundered so badly. The two children who had come to the gate had seen her real face, which, understandably, had scared them out of their wits.

Suddenly, over the rooftops, Norma saw two shadows fly across the moon. She felt a sudden chill in the air and detected the faint smell of brimstone. Then, she heard the familiar voice of her father as her parents swooped down in the front yard and dismounted their broomsticks.

Her mind seemed cloudy as she gathered her thoughts to speak, but before she could utter a word, her mother asked excitedly, "How many trick-or-treaters did you lure into the torture chamber for next year’s meal program?"

Norma continued to sit there looking into space and said nothing.

“Well, how many?” her father barked.

“None,” Norma said blankly.

“None?’” her father shrieked, slamming his chainsaw and hatchet down on the front porch, “I told you not to drink so much of that brew for lunch. You know how much it mellows you. You've squandered the most important night of the year.”

His face reddened as he stood fuming and waited for an explanation for Norma’s lack of follow-through. When she still didn’t respond, he continued to rant, “I can't get over the way you teenagers let so many golden opportunities slip by to make something of yourselves. This was your chance to put your name on the leader board, and what did you do? Zero kills on Halloween. Pathetic. Worse than pathetic.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I found two dog-eared books in the attic, which sidetracked me. I think one belonged to Great, Great, Great, Great Grandma Priscilla from 1683, and the other belonged to Grandma Hecate, at least someone had written her name on the inside cover. When I started reading, a strange feeling came over me, and I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, it was dark, I felt woozy, and my head was spinning.”

“I told you the brew was potent. It contains eye of newt,” her mother piped in as a black cat crossed their paths.

“I don’t know, Mother.” Norma said perplexed, “I’ve been drinking your brew every Halloween, but it never made me feel like this.”

“Well, don't worry, darling,” the old hag croaked. “We bagged enough of the annoying little creeps on the playground right before school closed for the whole family. We hid them in an abandoned graveyard. They’ll keep nicely until morning, and we can have one for breakfast. You can help us load the rest of their carcasses into the dump truck for cold storage. You’ll feel better after a good nightmare.”

“Did you chop off any of their fingers and toes?” Norma asked, licking her slimy lips, “You know I have a sweet tooth.”

“Yes, we knew you’d want something to snack on this evening,” her mother said, dragging a black sack from behind her back and putting it down on the front porch.

Norma picked out a thumb dog with sauerkraut and mustard her mother had wrapped in a bloody rag and popped it between her fangs, wrapper, and all. “Ugh!” she gasped, spitting out a sliver of bone and taking a drink. This was one of her favorite snacks, but tonight, she could barely get it down even with a goblet of blood chaser.

Her father selected a slice of cheek from the bloody stew of body parts in the bag and went inside the house to take a pee and find some salsa for dipping.“

Popping a chocolate eyeball between her black teeth, her mother knew something was very wrong with her daughter. Norma had barely touched the juicy tongue with some of the roots still attached that most witches would crawl into bed with the devil for, “You're not yourself tonight, Norma. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I don’t think it was the brew, Mother. Something came over me when I read Grandma’s old book. Somehow for the first time in my life, I didn't have my usual craving to butcher the two little trick-or-treaters that came to the gate.”

“For Satan’s sake,” her mother hissed. “Don’t let your father hear you say that. If he knew puny mortals came to our yard, and you let them live, he’d go ballistic. Why we’d be the laughing-stock of the coven and never live it down.”

“I felt so strange after reading that chapter from the book,” Norma swooned as more shadows flew across the moon.

“What was this strange book you found in Granny’s old box?”

Norma looked look up at her mother with a strange light in her eyes and whispered, not wanting her father to hear, “the cover was missing, but the inside page read, “Holy Bible”.

FIDO

George stood in the cover of the stand of trees eyeballing the eight-foot high brick fence surrounding the property. He'd passed the old Nightshade house countless times but had never seen a living soul in the window or in the yard.

He remembered hearing the old timers at the local store say an old woman lived here who married a rich man who owned oil wells in Texas. On their first night at home, after returning from their honeymoon, some psychopath had broken into their house and hacked her husband to pieces with a hatchet. He could be mistaken, but he thought someone said the murderer had put the young bride’s eyes out with a screwdriver before he left.

George was severely down on his luck, and he was desperate. His boss had just fired him from his high paying job as Director of Road Kill in Prince William County. After years of shoveling up hundreds of maggot-infested carcasses all over the back roads of Woodbridge and Occoquan, he had been promoted to director when his mentor, Mr. Harris, had passed away.

None of his so-called friends had congratulated him on his promotion when the commissioner announced it. They were thoroughly pissed off they didn’t get chosen for the job. Larry Donahue, one of his best friends, even told him to his face he was an idiot and would never last as director. He was so mad he threw his paperweight against the wall and stormed out of the office to get drunk. George thought it amazing how his achieving such a lofty position in the county had completely severed his relationship with all his old road kill compadres.

After he moved into his prestigious office with a desk, a chair, and two file cabinets with a panoramic view of the new sewer plant, George waited for something he could use to get even with good old Larry.

Finally, one day, like a bolt from the blue, it occurred to George that Larry was overstating the mileage on his expense accounts. In every case, George found that Larry had doubled the mileage to every location, and over a five-year period, had cheated the county out of $131. He knew this because he had done the same thing for years just like everyone else who drove his own car occasionally on county business. The only difference was that Larry Donahue had made that snide remark about George’s promotion, and he had to pay.

He would never forget the look on Larry’s face when the guard escorted him out of the building on that final Friday. He wouldn’t even let him access his computer after working there for more than ten years.

After five years as director, George ran the Road Kill Department like a tyrant until his fetish for flashing women in the parking lot finally led to his termination.

The coup de gras was when the last woman he flashed, instead of running off screaming like the others, snapped a picture of his manhood in all its glory on her phone and reported him. The first time a woman had filed a complaint, one year earlier, he had disputed the woman's accusations as a malicious attack on his character to advance her own career in the Road Kill department. The Board of Sanitation took George’s word as director over the lowly administrative assistant and fired the troublemaking female without even a hearing.

This time he’d been caught with his pants down, literally, and the picture and the record of the previous complaint in his file had sealed his doom.

Just like Larry, his old drinking buddy, the guard wouldn’t let him access his computer either when he escorted him to the parking lot on his final Friday. Looking back on that pivotal day in his life, he couldn’t stop asking himself the same question. Why had he exposed himself in the parking lot where he worked? What was he thinking? Why hadn’t he driven twenty miles away to the mall in Fredericksburg to expose his penis to a woman in that county? At the very least, why hadn’t he worn a ski mask to conceal his identity?

Try as he may, he could not erase the blemish on his record. Wherever he went, his reputation preceded him, and, consequently, no one would hire him. He had no choice but to pull up stakes and start over somewhere else far away. But, he needed a stake for road money and cash to make ends meet until he found a new job.

George was convinced that robbing the oil heiress would certainly be his ticket out of Prince William County.

To make sure he would not blow this excellent opportunity, he decided to go down to the general store and shoot the shit with the old timers to find out all he could about the mysterious recluse. He didn’t want to go off half cocked as he had in the parking lot. What could a decrepit, blind woman do against a man who could bench press three hundred pounds? Robbing her would be like taking candy from a baby.

To top it all off, tonight would be the perfect night to break in and take the money. The weatherman said a fog bank would move into the area later that evening.

When George entered the store, he saw Harry, Paul, and Ed beating their gums in the back near the vending machines. All of them were sitting on folding chairs drinking coffee that had probably been made early that morning.

“Howdy, gents,” George said, settling on the last unoccupied chair. The three elderly men looked at each other like cats that just swallowed the canary.

“Hey, George, any luck finding a job?” Paul asked politely, even though he already knew the answer.

“No, no one will hire me, now that the bitch has blackballed me.”

They looked at each other again sheepishly, and Harry said, “Did you try the chicken plant; they always seem to have an opening in the eviscerating room?”

“Yeah, I checked with them, and they said there’s no openings right now, but they would put me on the waiting list.”

After a long pregnant silence, George decided to put out a feeler, “You know, fellas, when I passed by the old Nightshade house this morning, I saw a face in the window on the second floor.”

“Really,” Ed said in disbelief, “no one I know has caught a glimpse of the old woman who lives there for nigh on twenty years. Fred Barnes told me he’s been delivering groceries to the back door every Friday for more than ten years, and he's never seen the woman once. She leaves a check under the mat for him.”

“How old do you think she might be,” George asked, pretending to yawn to show his lack of interest.

“Clarese, that’s her name,” Harry said, scratching his head and taking another sip of coffee. “She got married when she was about twenty in 1959. I guess that would make her almost seventy-five by now. She was Albert Wilkerson’s daughter by a second marriage. Her pappy wasn’t rich by any means, but he wasn’t poor either. She met the young man she married at a frat party at UVA as I recall. It must have been love at first sight ‘cause they married right after graduation.”

“She must come out sometime,” George replied.

“Fred said she has visitors once in a great while, but they’re not from around here. Except for him delivering groceries, no one from these parts has stepped foot on her property for fifty years as far as I know,” Paul explained.

“How does Fred get in the gate to deliver the groceries if she don’t come out to let him in?” George asked.

“She has some kind of remote control device,” Paul explained.

“So you think you saw someone in the window this morning,” Harry said skeptically.

“I saw someone peeking out from the second floor window,” George muttered, as the smell of the rank coffee began to make his stomach churn.

After everyone remained silent for a time, George slapped his knee and said, “That woman has to be as crazy as a shithouse rat to stay alone in that old house all these years. Her mind must be like mush.”

Ed looked up from his crossword puzzle, “She's not entirely alone.”

“What do you mean, she’s not alone?”

Fred says there is a sign in several places on the brick wall that says “BEWARE OF FIDO.”

“Fido?” George said in bewilderment.

“I guess the old bitty has a dog to keep her company. She also has an entrance at the back of the property with a loading dock.”

“A loading dock?” George said, totally confused, and then replied, “What a strange old bird.”

“She’s strange all right,” Paul nodded in agreement. “She was always strange even when I pulled her pigtails in the third grade. If looks could kill, I would have died when I was eight years old. She had a mean streak in her that was as plain as the nose on her face. If she’s been sitting there day after day, month after month, year after year never going anywhere, she must be waiting for something, and she’s afraid she’ll miss it if she leaves.”

“Waiting for what?” George asked, his face narrowing into a question mark.

“Dunno,” Paul responded. “Maybe for the maniac who hacked up her husband fifty years ago. They never did find out who did it.”

“That’s insane, where did you ever come up with that crazy idea?”

“Then, you tell me, George,” Paul replied. “Why else would she stay there all these years and never go anywhere. She's got something on her mind, and whatever it is, she doesn't want anyone in these parts to know what it is.”

“Why are you so interested in the old crazy woman anyway,” Ed inquired suspiciously.

“Like I said,” George replied, “I saw someone in that window this morning, and it made me wonder what her story really is.”

George saw the black coating in the bottom of their coffee cups that almost gagged him when he rose to leave.

“Sure you don't want a cup of coffee, George, it's on us.”

“No, Paul, I'll pass this time, fellas,” George said, half smiling.

As he opened the door to leave at the front of the store, he heard the stifled tittering of the three old timers in the back. He knew they knew why he’d lost his job, but they hadn’t rubbed it in, at least, not to his face.

George believed the old woman had money. She probably had loads of cash under her mattress. She even had a loading dock. The brick wall around the property must have cost a fortune.

The only wrinkle he hadn't planned on was Fido. What kind of dog was it? Dogs could be scary. He knew that from catching strays and delivering them to the local shelter. Some dogs could weigh almost two hundred pounds, but Fido sounded more like a cocker spaniel, not a Doberman, or a wolfhound.

George returned to his trailer to settle his nerves before he left for the break-in. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, and he was hungry.

Tonight was the night. He shoplifted a rope from the hardware store and a small flashlight. He forgot the batteries and had to go back to get them. They were harder to steal since they were in a rack right on top of the register, and old man Jacobs kept watching him like a hawk.

He planned to use the rope to get far enough up in the tree to hop on the top of the wall. From there, he would walk along the bricks to where the wall bordered the corner of the house. He was pretty sure he could reach the roof of the porch from there and get to one of the upstairs windows.

Everything would be simple, if not for Fido. No matter how he entered, the dog would sense him and start barking. The old woman might even have an alarm system that could be set off by motion detectors.

Whatever happened, he had no choice at this point. If he couldn't get into the house, he would have to try hitchhiking out-of-town. Once in the car, he would knock the driver in the head, steal his car, take whatever money he had on him, and hope for the best.

As the sun faded on the horizon, a fog bank oozed eerily across the landscape. George’s stomach growled as he stood under the oak tree next to the brick wall, listening for the sound of a barking dog. He hadn’t heard a peep when his watch told him it was time to make his move. He found a branch on the ground under the tree and pitched it over the wall into the yard to see if it would set off a motion detector.

When the branch landed without consequence, George’s head darted in all directions. Could he be this lucky? He simply couldn’t believe no alarm sounded. The night remained as silent as a tomb as the fog continued to roll in.

The old hag could have a silent alarm that automatically called the police. There was no way to tell. He would keep his eyes open, but he didn’t think he would see flashing lights in this fog if the police did show up.

George crept along the top of the wall until he reached the corner of the porch. Standing on tiptoes, he leaned forward, and steadying himself against the wall, he gripped the frame of the only window he could reach and attempted to open it.

He couldn't believe his eyes when the window slid up without the slightest creak. Placing both hands on the sill, he jumped forward and stuck his upper torso halfway inside the dark room. Without knowing what lurked inside, he felt like a man with his head in a guillotine. Wasting no time, he squirmed from side to side until his whole body slid silently to the floor inside the black room. He listened for Fido's bark and braced for an attack, but nothing happened.

The house remained deadly silent. So silent, George wondered if the old woman was really inside. Maybe the old timers and Fred were wrong, and she did make secret trips no one knew about.

George dropped into a crouch, crept across the dark room, and peeked out the open door into the hallway. Hearing nothing from the room directly in front of him, he stealthily crossed the hall, slipped inside the door, and put his back against the wall.

Pulling out the small flashlight, he pointed it into the pitch darkness and turned it on. Recoiling backwards as if hit squarely between the eyes with a Louisville slugger, he saw a floor to ceiling portrait of a young man in a tuxedo smiling back at him about ten feet away. The red boutonniere in his lapel was so striking; it seemed to have a three-dimensional quality against the backdrop of his black and white suit. The portrait was obviously the work of an accomplished artist who had painted a young man so lifelike he looked like a living, breathing person.

As George drew closer, the young man’s eyes seemed to follow him. His foot bumped against the edge of a platform about half as high as a normal bed, lying directly in front of the portrait. George lowered the flashlight and saw the outline of a body covered by a sheet of white linen except for the head. Moving up the length of the torso, George saw the gaping hollow sockets of a skull much like the horrible face of the thing in the rocking chair in “Psycho.” The shreds of flesh that remained looked like ugly patches of dried scabs clinging to the bone. The rictus grin of its yellow teeth weakened his knees like something from his worst nightmare.

Suddenly, the high keening sound of a maniacal screech reverberated in the massive interior, and the rasp of a voice straight from hell shrieked, “I've been waiting for you all these years. I’d almost given up hope when my doctor advised me my leprosy had finally returned as he predicted it would so many years ago. But you're here now, that's all that matters. I’ve prayed for this moment. And now that I know you can’t escape, I can let go at last and die peacefully, knowing you will pay dearly for what you did to me and my poor Archibald.”

George's eyes darted about the shadows cast by the small beam of light like a cornered bird out of its cage. The room appeared to be a perfect square with one window closed off by a black shutter and the door he entered by.

“Look lady, I don't mean to burst your bubble, but I'm not who you apparently think I am. Come and look at me. I'm thirty-five years old, not some 75-year-old ax murderer. I am just a guy down on my luck who needs road money to get out of this sorry town. Grease my palm with some cash, and you can have your life back. At least, whatever's left of it.”

After a prolonged silence, the rasp continued, “Nice try, Satan, but I know it's you. I’d know that voice anywhere. I'm blind, and I can't see your face or anything else since you put out of my eyes with that screwdriver, but I see you in my nightmares every night just like it was yesterday.”

“Someone said the old woman may have been blinded by the fiend who hacked up her husband,” George muttered under his breath, “and damned if they weren’t right.” He suddenly felt a pang of guilt that he had intruded on this pathetic creature. “Hey, I'm sorry about your eyes, I didn't know you were blind. It's nothing personal. I'm just here for the money. If you could see me, you’d see I’m a young man. I'm not the killer. I'd swear on a stack of bibles.”

George heard the sound of a clank from somewhere below and the creak of an ancient hinge moving in protest. Then came the clinking of chains scraping against iron bars and then the rattling on what sounded like a cement floor.

“What could that be?” he wondered.

Suddenly, instead of guilt, another more gut-wrenching feeling gripped him. A creepy, crawly premonition that something terrible was about to happen.

He turned abruptly to retreat to the open window where he’d come in across the hall. Plan B looked better at this point, he’d just rob some motorist and leave the woman alone. As he bolted to escape, his foot tangled in the linen draped across the platform before him. As he fell with a thud to the floor, he exposed the lower portion of what lay on the platform. Struggling to his feet, in the beam of the flashlight, George saw the hideous skull was attached to the muscular torso of a male sex doll like he’d seen one time on HBO.

Its permanent erection protruded from between its bulging, sinewy legs. Nipple rings glinted in the beam of light like golden crescent moons studded with diamonds.

George stood aghast at the mind-numbing erotic image of a seventy something bag of bones riding bareback atop a robotic doll man with the face of a skull.

He imagined the portrait of the young man on the wall was there to turn her on like a man would use the centerfold of an old skin magazine. But what good would the picture do if she were blind? He could only guess the portrait was there before she was blinded, and she could still see it in her memory.

Why had the old woman replaced the handsome face of the sex doll with the skull of dear Archibald? George didn’t know that either, but like his pappy always said, “It takes all kinds of people to make a world.”

Without further analysis, he bolted through the door and sprinted across the hall toward the doorway of the room with the open window to the outside.

Hell-bent on fleeing this death trap, George exploded headlong into an immovable panel blocking his escape route that wasn’t there a few minutes before. The sudden agony of his face flattening on the steel covering the doorway approached the excruciating pain of a three hundred pound lineman kicking him in the balls in his junior year. He slumped to the floor in a heap.

As he lay there dazed from the collision with the panel, he heard a sudden yelp from below that reminded him of the sound someone makes plunging upside down through the loop de loop of a roller coaster. Then, he heard a sickening squish like someone had run over a watermelon with a steamroller, followed by a loud thump like a softball hitting a brick wall. He could only assume the series of snaps and pops emanating afterward were someone’s bones breaking.

George struggled to his feet in a stupor and cowered against the wall, cringing in unbridled fear. He placed his hands over his ears, but he could still hear the slurping, the sucking, and the awful chewing that sent his mind deeper into a maniacal frenzy.

After a series of grunts and belches, he heard the chain rattling across the floor, closer this time… much closer than before. Barely able to muster a voice, he wheezed, “Mrs. Nightshade, are you all right? What are those awful sounds?”

He listened, and the chains stopped moving… as if whatever had made the sounds was now listening to him. George struggled to his feet as the sound of the chain striking each step as something ascending the stairway caused his heart to pound faster and faster until he thought it would explode.

George continued to struggle like a wild man to remove the panel blocking his path to the open window. His fingernails became bloody stumps as he clawed futility on the unmovable steel panel, and then, he gasped when he heard the chain finally clunk on the floor at the top of the landing. A smell like rancid meat began to assault his nostrils.

He picked up the flashlight that had fallen to the floor and pointed it toward the end of the hall. The beam of light fixed on the bloody head of an old woman suspended from a hairy fist attached to a harrier, giant arm.

Suddenly, the head spun across the distance of the space in a strobe light effect as it pulsated in and out of the light until it landed with a splat at his feet. A splash of blood spattered his cheek as he lowered the light and saw the mutilated, eyeless face with only a hank of hair clinging to the exposed flesh above her missing left ear.

George heard the ferocious growl of something born from the depths of hell as a dark, hairy shape filled the space at the end of the hall from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Then, like a herd of buffalo, it came bounding toward him with its hideous bloody teeth and massive muscles bulging.

The last thing George saw was the small dog tag hanging from its neck that read “FIDO.”

NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

Every New Year’s Eve since they graduated from college seven years ago, Ben and his friends, Frank, Murray, and Harold, met at the Purple Puma Lounge to make resolutions for the coming year.

In keeping with their annual custom, they were well on their way toward inebriation when Frank proposed the theme for this year.

“Did you guys see the movie, The Bucket List’?” Frank asked, and then belched.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Harold replied. “It was damned good.” Ben nodded in agreement, and watched a busty coed swivel by on her way to the ladies’ room.

Murray shook his head and said with disdain, “Everybody said how great it was, and I wanted to see it, but somehow I never did.”

“One of the first things Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman decided to do before they kicked the bucket was to go skydiving,” Frank replied. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a bad case of acrophobia, the fear of high places. So…I’m making skydiving my New Year’s resolution for this year, and I propose we make a pact that each of us will eliminate something from our own personal bucket list this year we never thought we’d have the balls to do.”

His friends looked at each other in dumbfounded amazement at this unexpected proposal to go skydiving.

Frank saw the shocked expressions on his friends’ faces and continued, “After years of not being able to go on an airplane because of my fear of heights, I’ve decided not only to go up in a plane, but I’m going to jump out of one. I’ve been to a shrink, and he says I’m ready.”

“Skydiving,” Ben said, pounding on the bar and laughing so hard, he couldn’t catch his breath. “You’d better pick an alternative resolution, dear friend. Something you might actually go through with when you’re sober.”

“Yeah, Frank.” Harold chided, “Ever since you almost fell off the barn roof when you were ten, you’ve had trouble taking an elevator above the fifth floor.”

“Not anymore,” Frank said with determination. “I’m a new man. Come down to the airfield on January 2 and watch me go airborne at over 5,000 feet.”

“I’ve got $100 that says you won’t make the jump,” Murray declared drunkenly.

The three of them teased Frank mercilessly about his insane idea of going skydiving the rest of the evening. No one thought he would actually go through with it.

That is, until they arrived at the small airport on that cold January morning. Frank looked like a little kid with a new toy, grinning from ear to ear in his blue helmet that looked much too big for his head.

Once the plane took off, and Frank was in the air, the three of them stopped laughing and stood spellbound as they watched the small aircraft get smaller and smaller as it climbed higher and higher into the sky.

After a time, Harold, whose nickname was Hawkeye because he had the best vision of the four of them, said, “Shit, I think he just jumped out of the plane. At least, someone did.”

Ben couldn’t see what Harold was seeing; he had the poorest vision of the four. Biting his fingernail into the quick, he shouted, “What’s happening now?”

“He must have pulled the ripcord! The chute is spiraling downward,” Harold screamed above the roar of another plane taking off.

“I don’t know much about parachuting, but I don’t think you’re supposed to pull the ripcord that soon,” Murray said, in a worried tone.

“Oh, no!” Harold squealed at the top of his lungs.

“What?” Ben shouted.

“The chute didn’t open. It looks like a giant streamer trailing behind him. He’s freefalling,” Harold shouted.

Murray said, trying to stay calm. “He’ll be okay. I read all about it on the Internet last night. Frank has a backup chute. If the primary doesn’t open, he’ll release it, and once it’s out of the way, he’ll manually pull out the backup on his stomach and let it fly.”

“Oh, no!“ Harold shrieked.

“What?” Murray and Ben asked in unison, squinting into the blinding sun.

“He didn’t release the first parachute, and the backup is wrapping around it.”

They stood there in horror, listening to Frank’s gut wrenching scream as he neared the ground. He landed not far away with a bone-crushing thump in a sickening, heap of blood and guts, topped with a blue helmet. Ben would never forget that scream if he lived a thousand years.

It was bitter cold the morning Frank was buried. Snow had covered the cemetery during the night. The three of them had volunteered to be pallbearers, but Harold didn’t show up, and someone else they barely knew had taken his place.

Even before he entered the church for the funeral service, Ben had planned to sit as far back as possible. He did not intend to go up front to view Frank’s body in the coffin, but when he stepped inside, he caught a glimpse of his friend in the casket before he could turn away.

Immediately, he wished he hadn’t seen the body. Murray said it would give him closure, and make him feel better. Ben would always regret listening to this nonsense. He was convinced that dead people never look the way they did when they were alive, and this proved it.

At first glance, from where he sat, Ben thought Frank’s hair was combed like Elvis. After a pause, he groaned to Murray and the other person in the pew, “Why does his face look so puffy?”

The stranger seated next to Murray whispered, “The mortician probably stuffed too much cotton in his mouth. It’s surprising he looks this good after falling from an airplane.”

Another person next to him, talking through his hand said, “There wouldn’t have been an open casket if Frank’s fall hadn’t been broken by the pine boughs he fell through on the way down. If he’d hit the ground, he’d just be a stew of blood and guts.”

“Please, the children,” an obese woman hissed. Afterward, everyone around him went silent.

Ben hated the way his friend looked. The undertaker had twisted a ridiculous smile on Frank’s face that reminded him of the Joker’s Cheshire cat grin in a Batman comic. What a mistake. Now, he would remember Frank looking like a clown in the coffin rather than the way he looked the last time he‘d seen him, which was inebriated and happy.

After the ceremony at the cemetery, Ben and Murray received the unbelievable news that Harold had driven his SUV through a guardrail and crashed in a ball of fire at the bottom of a cliff. An eyewitness told police there was no one else in the car. Later that night, the police told Ben and Murray, it appeared to be a suicide. They wondered if Frank’s death had pushed him over the edge.

Five days later, Ben and Murray attended Harold’s funeral. The injuries sustained in the crash did not allow for an open casket ceremony, which suited Ben just fine.

In February, Murray informed Ben he had decided to go through with his New Year’s resolution, which was to spend the night in a haunted house. Murray never went to horror movies when he was growing up and had bad dreams when he watched spooky shows on TV. All the kids had made fun of him and called him a sissy when he wouldn’t go with them to a scary movie.

Murray always said he envied people who were unaffected by horror movies, haunted houses, things that go bump in the night, and he wanted to be one of them. To finally quell his phobia, he had been going to the same shrink Frank had hired.

Just before Christmas, after extensive hypnosis sessions and passing a series of tests, Murray’s therapist, a Doctor Winthrop, advised him he was cured, and he would never have the phobia again. To prove it, Murray had already decided to spend the night at the Schram House; a legendary mansion with a dark history that all the old timers said was haunted.

After the last appointment with the shrink, Murray had called Ben and asked him to meet for drinks at the Purple Puma at seven o’clock the night following his stay at Schram House to celebrate.

On the night they’d planned to meet, Ben arrived early and was already one drink ahead when the bar clock on the wall read seven. After another drink, when Murray didn’t show and didn’t call, Ben called him, and it automatically went to the message center. After stopping by his apartment and finding Murray wasn’t there, he had an eerie feeling something bad may have happened at the Schram house.

Ben didn’t believe in ghosts or haunted houses, but going to the Schram mansion at night by himself was something he would never do. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to wait until morning to find out what happened to Murray. In desperation, he called a friend of his father’s, Matt Hawkins, who was now the local sheriff. He hoped he might do him a favor and go with him to look for Murray if he wasn’t too busy. Sure enough, Matt agreed to meet him at the Schram house in a half hour.

Ben shuddered when he saw the spooky house in the distance at the end of a lonely road. As he approached the large menacing structure he’d always heard was over 150 years old, he saw the yard surrounding the dilapidated monstrosity was a tangle of overgrown weeds and gnarled trees. Behind the discolored picket fence at the back of the property, he saw a graveyard with leaning headstones of all shapes and sizes. A low-lying mist crept along the ground around the twenty-bedroom shell that had been falling apart for over twenty years.

As he pulled into the driveway bordering the expansive front porch, Ben noticed most of the windowpanes were missing or broken. The huge front door squeaked eerily back and forth on rusty hinges like a black portal into Hell. The gaping void seemed to beckon him as he sat with raw nerves in his car and waited for Matt to arrive. A bitter cold wind moaned through the cracks and crevasses of the ominous facade.

Everyone who lived in the vicinity knew that the last owner, Philip Bartholomew, had hacked his wife and children to pieces before he disappeared and was never heard from again. To add to the gruesome legend of the Schram residence, the family before the Bartholomew’s met a grisly death at the hands of a mental patient who had escaped from the Rothschild asylum. The deranged maniac had chained up the husband, wife, and two children, and hacking off one limb at a time, had made a meal of them for three months.

Knowing Murray’s fear of scary places, Ben could not imagine him coming here alone after dark and was totally shocked when he saw his friend’s Mustang parked in front of the house. He pulled behind it, locked his own doors and windows, and continued to wait for Matt to arrive. He didn’t see Murray in his car, but he didn’t want to take a closer look by himself.

Finally, he saw the lights of another car coming up the driveway and was happy to see it was Matt Hawkins. Ben met the Sheriff in the yard.

Matt pointed his flashlight into the gloom and said, “You say Murray said he was going to spend the night here last night?”

“That’s right, Matt. He’d been going to a shrink, and this was supposed to be the conclusive test that his phobia had been cured.“

They went to look inside Murray’s car. It was locked, but peering through the driver’s side window, they saw nothing suspicious.

They also inspected the other side, and finding nothing unusual proceeded to the front door of the eerie mansion. They looked at each other, dreading what came next. Their faces were as white as a sheet as they approached the ominous structure. Matt inhaled a lung full of air, and they went in.

Immediately, the beam of his flashlight illuminated the hideous face of Murray sitting in a large armchair directly in front of the front door. Both wrists were slashed, and two large pools of dried blood had accumulated on the floor. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and a straight razor lay open on his lap. His white shirt was soaked with blood from the neck wound. The worse part was seeing the expression on Murray’s face. He looked like he had seen the devil himself. The Sheriff called for the coroner and the paramedics.

“What do you think? Is this a suicide or a murder?” Ben asked.

Matt hesitated, and after a time replied, “There’s nothing here that suggests anything more than suicide. Murray could have sliced his wrists and his throat before he bled out, but the coroner might find something suspicious when he does the autopsy.”

“I can’t imagine Murray killing himself, but I never thought Harold would either, yet, three people saw him drive his car off the cliff.”

Just like the memory of Frank’s death scream, if Ben lived another thousand years, he would never forget the look on Murray’s face.

Matt said grimly, “I’ve seen some pretty grisly things in my time. Murders, mutilations, bad auto accident victims, but I’ve never seen a look on a dead person’s face like this. What in hell did the poor bastard think he saw when he was hacking and slicing himself to death with the straight razor. He should have put a gun in his mouth and blown his brains out rather than go through all this.”

“Murray didn’t own a gun,“ Ben replied blankly, shaking his head, and trying to hold back the tears. “I didn’t know he owned a straight razor either for that matter.”

Matt started inspecting the rest of the crime scene, and making notes on a pad he withdrew from his shirt pocket, he aid, shaking his head, “That shrink must have been out of his mind to tell Murray to spend the night in this place.”

“It was Edgar Winthrop who gave him the okay, and he’s the most highly respected psychiatrist in the state as far as I know. I’ve never heard anyone say a negative thing about him. He has successfully helped God knows how many people not only in the state, but also in the country.

“His reputation is excellent all right,” the sheriff added. “In fact, my wife went to him when she had some issues that troubled her after her mother died.”

After another two hours with the rescue squad, the coroner, and the police, Ben headed toward his car to leave. As he approached the Murray’s Mustang, he saw something shiny underneath in the headlights. Stooping down, he picked up a large silver coin. Matt, who was talking with some men on the porch, saw him and came over to see what he’d found. Ben showed him the coin and asked, “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“You know I think I did see a coin like this somewhere, but I can’t place where,” Matt said, turning it over and looking at the other side. “When it comes to me, and I think it will, I’ll call you.”

Ben left Matt with the coroner and his crew, and stopped at a bar for a few Cuervo shots to settle his nerves before he went home. Now, all three of his best friends were dead. As he sat there getting wasted, he couldn’t get the look on Murray’s face out of his mind.

* * *

Six days later, Ben attended the funeral for Murray. At the gravesite, he ran into Matt and told him about the terrible nightmares he’d been having every night since the death of his friends. The Sheriff advised him to make an appointment with Dr. Winthrop before he had a breakdown or something worse.

When he finally decided to call, he couldn’t get an appointment with the esteemed doctor for two weeks. In the meantime, Matt had called to tell him they had closed the files on the deaths of his three fiends, which the authorities concluded were suicides.

* * *

Finally, the day of the appointment came after two weeks of sleepless nights. When Ben approached the mammoth dwelling perched on a hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, he felt sad that he would probably never enjoy living in a luxurious place like this himself. Winthrop was one of the richest and most respected doctors in the state. Many thought he might run for the senate as a stepping-stone to the Presidency.

Sitting in the parking lot, he thought of taking off, but someone inside saw him pull into the driveway. Leaving now would be embarrassing, and he’d probably have to pay for the session anyway.

The left side of the mansion was dedicated to the psychiatric practice. He saw the sign and followed the elaborate, stone walkway with views of the ocean. Opening the door with stained glass insets, he went into a large vestibule.

The waiting area was not like the typical doctor’s office. Several expensive paintings covered two of the walls to the left and right. The wall in front of several sets of plush, beige chairs and a large teak coffee table was lined with degrees and awards. A floor to ceiling aquarium with tropical fish covered the front wall. There was no sign-in sheet.

Before Ben could take a seat, a young woman in a designer suit appeared in the doorway and greeted him, “Dr. Winthrop will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Would you care for a latte, espresso, regular coffee, or tea?”

“I’d like a latte, please.” Ben replied. He’d never had a latte, and thought he’d try one.”

He took a seat, and in a short time, the woman brought him a steaming latte in an antique cup and a form to fill out to provide his medical history and personal information. She smiled warmly and left the room. Sipping the heavenly brew, Ben noticed one large plaque listed Winthrop as one of the top ten psychiatrists in the United States for the fifth year in a row.

After five minutes elapsed, the woman returned, retrieved the forms he’d filled out, and led him into the doctor’s office. The room had a sofa, a love seat, and two armchairs situated in front of a massive desk with a wall full of leather-bound books.

Ben took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs. After several more minutes elapsed, the door opened to the left, and Dr. Winthrop entered and took his seat behind the desk.

“Hello, Ben. I understand from your form, you’ve been troubled with severe nightmares.”

“Yes, every night for the past month, I wake up screaming with my tee-shirt drenched with sweat. My primary physician gave me several medications to calm my nerves and to help me sleep, but none of them helped at all.”

“Who is your primary physician?”

“Dr. Joseph McCabe.”

“I know Joe very well. We play a round of golf now and then. So… you say the nightmares started about a month ago.”

“Yes, I remember precisely, it all began on February 25, which was a Sunday.”

“Do you have any idea what could be causing your nightmares?”

“I believe they have something to do with the death of my three closest friends, and the resolutions we made on New Year’s Eve. Strangely enough, each of us had a phobia that plagued us all of our lives, and we made a pact to overcome them this year. In response to that, two of my friends began therapy with you, and as far as I know, you cured both of them in a very short time.”

“Are you referring to Frank Jessup, Murray Abrams, and Harold Carmichael?”

“Yes, those are my three friends, but as far as I know, only Frank and Murray were patients of yours.”

Winthrop started to say something, but remained silent while Ben continued, “As you know, Frank wanted to prove his fear of flying was over by going skydiving. The three of us bet him $100 he wouldn’t go through with it. We lost the bet, and we also lost him as a friend when he opened his backup chute too soon and fell to his death.”

“I saw it in the paper, and couldn’t believe it. I consider curing Frank of his problem one of my greatest achievements.”

“It’s amazing what you accomplished with Frank in such a short time and tragic that it led to his untimely death.”

“I assume Murray was another friend who met an unfortunate end.”

“Yes, Murray’s death, although considered by the authorities to be a suicide, troubles me. That’s part of the reason I wanted to talk with you.”

“I’m sorry, Ben, but I really can’t discuss another patient’s confidential information. I can only try to offer a solution for your own personal problem.”

“I understand, I guess. I hoped you might shed some light on the suicide. Apparently, you did cure Murray of his phobia, and he wanted to prove it by spending the night at the Schram house alone after dark. I’ll never understand why he wanted to do such a crazy thing. I don’t know anyone, including me, that would go there at night by themselves.”

Ben paused to control the flood of emotion building as he spoke about the loss of his dear friend, and then continued, “When Murray didn’t meet me for drinks like we’d planned, I called the Sheriff, a long-time friend of my father’s, to meet me there. I arrived first and waited for the Sheriff before I got out of my car. Do you know about the background of the Schram house?”

“I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never been there.”

“Do you have any idea why Murray would commit suicide in such a creepy place? If he thought he was cured, why would he bring a straight razor with him?”

“I have no idea. It makes no sense. He was entirely cured the last time he was here for therapy.”

“Did you say Harold Carmichael was also a patient?”

“Yes, I worked with Harold for an extended period on a problem that plagued him for most of his life.”

“Wow! That’s so strange. I went drinking with Harold every Friday night for years, and he never mentioned it. None of us ever suspected he had a phobia until New Year’s Eve, and even then, he didn’t say what it was.”

“As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss his personal affairs. Do you want to tell me about your nightmares?”

“Of course. I’m sorry I got sidetracked, but my nightmares are all about the death of my three friends. They keep speaking to me every night in my dreams.”

“What do they say?”

“They say they were murdered.”

“Murdered? The paper said three eyewitnesses saw Harold drive his car off a cliff. Frank made a fatal mistake on his first attempt at skydiving, and Murray slit his wrists and his throat by his own hand. The authorities concluded all three death’s were suicides, and there was no evidence anyone else was involved.”

“That’s what they concluded, but my friends say they were murdered. Every night they come to me pleading for revenge. I haven’t had a wink of sleep for weeks. I can’t bear it any longer. Can you offer a solution?”

“I find that the most effective cure for sleep deprivation is through hypnotism. Have you ever been hypnotized?”

“Never.”

“We can try it and see if it helps.”

“Before we start, can I ask what the stack of silver coins on your desk are for?”

“I use them when I hypnotize a patient. In fact, you are about to see one of them now.”

Winthrop opened a desk drawer, took out a black box, and placed it on the desktop. Reaching back behind his chair, he flipped a switch, and an intense laser beam crossed the plane of the mahogany surface.

“I place the coins in this box, and each time I push this red button on top, it releases a spinning silver coin into the laser beam. In seconds, by having the patient focus on the coin, I can hypnotize him with a few well-chosen words. Let me give you a demonstration.”

Winthrop pushed the red button, and a coin spun onto the table into the laser beam. Ben turned away and didn’t look at the coin.

Looking at Winthrop and avoiding the light, he said, “I’ve seen a coin like this before.”

Really? One of my clients stole one a few weeks ago. I have one empty space in the container. Where did you see it?”

“I found it on the ground next to Murray’s car at the Schram house.”

“I never thought of Murray as a thief.”

“I can guarantee Murray didn’t take your coin,” Ben said firmly.”

“If he didn’t take it, how did it get there?”

“I suspect you dropped it the night you murdered Murray and made it look like a suicide. He told me you tried to hypnotize him several times, but he was one of those rare people, it wouldn’t work on.”

Winthrop’s stern expression morphed into a cruel smile as he reclined further back in his chair and said gleefully, “Murray’s fear was too great to put one foot in any haunted house, much less the Schram House. On the night in question, I gave him a mild sedative, which allowed me to finally put him under. After that, he obeyed my every command.”

“You also made Frank make the mistake with his chute…and you made Harold drive off the cliff.”

Frank didn’t know he was in a plane when he stepped out of it at 5,000 feet, and Harold thought he was playing a video came when he drove off the cliff. I confess,” Winthrop exclaimed, brimming with accomplishment, “I killed them all.”

He turned and looked at Ben with a sheepish grin. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Remember you? From where?”

“From our college days.” Winthrop explained, “We lived together in the same fraternity back then. Do you recall the name Charlie Bolton?”

“Charlie Bolton. Yes, I remember Charlie well. He was the pledge we buried alive on Hell night. I’ll never forget his face when we finally found the gravesite where we buried him and opened the casket. But, you don’t look like Charlie at all.”

“Plastic surgery can do a lot,” Winthrop said, moving closer to Ben so he could see him better. “I don’t even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. In addition, I combed my hair like Elvis back then, and I didn’t have a mustache. I also wore horn rimmed glasses instead of contacts.”

“So this is what it’s all about. Revenge for a college prank that went wrong.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be buried alive for fifteen hours?”

“I knew when we rescued you, you’d lost it. But we were all drunk when we buried you, and none of us could remember which cemetery it was let alone which grave we put you in. There were thousands of cemetery plots covered by leaves from a windstorm the same night. Thank God, we had 500 volunteers searching. It was nobody’s fault; we didn’t mean to do it.”

“Do you know how long I was in the asylum?”

“I’m sorry. I never really heard. After they took you away, we never knew what happened to you. We tried to find out, but the Dean and his staff wouldn’t talk to us. They wanted to keep it under wraps because of the bad publicity.”

“For five hellish years, I had deranged perverts holding me down while they took turns brutalizing me.”

Ben did see a likeness in Winthrop’s psychotic facial features that reminded him of Charlie Bolton when they opened the coffin as he recoiled away from the deranged maniac.

Winthrop shrieked, “There were eight of you who took part in driving me mad, and you are the last. After tonight, the New Year’s resolution I made fifteen years ago will be fulfilled.”

“You crazy fuck! You’re nuts, and you’re going to pay for killing my friends and the others.” Ben heard the words he had just said, but it sounded like he was in a wind tunnel when he said them. His mind was suddenly very cloudy.

“No, Ben, like I said, it’s your time to die. You should be feeling a bit drowsy from the latte by now. I told my receptionist she could leave early so I could have you all to myself.”

“The latte?” Ben muttered in a hazy stupor. He felt very tired. So tired, he could barely keep his eyes open.

Winthrop pushed the red button, and another coin sped into the light and began to pulsate in his vision. Ben tried to resist it, but his eyes were drawn to it until he could focus on nothing else. Then, with the last vestige of his strength, he pushed the button on the transmitter in his pocket and cried out, “It’s time for the cavalry.”

Winthrop ignored the remark and continued to speak in a whisper, “The only thing you can hear is the sound of my voice and no one else. Do you understand?”

“Yes…only your voice,” Ben answered.

Suddenly the outer door burst open, and three men pushing sixty years old bounded into the room, grabbed Winthrop, and wrestled him to the carpet. One of the men started wrapping duct tape around his wrists and ankles while another stuffed some rags in his mouth and placed another band around his head to cover his mouth.

The other man helped Ben to his feet and placed smelling salts under his nose to revive him. Finally, he drifted back into consciousness, and pointing to Winthrop, said, “This is the monster that murdered your sons and my dearest friends.”

Winthrop’s face contorted with fear when he saw the unbridled hatred in the eyes of his captors. He wriggled on the floor trying desperately to free himself until one of the men kicked him in the head, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

When Winthrop opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackness, he knew exactly where the men had left him. He threw out his hands and battered his knuckles against the unmovable surface only inches above him.

He started screaming, but the noise inside the crude pine box was so maddening he couldn’t bear it. He started to sob, knowing unlike the last time, no one would be coming to rescue him this time.

RED HATS MASQUERADE BALL

Hilda overheard a woman tell another in the swimming pool that the Red Hats were having a masquerade ball for October 31. To attend, the organizers had asked each member to wear a costume with red and purple colors and a mask. They also asked members to bring a gag gift costing no more than ten dollars to exchange at midnight when all the revelers would unmask.

Hilda waded closer to the two obese women and said, testing the waters, “I happened to overhear you talking about the upcoming Red Hats Ball at Lake Osceola Recreation Center. I was in the Red Hats Club in New Jersey for more than ten years before I moved to Florida. Is the party is open to all Red Hats nationally or only local women?”

“I'm sure you're welcome to come if you like. I'll give you the address to send your check for the dinner, which will be twenty dollars per person.”

“How many people usually attend this type of function?” Hilda asked innocently.

“Oh, I'd say about a hundred women will sign up for Halloween. That's what we had last year.”

After sunbathing and reading for an hour, Hilda gathered her belongings. On her way out, she stopped to get the address to buy the ticket from the woman. She would arrange to pay cash under a false identity.

Hilda could barely control her excitement when she reached her golf cart. She had recently relocated to Florida after living with her late husband in an over 55 adult community in New Jersey for twenty years. She had lied about being a Red Hat. She loathed these types of activities and avoided them like anchovies on a pizza.

She’d already joined a bowling league and several bridge groups, but so far, as a single woman, no one had invited her to any functions in the neighborhood. In time, she would join some social clubs and get on some mailing lists. She needed more people she could wreak havoc on. The Red Hats Masquerade Ball was the perfect occasion to attend a party anonymously since she’d be wearing a full-face Halloween mask. She would make a brief appearance, plant the gift on the assigned table, and disappear into the night without anyone remembering she was there.

She would begin immediately in concocting a booby trap that would likely disfigure upwards of one hundred women. And, it was only three weeks way. This stroke of luck would allow her to enjoy her favorite pastime far sooner than she had anticipated. She felt an orgasmic tremor in her loins just thinking about it.

On the way home in her golf cart, she stopped at the community mailbox to mail three small boxes to random addresses in the neighborhood. It was amazing what you could order from medical laboratories under the guise of a research facility. Hilda had first learned of this godsend while reading a novel by Robin Cook. As soon as she read the passage, she rented a P.O. box her hubby never knew about to receive the various hermetically sealed packets of diseases she ordered from the Internet.

Now, ten years later, she was still using the U.S. Snail to send bugs to people far enough away to avoid any threat to herself. She rarely targeted anyone specific; all of the people she infected were randomly chosen. Only once had she read of someone’s death that she was sure she had caused. In her small way, her frequent mailings supported the failing postal service, which was a good thing. Unlike her, most people rarely mailed anything anymore. The boxes she placed in the mailbox on this occasion contained a particularly nasty strain of smallpox.

She had worked in a medical research facility as a young woman and knew how to handle contagious specimens. She had also spent a considerable amount of money converting a secret rental unit near the interstate into a laboratory complete with a decontamination area with insulated suits.

Next, she planned to mail happy-faced miniature dolls laced with nasty nodules of bacteria. These nasty little gifts probably not kill the people who opened them unless they had medical issues already. Nevertheless, they would definitely make them sick. Another insidious plus was the recipient’s home would need a complete cleansing just as it would with asbestos or mold contamination, which would be quite costly. If a random victim’s grandchild happened to be visiting when they opened the box, this could lead to devastating health consequences for their entire lives. ”Life's a bitch,” she thought, “and then, you die.”

Hilda had plenty of time to make the surprise package for the masquerade ball, but she couldn't wait to get started. She had agonized over this creation for years. Now that Fred, her husband, had passed and her son had a family and a life of his own back in Jersey, it was time to let her creative juices flow.

She had found a blueprint for the diabolical device in a novel written by a soldier who disarmed booby-traps in the dark to enable his own forces to penetrate German bunkers during World War II.

Hilda loved surfing the Internet for new ideas to make other people's lives a living hell. After a satisfying salad for lunch, she went to Home Depot to purchase most of the items she would need for the device. The explosive components were the most difficult to acquire without being traced, but after greasing several palms the week before and almost being raped by a scar-faced pervert in a shabby section of Orlando, she secured the necessary materials.

Now that she was alone with no one to distract her, she could supplement her daily routine of pickle ball and golf with building booby traps in addition to her mailings.

Two weeks before the party, an old geezer cut her off in his golf car and almost caused a serious accident. The unpleasant encounter infuriated her, and after smiling as if nothing had happened, Hilda followed the reprobate home. The next day, she left a present for him in his mailbox. The snippet about the explosion in the Daily Chronicle the next morning was an unexpected delight. Apparently, the old fart had lost an eye and several fingers from the blast.

As the date of the Red Hat party grew closer, Hilda felt as giddy as a young girl getting ready for her first date as she imagined what would happen when the unsuspecting victim opened her surprise.

The only possible glitch in executing her plan was the weight of the package. Hilda worried that someone might be suspicious at how heavy this gift costing no more than ten dollars was compared to the others. She hoped when they lifted the small square package from the table, they might think it was a paperweight. Paperweights were heavy, but normally inexpensive.

It was unfortunate that the nails required to inflict the most damage had to be somewhat heavy. There were lighter alternatives, but according to the specifications of the device, a certain mass was necessary for each projectile to puncture the skin and lodge deeply enough into the eye to inflict the maximum, irrevocable damage. The instructions were very specific on this point, and so, Hilda followed each detail to the letter.

On the morning of the long-awaited Red Hat event, Hilda received an email from Bradley, her son, informing her the family would stop for a visit on November 4. This was next Wednesday, four days after the party.

Since the rental unit housed all of the suspicious equipment and supplies she used for her booby traps and communicable diseases, Hilda had little to do to her villa to prepare for Bradley’s visit. The storage building she rented was perfect, and she never received any mail concerning it since she paid cash in advance.

Hilda was disappointed the family reunion was so close to the party, but she couldn't wait to see her precious granddaughter, Penny. Seeing Madeleine, Bradley's wife, was a different story, but the women her son had dated before he married her were ten times more annoying. Madeline was a wonderful mother and homemaker, and she made more money than Bradley. She also had very ample breasts for him to play with. Her son had always gravitated to women with large breasts.

Hilda adored little Penny who looked a lot like her when she was a little girl. In fact, Hilda had pictures her father took with his Brownie camera that looked identical to Penny’s pictures when the little angel was six years old. She knew she’d better enjoy her granddaughter now while she was little, because when she became a teenager, she’d never want to come to visit her old granny.

That afternoon, Hilda went to the shopping center and bought a very expensive Barbie doll, a cute little pink dress, and some wrapping paper and ribbons. She couldn’t wait to see Penny’s face light up when she saw the beautiful, but pricey doll.

When she returned home, she placed the two presents for Penny on the dining room table in a beautiful shopping bag adorned with images of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. She used the pink and purple paper she bought at Macy’s and a great big red bow to wrap the surprise package for the Red Hat Masquerade Ball. Hilda was sure her package would be one of the first ones selected; it was stunning and beautifully wrapped.

She was still worried about the weight, but there was nothing she could do about it. Going to the mall had taken more time than she thought, and she knew it would take about an hour to dress for the masquerade ball. Once it was on, no one would ever be able to identify her afterward. She was a master of disguise. It was critical that she not talk with any of the members in her normal voice.

Since Hilda had already checked the parking lot and the security cameras, she knew just where to park and where to walk to avoid being filmed as much as possible.

She wished she could record a video of the explosion, but she would be long gone by midnight.

The package about the size of a small box of Tide would detonate as soon as the top was removed like a jack in the box. It would send out hundreds of small nails and shards of glass that would pepper everyone around it.

She remembered the subdued carpet at Lake Oceola that would soon be soaked with blood. She imagined most of the members would lose one and possibly both eyes. This was without a doubt the most diabolical bloodletting she had ever conceived. It would certainly produce headlines on a national level, and possibly around the world.

She couldn’t believe no one else had tried this before. After all, anyone with a subscription to Popular Mechanics could have constructed the device by following simple directions.

She thought of all the wasted years when her obsession to inflict pain was put on hold while raising a family. The twenty-year inactivity had been maddening, but faced with the same alternatives again; she knew she would do everything the same. Bradley, her loving son, and Penny, her precious granddaughter, were more than worth any sacrifice she had made.

Suddenly, Hilda felt a sharp pain in her left arm. It felt like someone had stabbed her with an ice pick just above the elbow. The intensity of the pressure was so strong she could hardly catch her breath. Was she having a heart attack? What a disastrous stroke of bad luck to have a heart attack on the very day she had planned to make history. She could see her name on the marquee of life with names like Dahmer, Manson, and Ted Bundy. Hell, Jack the Ripper only killed five women for sure, and probably no more than eleven at most.

“Oh, well,” she thought, “there would be other parties.” She rose from her chair and attempted to reach the phone in the kitchen, only a few feet away. She hoped she would still be able to function and not be totally debilitated if she was having a stroke.

As she reached for the wall to keep from falling, she thought about the bottle of aspirin in the kitchen cabinet above the phone. She would bite into a few pills after she called 9-1-1; sometimes, aspirin could prevent an oncoming heart attack.

Releasing her grip from the doorway to stretch for the phone, an even sharper pain in the center of her chest paralyzed her and sent her sprawling to the ceramic tile. Her head hit the front of the dishwasher on the way down. Her nose flattened with a thud on the floor, and one arm bent at an odd angle behind her back.

As she laid there, a catatonic lump, locked in one continuous excruciating pang of sheer agony, she could feel her mind shutting down. Tiny stars pulsated in the consuming blackness behind her eyes. “No!” she screamed silently inside herself, “don’t let me die like this! Please, God, cripple me, let me suffer in eternal damnation, but don’t let me die with the package on the dining room table.”

* * *

When Bradley saw several days of the Daily Chronicle in the driveway when he drove up to the house with his family on Wednesday, he feared the worst. His voice quaked with emotion as he opened the car door, “I’ve got a bad feeling something is wrong. You and Penny wait here while I take a look.”

Bradley went to the front door and rang the doorbell. There was no response. After getting the same message several times on the answering machine, he found the spare key under the flowerpot, unlocked the door, and went in.

Immediately, Bradley detected the sweet, overpowering stench of death in the closed space. Someone had once described the smell as rotten meat laced with cheap perfume. Only a few steps inside, he caught a glimpse of his mother on the kitchen floor. Her face had turned a purple color, and there was a small pool of dried blood circling her head. He surmised she had hit her head on the ceramic tile floor.

Madeline pushed open the front door called out, “Bradley, is she all right?”

“No, dear,” he said, starting to sob, “Mother has gone to heaven.”

* * *

Five days later, Bradley, Madeleine, and Penny returned to the house after the funeral and a small luncheon for the people who attended from the adult community in New Jersey. They planned to return to Paramus the next morning.

Bradley had contacted a realtor to sell his mother’s home as quickly as possible. They would return later to go through his mother’s personal items and decide what they wanted to keep. They would discard the rest or donate it to Goodwill. Madeline wanted a few pieces of the jewelry, and they had always adored the large picture hanging over the sofa in the living room.

Penny had loved the beautiful dolly and the pink dress they found in the shopping bag on the dining room table, but her parents had made her wait until now to open the wrapped package lying next to it. They thought it must be a very special gift since grandma had wrapped it so beautifully in pink and purple ribbons with a big red bow

Madeline hefted the present and shook it. “Gee, Bradley, what could this be? It’s so heavy for its size.”

“I'm clueless,” Bradley replied, “but whatever it is, I'm sure it will have a special meaning to Penny since it will be the last gift her grandma gave her.

Penny looked at her mother in frustration as Madeleine removed the red bow and cut the ribbons with a pair of scissors. “Mommy! Let me open it,” Penny whined, jumping up and down with anticipation.

THE ICE MAN

The telephone rang, and seeing it was Audrey from the bridge club on the caller ID, Emily answered with a cheerful hello.

“Emily, I hope it's not too late to call, but there’s something I think you should know.”

Audrey's voice trailed off, and Emily thought she might have lost the connection, “Audrey, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm still here. I know it's hard to believe knowing me, but I'm at a loss for words. I think I jumped the gun when I called. I picked up the phone and punched in the number, and now I don't know how to put the words together I want to tell you.”

“Gee, Audrey, I've heard of calls like this, but never received one. This sounds like you know a secret I should know, but you can't tell me.”

“I suddenly realized that after playing cards with you for five years, I really don’t know very much about you other than the way you bid and the way you play your hand. Maybe you're the kind of person who wouldn't want to know what I was going to tell you.”

“Audrey, stop with this bullshit. Tell me why you called, or I'll come over to your house and ring the doorbell until I drive you insane. It sounds like this secret is heart attack serious. You’re scaring me. It can't be that bad, can it?”

The line was silent for an embarrassing period of time, and then a timid voice an octave higher than before said, “If I tell you, you've got to promise me you'll never tell anyone I told you.”

“Christ, Audrey. Cross my heart and hope to die with sugar on it. Dexter is coming on in two minutes, what is it?”

“Is Chuck there with you?”

“No, he's in Chicago for the week. I'm supposed to pick him up at the airport tomorrow night.”

“That's what I thought you said at bridge last night. Well, damn the torpedoes, here goes….“ After a beat, she muttered, “On second thought, I can’t tell you on the phone. Why don't you catch Dexter on demand and meet me at the American Grill. I think you're going to need a drink when you hear what I have to say.”

“You sure have raised the bar on my curiosity. Okay, I'll meet you there in twenty minutes, and you’d better not chicken out.”

When Emily entered the restaurant, she saw Audrey and Angelo, her boyfriend, in a booth at the rear of the restaurant and joined them. She took a seat across from Audrey and said, “I’m surprised to see you, Angelo. What are you doing here?”

“I think we should keep our voices low,” he whispered.

Emily looked around and found no one seated near them, and turning back to face them said, “The suspense is killing me.”

Audrey took Emily's hand, and with a concerned expression, she began, “Angelo went to a bachelor party last night at GoGo's Titty Bar in Livingston. He saw your husband there with a group of very tough men in black suits. He recognized one of them as a mafia hit man he went to high school with.”

Emily looked at her and smiled broadly, “You brought me down here for this? What’s the joke?“

Audrey didn’t reciprocate with a smile, but simply said, “I’m sorry, Emily, but I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“This is crazy. I can’t believe you could really tell me this with a straight face. Like I said, Chuck is in Chicago at some business meeting.” Looking more intently at Angelo, Emily asked, “How do you know my husband anyway?”

“Remember the victory party we were both invited to after Obama won? We sat together, and I spoke with your husband, Chuck, for over an hour that night.”

The server came to the table and took their order for three gin martinis straight up with olives.

Angelo continued, “While we were talking, Chuck told me he worked for a company named Black World International. Since I never heard of them, I asked what they did. After he gave me the age-old line that if he told me what they did, he would have to kill me; he just said they were a top-secret intelligence contractor, and he couldn’t say anymore than that. We laughed and had some more drinks. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him with Rubber Fingers Basilico last night.”

“Rubber Fingers?” Emily remarked.

“That's the nickname we gave him in elementary school. He's double-jointed and could bend his fingers backwards further than anyone in the school.”

“I know you have no reason to lie, so you must have my husband confused with someone else. Chuck and I have been married for almost twenty years. He's the kindest man I've ever known and such a good father. He never missed one soccer game or piano recital our daughter ever had. He goes to mass every Sunday when he’s in town; and as far as I know, he's never even had a parking ticket.”

“That's all fine and good,” Angelo said, sitting back in his chair as the server placed three biscuits and three martinis on the table and scurried off. “But what do you know about Black World International?”

“Chuck said everything he does involves national security, and a stipulation of his employment is never to disclose any confidential information to anyone. Even me. He told me that on the night he proposed, and he made me promise to never pry into his business affairs. He indicated there was an element of danger in his work, and it was critical that his family live their lives below the radar. I made that promise then, and I've never broken it.”

“Don’t you see, this fits right in with his secret life with the mob,” Angelo shot back. “Have you ever heard anyone call him the Iceman?”

“Oh that.” Emily replied, chewing on a fingernail. “A number of his friends from high school call him that. I asked him about it once, and he said he got the nickname from his special ability to hit a home run for the team when they needed it most. He wasn’t normally a great hitter, but he was like that Yankee player years ago they called Mr. October.”

“Reggie Jackson?” Angelo’s face lit up.

“Yes, that’s the guy. Like him, he had ice water running through his veins when the chips were down. He hit an inordinate amount of homers in the clutch during the post season.”

“I'm sorry Mrs.….”

“Call me Emily.”

“Emily, I suspect he made that up. The Iceman is the name the police gave the most heartless mafia hit man in history. The grapevine says what he did to his victims before he killed them defies the imagination in terms of brutality and sadism.”

Emily's eyes widened in bewilderment, trying to get her mind around what Angelo was telling her about her husband and the father of their precious daughter.

“My husband would never do anything like what you are describing. I don’t know who or what you saw or think you saw, but we should drop this. It’s getting us nowhere. I can still catch Dexter on the tube before I turn in.”

“I know what Angelo is telling you is unbelievable, and I must be insane to take a chance on coming here,” Audrey said nervously. “Angelo begged me not to get involved in your problems, but when I heard the prostitute your husband left with last night was found dead in an alley this morning, I couldn't hold my tongue any longer. I just couldn't bear to think my favorite bridge partner was living with a homicidal maniac whose trademark is snipping off his victims fingers and toes and eating them like buffalo wings dipped in A1 sauce.”

Emily’s hand shot to her mouth at the thought, and fumbling for her napkin, she knocked over her untouched martini.

Audrey withdrew a folded section of the morning paper from her coat pocket and opened it on the table. “The headline read “GO-GO DANCER FOUND DECAPITATED IN IRONBOUND SECTION OF NEWARK.”

Emily looked into Angelo's dark eyes and shaking her head in hopes he would change his story the second time around, she pleaded, “You’re sure you saw my husband leave with this woman last night? You weren’t drunk at the time, and there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind?”

“I'm sorry, Emily,” Angelo said apologetically, “there’s no mistake. I was no more than ten feet away. The girl was on something. She must have had way too much booze or drugs. She was so wasted, your husband and Rubber Fingers had to carry her out the front door.”

Emily sat with her mouth agape as she looked at the two of them in disbelief. “This nightmare couldn't be happening,” she thought. Chuck was the only man she’d ever loved, and the only man she’d ever had sex with. He’d been so kind and so considerate of her feelings all through the years. How could he be cheating on her with some hooker from Newark?”

Audrey pushed the news clipping across the table in front of Emily, “Didn’t you see this write-up about the headless go-go dancer someone found in the alley in Newark? You still read the paper every morning, don’t you…when you’re having your coffee?”

Emily focused on the headline and after skimming the fine print said, “Yes, I saw it, but I didn't read the details. It didn’t strike me as special that a prostitute had been found dead in Newark.”

“That was the girl your husband left the strip joint with. The newspaper article couldn’t go into the gory details but it says the M.O. of the brutal murder suggests it was the work of a sadistic killer the authorities have named the Ice Man.”

Emily's face turned ashen, and her hands started to shake, “I can't believe this. My husband is like a saint.”

Angelo took her hand and looked into her teary eyes, “I'm sorry, Emily, Chuck is definitely not a saint, far from it. Enter ‘Iceman’ in Google and you'll read about one of the most notorious killers in American history and the awful things he did to the people he murdered. He's a monster without a shred of feeling or remorse for his victims. That's how he got his nickname; it was nothing about baseball.”

“If my husband is such a monster, why are you risking your lives telling me about it?”

Audrey and Angelo looked at each other oddly, and Audrey replied, ”As I said before, Angelo begged me not to tell you, but I really care about you after all these years. I know your daughter and she’s adorable, and I know how kind and considerate you are. I'm really afraid for you. I agree, we took a chance coming here tonight, and based on who your husband is, our lives are in your hands. Maybe I’m crazy, but I think I know you well enough to believe you wouldn’t, pardon the expression ‘fuck us’ after we tried to help you.”

Emily took Audrey’s hand and said, “You’ve been a dear friend for sure, and I know you’re sincerely trying to help me, but at the same time, what your telling me is so beyond belief.”

“Look, Emily, what we’ve told you is between us. We’re not planning on telling anyone else. It’s up to you what you do with the information. All I can say is if you stay with him, I can't believe there will be a happy ending.”

“You’re not going to the police?” Emily asked, looking from Audrey to Angelo.

Audrey looked around at the empty tables in their section and said, “We’re not stupid enough to go to the police. We don't have any hard evidence. We might cause your husband a lot of trouble if we tell the cops he left with the murdered woman, but I don’t want to think about what he would do to us if he got off.”

“Everything you’ve told me seems to fit together, but I need to think this over before I do anything rash.”

“We understand. Who do you believe a bridge partner or your husband? Do you have any money you can get your hands on if you need to move out quickly?”

“I guess I could write a check for a few thousand from our checking account, but I've never done it before. As far as our stocks and bonds, I don't have a clue. Chuck takes care of all of that.”

“Well, Emily, go home and check it out. You have a lot of thinking to do. Don't blame Angelo; I'm the one who had to tell you. I'm sorry. I really am. I'll pick up the check; it's the least I can do after ruining your life.”

Emily smiled weakly and rose from the table. She hadn't had even a sip of her martini, but she seemed unsteady on her feet.

“Are you okay to drive?” Audrey asked, with a worried look. “Do you want me to take you home? Angelo can drive your car.”

“No, I won't be all right, but I can drive. Thanks.”

Emily left the restaurant, leaving Audrey and Angelo at the table.

“Well, it worked like a charm. I think we're $25,000 richer,” Angelo beamed. “I can't believe you were able to take a few things you found out playing bridge and create a scenario that Chuck is a serial killer.”

“You know it was much easier than I thought. Chuck has that crazy Secret Service job, and he can't tell Emily anything about it. Therefore, he could work for the Mafia. His job puts him on the road often, allowing him to have a secret life. He is a model husband and father, which would dispel any idea he could be into something bad, so Emily has never had a reason to doubt him or ever check up on him. This was the perfect scenario.”

Angelo’s smile covered his whole face as Audrey continued reminiscing, “When I saw that the Ledger said the authorities thought the notorious Ice Man had murdered the prostitute in Newark, I remembered Chuck‘s nickname from baseball, and tied in the hit man angle. I knew Emily read the newspaper every morning before going to work, and I didn’t think she would miss such a horrific headline.”

“Unbelievable!” Angelo shouted with approval as dollars signs filled his mind’s eye.

“The last piece was connecting the prostitute to Chuck leaving the club. Saying Angelo recognized him at the Titty Bar made the whole story tie together with a neat bow.”

“Pure genius!” Angelo said, beaming with pride at Audrey’s uncanny ability to fabricate something plausible from a series of unrelated facts,

“I must say,” Audrey agreed, “there was one point the story seemed so real, I almost started to believe it myself.”

“It was pretty dark in here. I hope the cameras picked up everything,” Angelo said, removing the hidden microphone tucked inside his shirt.

The server came over and said, “How did I do? I don't have much experience carrying martinis on a tray. I think I spilled half of them on the way to the table.”

“You were almost perfect,” Audrey replied, Emily was too upset to notice anything you did. We didn't even drink the martinis you served. You were a tad slow on cleaning up the drink Emily spilled, but I think it went better than I ever dreamed possible.”

Audrey spoke louder into her hidden mike, “Well, am I right, Harry? Tell me you got it all.”

A voice in her earpiece said, “We got it all. I think this will be the best show ever on Believe It Or Not. You deserve the prize. You may even have a shot at the hundred thousand dollar super prize money.”

“What now?” Angelo asked, almost floating on air with excitement.

“We are supposed to head over to Emily’s house for the celebration and the reveal.”

“The reveal?” Angelo replied, looking puzzled.

“Yes, you know…” Audrey explained, “When they tell her we fooled her, and it was just a segment for the Believe It Or Not TV show. I understand that all of her neighbors, her associates from work, and her immediate friends will be at her house when they pop open the champagne.”

“What about Chuck? Will he be there, too?”

“No. He won't be there in person; Barney, the producer, said he’s still in Chicago at an important business meeting. As of the time we made the initial call to Emily, he hadn't been able to reach him. All his calls have been forwarding to voice mail, but they are hoping to patch him in on a live video connection at the house.”

After a few more high fives, the camera crew began packing up their equipment. Audrey and Angelo left the restaurant laughing loudly and headed toward their car in the deserted parking lot. Both of them were beaming with accomplishment and the anticipation of receiving their $25,000 prize money.

“What's the first thing you're going to buy when we get the check?” Angelo asked.

“I've always wanted to go to Europe, but I've never had the money. What about you?”

I always wanted the 1956 Mickey Mantle Tops baseball card in mint condition to complete my collection.”

Just before reaching their Toyota, Emily stepped from the shadows of a large shrub and barked, “I can't believe you motherfuckers figured out my husband is the Iceman.”

Audrey and Angelo stood with their mouths agape, staring into the barrel of a big black gun with a long silencer.

“What you didn't figure out is that I taught Chuck everything he knows.”

Emily placed a neat hole in the middle of each of their foreheads with two barely audible, precision shots that sent both of them toppling backwards to the asphalt. She felt a warm mist of blood on her face as she peered down at her dear bridge partner and Angelo lying in a heap with a stew of brains and gore decorating the back end of their Camry. She surveyed the parking lot and noted two white vans with TV lettering parked in front of the entrance. Opening her car door and getting in, she drove into the street and headed for home.

She couldn't wait to tell Chuck how her bridge partner had made him after he had fooled the police for so many years. She was also going to ask him about being in the Newark strip club instead of Chicago.

When Emily pulled into the driveway of her house at 11:30 p.m., she noticed the light in the living room that was controlled by a timer was not on. She guessed the bulb must've burned out.

Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, and immediately, flashbulbs and spotlights blinded her. She wondered how much blood splatter peppered her clothes and her face as the TV cameras rolled into view. Across the room on a gigantic monitor, she saw Chuck’s bewildered expression as someone handed her a champagne glass, and a houseful of familiar faces shouted “surprise” in unison and started pouring the bubbly for a toast.

THE MAKEOVER

The miserable excuse for a human being stood at the reception desk in a designer dress and an obscenely expensive diamond necklace. Two bodyguards who looked like lineman from the NFL inspected the people in the waiting room coldly. Everyone including the bodyguards winced as the female ogre barked at the young receptionist, “Do you know who I am?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm afraid I don't. Do you have an appointment?”

“Of course, I have an appointment. I'm here to see Dr. Best for my annual makeover and this time for a nose augmentation.”

“Ah, Mrs. Crabtree,” the trembling young woman said, referring to an appointment book on her desk. “Yes, the doctor has set aside the entire afternoon especially for you. Please have a seat in the waiting room. Would you like coffee?”

“My dear lady,” the obnoxious woman with the prune face replied sarcastically, “I'm not accustomed to sitting with the general public. I don't want to catch anything from this rabble. Don't you have a VIP lounge for people of my stature?”

“I'm afraid not, Mrs. Crabtree. Please have a seat; the doctor will be with you shortly.”

The door opened and an attractive young blonde man in white doctors’ garb looked into the waiting room with a concerned expression. Seeing the senator’s wife lambasting the poor befuddled receptionist mercilessly, he rushed to her rescue. Straining to put on a cordial smile, he said, extending his hand, “Mrs. Crabtree, are you ready to be even more lovely than you already are?”

The wisp of a smirk cracked the woman’s perpetually sour expression. She quickly abandoned the receptionist with disdain and strutted through the waiting room with the young doctor and the bodyguards trailing behind her.

Ignoring the doctor’s gracious remark, the middle-age battleaxe said loudly, so everyone could hear her, “I hope you're plastic surgery skills are better than your hiring practices. The woman at the desk in that cheap Goodwill rag didn't have a clue who I was when I walked in. She actually suggested I sit with the trailer trash in the lobby.”

Everyone within earshot glared at her as if she had tossed a toddler into the path of a speeding taxi. If looks could kill, Crabtree would have been murdered by all ten of the people seated in the waiting area.

Dr. Best held his tongue and escorted the pompous bitch toward the surgery area bustling with activity. He had a bad feeling the $30,000 tweaking of Crabtree’s wrinkles and her nose job may not be worth the hassle of dealing with her. After several more confrontations with the staff, the anesthesiologist finally ended her venomous attacks with a cocktail of sedatives.

Crabtree was forty-one years old and would've been a beautiful woman if not for her loathsome, pompous attitude and caustic tongue. No matter how much money she spent smoothing wrinkles that were barely visible, no one could tolerate her contemptuous, high-pitched, nasal voice that grated on the nerves like fingernails on a black board.

Best dreaded every moment he spent with Crabtree each year. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to endure the abuse since she was a senator's wife and a staple on every club and civic group in the city.

This year, in addition to smoothing a few wrinkles under her eyes, Crabtree had decided her nose was a bit too large. To make sure nothing was left to chance, Best spent the entire evening prior to the surgery agonizing over every detail of the procedure. He had even made the supreme sacrifice of giving his tickets to the Celine Dion concert at Madison Square Garden to a colleague.

For hours, he toyed with every possible scenario in his $10,000 makeover program on his computer. Finally, at about 1 AM, he pushed enter on his desktop, and suddenly, the perfect sized nose for Crabtree’s face appeared on the monitor. He smiled and thought, “Wow, after a month of healing, Crabtree would have a face to die for.” Carrying the thought further, he grimaced at the tragedy of transforming a woman with such a miserable attitude into a goddess.

He wondered if he would receive a gigantic tip for his extra efforts. Crabtree had greased his palm with an extra $5,000 last year when he’d done far less. She'd placed the check in his palm as if she was handing a bellman a tip for carrying her luggage. He might even be featured in the lead article in Plastic Surgery Today for such a work of art. Ah, well, enough dreaming. He decided to turn in so he could be fresh for tomorrow.

The next day, the minor procedure and the more intricate surgery went exactly as expected. Although the young doctor had done it hundreds of times, he took extra pains with Crabtree, his most important client.

* * *

After several weeks of changing bandages, the momentous day of removing the nose covering finally came. Best had pleaded with the pompous prima donna to refrain from peeking at his masterpiece until it was completely healed. As impossible as it seemed at first, Crabtree agreed not to look at the results until the day it would be unveiled to the public.

Maria, Dr. Best’s most trusted assistant, did the honors of carefully removing the bandages as Crabtree reclined in an examination chair facing the doctor. When Maria lifted the housing protecting the nose, Best reclined in his plush, leather swivel chair and beamed with pride at not only the best nose job he’d ever performed but also the finest one he’d ever seen. Maria saw the broad grin on his face and raised her thumb high to corroborate that she agreed this was a remarkable accomplishment.

Turning Crabtree’s chair around to face a large mirror surrounded by a circle of soft lights, Best and Maria awaited her expected expression of approval but instead, a shrill gut-wrenching scream brought the receptionist and several other doctors and nurses into the examination room.

“What have you done to my face, you incompetent butcher,” Crabtree ranted. “Michael Jackson's nose was larger than mine when he died. You'll be hearing from my lawyers. Rest assured, I will see that your license is revoked, and you will never practice medicine again.”

“You pompous bitch,” Best screamed. “This is the best nose job I've ever seen. There's no one on earth that would say otherwise.” Best strode off in a huff leaving his assistants to deal with the malicious woman as she continued to rant and rave at the top of her lungs.

At the legal hearing, despite Crabtree’s stature in the community as the senator’s wife, reputable surgeons agreed that Best’s work had far exceeded the level of care expected for this type of plastic surgery. The judge dismissed the case and reprimanded Crabtree for wasting the court’s time with such a frivolous lawsuit.

The New York Post carried Crabtree’s stunningly gorgeous face on the front page of the morning edition under the headline, “SENATOR’S WIFE FOUND TOO BEAUTIFUL; FRIVOLOUS CASE DISMISSED AGAINST PLASTIC SURGEON.

Crabtree fumed as she sat in her lush estate, and after referring to her Blackberry, made several calls. Fifteen minutes later, her sour expression morphed into a cruel smile as she returned her phone to her purse.

Two evenings later, A battering ram imploding his front door awakened Best from a sound sleep in the middle of the night. As he struggled to put on a robe, several police officers barged into his bedroom, blinded him with a flashlight, and started reading him his rights. The tallest officer lifted a bag of white powder in front of his face and declared he was under arrest for possession and selling an illegal substance to minors.

Best looked at the police officer as if he had lost his mind and begin to tell him clearly, he had no idea what he was talking about. He saw a team of forensic investigators collecting evidence in the living room as the first officer’s partner cuffed him, pushed him out the door, and escorted him down the stairs to their cruiser.

Despite many testimonials praising the character of Dr. Best and his spotless record of not even having a parking ticket, ten unsavory witnesses for the prosecution took an oath and swore they had seen Best selling drugs to minors on many occasions. The officers that searched the doctor’s house testified they had found large quantities of heroin and cocaine as well as other pharmaceuticals in a kitchen cabinet and in the trunk of Best’s car.

In addition to the fabricated evidence, Best complained to his attorney that half of the jurors seem to be biased against him from the start. He couldn't believe his lawyer had allowed such unsavory characters to be jurors without contesting it and suspected that Crabtree had even bribed his lawyer.

After a short trial, the jurors retired to their chambers, and in thirty minutes, returned to the courtroom with a verdict of guilty. With the senator’s wife’s input, the judge sentenced Best to ten years in a hard-core prison where the most horrific murderers and perverts were serving time. The warden also had a reputation for cruelty and harsh treatment of the inmates.

* * *

Ten years later, Best left through the front gate of the prison. The eyes, once bright with youthful exuberance, joyful anticipation, and love of life, were now steely and cold.

He saw the taxi he had ordered parked along the high chain link fence topped with razor wire. About twenty yards to the right, the sentry in the tower above him glared down at him like a piece of road kill. He assumed the psycho in the mirrored sunglasses was trying to rattle him by continuing to point his rifle in his direction.

Best walked to the cab with a small suitcase and got into the back seat.

“Where to?” the driver asked with a sullen expression that made it painfully clear he did not want an ex-con for a client.

Best said, looking back into the cold stare in the rearview mirror, “Take me to the Safe Haven Inn on Remington Avenue in Mount Glory.”

Pushing some buttons on this GPS monitor, the cab driver said sarcastically, “The fare for that location is over $100. I need to see a credit card or some cash to go to Jersey.”

Best’s granite face returned the perpetually icy stare, “You don't think I look trustworthy?”

“You can't be too careful these days on fares from this location,” the cabbie replied, still looking for some reassurance.

Best pulled out his wallet and showed the driver several Benjamins tucked inside.

“You've already got $20 on the meter for waiting time. You said to be here at 3 PM.”

“Sorry, fella, I couldn't get the guards to move any faster. They decided to give me one last cavity search for old time’s sake.”

The cabbie grinned, pressed a button on the meter, and pulled away.

Best and the driver didn't speak on the way to Mount Glory.

When the taxi veered onto the Remington Avenue exit, Best noticed the manicured lawns and the houses seemed a little shabbier than he remembered. The long climb to the top of the steep hill brought back memories of a commute he’d had during a snowstorm long ago.

When the cabbie pulled into the Safe Haven Inn parking lot and announced loudly they had reached their destination. Best flinched from a momentary doze, paid the fare, and exited the cab with his small suitcase.

When he reached the front desk, he showed the clerk his new Visa card and rented a room for a week. He hoped this would be adequate time for him to find a way to get to Crabtree. He couldn’t go on with the rest of his life until he gave her that special makeover he’d been dreaming of for more than 3,650 days.

After placing his suitcase in his room and checking his Ipad for a time, he returned to the front desk and found the bus to Ralston would leave in ten minutes.

When Best made his way to the stop directly in front of the motel, he felt a twinge of sadness at seeing the Old Blarney Irish Pub across the street. He and his fiancée had eaten many a plate of corn beef and cabbage there before he went to prison. Marcy, the only girl he ever loved, had married another plastic surgeon, and had two kids now. He heard they lived somewhere in Connecticut. The bus arrived right on time and he boarded it, still reminiscing his lost love and what might have been.

Best exited the bus in Ralston, walked a few blocks to a Budget Rent-A-Car location, and signed up for a week's rental of an Impala.

Leaving from the Budget lot, Best drove to a storage facility he had rented to store his personal belongings after his arrest.

Pulling up to the container, he got out the car, found the box, and unlocked it with the key from a ring in his pocket. Seeing the leather suitcase his father had given him at graduation was like seeing a long-lost friend. He pulled back the catches on the case, heard the familiar snap, and raised the lid. He smiled when he saw the set of stainless steel scalpels glimmering in the sunlight.

His fingers tingled with anticipation at what he would do to Crabtree with his beautiful scalpels once he got her on the table. Each time a group of prison bulls held him down and took turns sodomizing him, he thought of each incision he planned to make when he got out, over and over again. He closed the case, placed it in the trunk of the Impala, and returned to the motel.

Once in his room, he removed his iPad from his suitcase and started surfing the net for anything he could find about Malcolm Crabtree. Best had been following the senator’s career whenever he could get his hands on a computer in the slammer. Unfortunately, the senator had been recently reelected for another term, which meant surveillance on him and his wife would be an obstacle Best would have to overcome.

At thirty-two years old, Best had been the youngest and the most successful plastic surgeon on Fifth Avenue. Even now, at forty-two, he looked younger than his years with his classic baby face, except for the two facial scars the prison bulls had given him while fighting them off. He would have them removed when he reached his final destination. Until then, he would have to rely on his expertise with makeup to play the parts he would need to play to get to Crabtree. He had become an expert in the field from taking extensive courses at Westmore Academy in LA to complement his skills in plastic surgery.

Looking in the bathroom mirror, rather than seeing the pretty boy look he was accustomed to, he saw someone who might play the next James Bond with his rugged masculine square jaw and his rock solid muscular biceps.

The next day, Best parked as close as he could to the senator’s estate without arousing suspicion. Right away, he was demoralized when he realized how hard it was going to be to get Crabtree alone. Based on her husband’s lofty position as senator, she usually had several beefy bodyguards watching her every move.

On Monday, after several fruitless days of surveillance, he saw a red Porsche pull up to the front gate. Through his binoculars, Best caught a glimpse of a young, athletic-looking super-stud in the impressive car. The handsome blond man smiled at the guard, and after a few words and a look at a clipboard, the tall man in a blue uniform opened the gate and waved him through.

Three hours later, Best saw the young man return to the gate, say a few words to the guard, and drive away. Best made a note in his phone of the date and time the young man had come and left the estate.

That evening, he saw in the evening paper, the senator was attending a convention in Atlantic City that week.

The next afternoon at approximately the same time as the day before, a white Jaguar pulled up at the gate. Once again, Best saw a strikingly handsome young man with biceps bulging in his expensive looking polo shirt, speak to the guard for a few seconds, and enter after the gate lifted. The young stud had long, dark shoulder-length hair, and a surfer tan.

Four hours later, the visitor waved to the guard as he drove through the security gate.

Best pulled into the road and followed the man in his Jaguar to an upscale high-rise office complex with views of the city. He unobtrusively followed him into the lobby and watched him enter a plush office on the first level. The sign at the entrance read “HAMMER MAGNUM ESCORT SERVICE. The window display had ten portraits of muscular, handsome men showing perfect white teeth in extremely provocative poses. Best recognized the blond man he’d seen driving the Porsche the day before lying on a white, bear skin rug wearing only a skimpy Speedo in one of the photos.

“My God,” he thought, “how could a senator’s wife get away with such an obvious tryst in her own home? The senator was at least twenty-five years older than his wife and looked like the perfect candidate for a heart attack.

Best noticed that golf and tennis lessons as well as physical fitness training were alternative services the Hammer Magnum group provided. Could one of the muscle-bound bruisers be teaching Crabtree golf or tennis? Somehow, he doubted it.

The next afternoon, a young red-haired man with a mustache pulled up to the gate in an Alpha Romero convertible. Best could see a set of golf clubs in the back seat, and the hunk, who reminded him of someone who might be in a Calvin Klein commercial, had a magnificent tan and wore rich looking clothes.

The passing of each day seemed like an eternity, but he continued the maddening surveillance with the patience of Job.

During the second week, he saw the blond man pull up to the gate in his Porsche on Monday at one p.m., the same as he did the previous week.

The next day, the same dark man came at the same time as before, and the following day, the third man arrived, just as he had the previous week.

“Christ,” he thought, “that horny bitch certainly has an insatiable sex drive for her age.” He also knew her husband had returned from Atlantic City over a week ago, and her trysts had continued even with the senator in town under the same roof. Best wondered what the old fart was doing to satisfy his libido if he could still get it up. Was his nymphomaniac wife doing him, too?

When the blond man appeared on the next Monday at the same time, Best decided to put his plan into motion the next afternoon.

That evening, he followed Crabtree's lover for the next day to an exclusive nightclub. He struck up a conversation with him at the bar and slipped a packet of Rohypnol into his drink at the first opportunity.

When the drug and the model could no longer hold his head up, Best told the bartender he was a friend who had too much to drink. Fortunately, the bartender didn't know the model and got two bouncers to help Best get him to his car. When the valet pulled up at the entrance, Best gave the attendant the parking stub and a huge tip and the bouncers laid the semi-conscious man on the back seat.

When Best got the man back to the shit hole he had rented for the occasion, he strapped him to the dilapidated king-size bed with duct tape. He was out like a light and snoring peacefully the moment his head hit the pillow. The drugs Best put in the man’s drink were supposed to keep him down until morning. Afterward, an even better cocktail of drugs would keep him in La La Land for at least twenty-four more hours. By then, Best hoped be somewhere in South America if everything went as planned.

Best spent two hours applying makeup to make himself look as much like Crabtree’s lover as possible. He went to the escort’s apartment and tried on some of his clothes. They weren't perfect, but one set of pants and a shirt were close enough. Of the three men, this man was the closest to Best’s own physique and coloring.

He found a large pair of aviator sunglasses, which covered at least a third of his face. If Best could bluff his way through the gate, he believed he would have a chance to make it inside the house. He didn't want to hurt the guard, but he would if he had to. He didn't expect Crabtree would have many servants at the house when she had sex with someone half her age, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

When he pulled up in front of the gate, Best held his phone in his left hand against his face, which partially blocked the view of the guard through the side window. He was wearing the model’s Omega watch, and he had a silk scarf wrapped high on his neck to avoid the security guard’s direct stare.

Trying to emulate what the others had done before, he lowered the phone slightly and said, “How's it going, George?”

The guard glanced at him in the black Jaguar and made a note on his clipboard. Then, he unexpectedly said, “Do you think Jeter will be able to play tonight? The Yanks really need this game.”

Best paused a beat and tried to maintain his composure. He had heard the model speak a few sentences, but he really didn't know exactly how he sounded when he talked, and he didn't know shit about baseball. He paused from his phone conversation, and lifting his eyes slightly rather than his head, he said, “I hope he can do more than play. Let's hope he can get a hit.”

“Amen, brother,” the tall man in blue answered. Then, for a split second, his expression seemed to darken, causing Best to tighten his grip on the 38 he ‘d brought along that was hidden from sight. He held his breath until the guard finally turned away and hit a button on the wall inside his post. When the gate finally lifted, he wasted no time driving the Jaguar through.

Best continued up the drive and parked in the circular driveway in front of the house like Crabtree’s other lovers had done. His sport coat concealed his gun, which he placed in his belt in the small of his back. He held the Taser in his right hand and rang the doorbell with his left.

When the door opened, Best saw the seductive smile on Crabtree's face morph into an expression of shock and confusion. She let out a shrill shriek and started to retreat backwards when he lunged after her and gave her a painful jolt of electricity. Her body went completely limp, and she pitched forward and she fell face first on to the ceramic tile floor. The dainty nose Best had given her ten years before flattened with a sickening thud, and a sliver of her front tooth bounced like a white marble across the tile. Best grinned like a man who had just won the lottery when he saw the blood pooling at her nostrils on the expensive floor.

As he returned to the car for his scalpels and other paraphernalia, Best wondered if George had heard Crabtree's scream. He peered across the driveway in the direction of the gate, but saw no sign of the guard bounding to the rescue. He listened, but no phone was ringing. After two trips of carting the tools of his trade into the house, he closed the massive entry door and placed his equipment on the dining room table. He lifted Crabtree’s svelte middle-aged carcass and dumped it unceremoniously onto the magnificent mahogany table like a sack of potatoes. It pleased him to hear her head thump upon the exquisite high gloss surface. He chuckled at the thought of her having a nice bump on her brow tomorrow morning to complement his surgical atrocities.

Extracting various straps and constricting devices, Best spent a half an hour fastening the miserable bitch to the hundred thousand dollar dining room table. He turned on the crystal chandelier, which hung from the sixteen foot ceiling, that he imagined might weigh close to a ton. He tweaked the dimmer slightly to diminish the blinding candlepower of the decadent light fixture. The lighting wasn’t perfect for the facelift, but it would have to do.

Best had spent ten years agonizing over every incision of this masterpiece that would be talked about far more than any other plastic surgery ever performed. It took a master to make someone beautiful. The great surgeons of the day performed the procedure thousands of times, but no one had purposely performed surgery to make a face so monstrous that no human being on earth could bear to see it without recoiling in horror.

Each time, a prison bull had mounted him while four others held him down until they too could climb aboard for sloppy seconds, thirds, and so on, only this was what kept him going. His only reason for living was to give Crabtree a makeover so horrible that everyone who saw it would puke their guts out.

Best began his task with painstaking precision. Each incision was a labor of love. To achieve the ultimate horror, he had to strip the face of symmetry completely. After four hours of reshaping, adding, subtracting, this and that he stepped back to admire his thoughtful artistry. As he walked right and then left, depending on what direction he looked at it, he saw flashes of almost every movie monster he had ever seen in some part of Crabtree's face.

The top of her head was partially skull-like and partially hairy like a balding gorilla with one horn protruding from one side of her head. One eyeball was a bloody socket, and the other a bulging orb with black spider veins that could actually see nestled in the cheek between the nose and the ear. Another bloodshot eye peered out from the middle of her forehead. One side of the twisted mouth sported curled uneven teeth, and the other had small, chipmunk teeth like the vampire from the silent era of film. One eyebrow was hairless and one appeared to be born from a werewolf. He could see flashes of the Predator, Alien, the monster from The Descent, Nosferatu, The Phantom of the Opera, the werewolf from The Howling and even a little of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Best could barely keep from puking himself as he admired his excellent work.

It was a masterpiece, and now that it was finished, he could go on with the rest of his life.

The final decision was should he wait until Crabtree became conscious and saw herself in the mirror or should he split and be on his way south right away. The longer he waited, the greater the possibility something would go wrong.

But, after all these years of anticipation, there was no way he could leave without seeing Crabtree's face when she looked in the mirror. It would be priceless. A cherished memory he would treasure for the rest of his life. He decided to wait no matter what the consequences.

Suddenly, from the right, three men in black suits burst into the room with assault rifles. When Best reached for his gun in his belt, two more men grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor. He recognized the senator shuffling into the room looking twenty years older than he did on TV.

“Your name is Michael Best. Correct?” the old man asked.

After Best said nothing, three beefy men lifted him from the floor and holding him fast, pointed him in the direction of Senator Crabtree, who started grinning from ear to ear, “You don't have to talk, we already know who you are. I suspected you might be angry after the ten years of sodomy she put you through, so we've been watching your every move since you got out. Believe me, it wasn't my idea to frame you. I guess you learned the hard way that my wife is a very vindictive woman.”

Best watched George, the guard from the front gate, enter the room. He was no longer dressed in his uniform and was pointing a gun at him. The three muscular male escorts strode in next, and the one he had drugged and then impersonated lunged at him and gave him a crippling blow to the midsection. “Sorry, Best,” he said, “I couldn't resist the cheap shot after what you put me through.”

“How long will my wife be out?” the senator asked the doctor who was writhing in pain on the floor.

The senator lit a cigar and waited for him to catch his breath from the sucker punch.

When Best was able to sit up, he still refused to answer the question.

“Hey Joe, get the hedge trimmers, the senator barked. Let's take off a few fingers until the doctor decides to talk.”

A small man with a cruel smile disappeared into the garage. After a brief absence, he returned with the hedge trimmers.

“Look, Best, this is going to get ugly unless you tell me what I want to know,” the senator prodded.

The small man moved toward the doctor with the heavy-duty garden tool.

“All right, all right,” Best shouted, squirming backwards as much as he could with two men holding him.

“I gave her a much lighter dose than usual. She's going to be coming out of it very soon, and when she does, she’s going to be in excruciating pain.”

“Damn, Best, you’re a real masochist, but you know, I really don't blame you,” the senator said, obviously enjoying every minute of the proceedings.

“Are you going to kill me after what I did to your wife?” the doctor asked.

“Kill you?” the senator said, a grin filling his red alcoholic face. “No, we're not going to kill you. I’d give you a medal if I could, but I won't be able to do that.”

The room full of thugs chuckled, then, they all looked at each other like the senator had told a sidesplitting joke.

“When my bodyguards and me came home, we caught you red-handed right after you murdered the only woman I ever loved.” the senator said.

Everyone, except Best laughed in unison.

“You wanted revenge after what she had done to you for all those years,” the senator continued.

“What do you mean? Your wife isn’t dead. She's messed up, I’ll grant you that. I don't think you're going to enjoy fucking her with the face I've given her, but medically, there’s no reason foe her not to live a long, humiliating life. Happily, no surgeon can correct what I've done to her.”

“Hey, no hard feelings, Doc,” the senator said. “I’ve got no problem with what you did. I know my wife's a bitch, and I've wanted to get rid of her for a long time. I'm sorry I can't reward you for what you're gonna do for me.”

“I’m not going to do anything for you,” Best replied firmly. “If you want her dead, you’ll have to get one of your hired thugs to do it. I’ve done what I set out to do. So have at it, you miserable creep. Blow her brains out.”

The senator stared at him incredulously with his mouth agape, “Damn, doc, you’re not too fast on the uptake. We don’t need you to pull the trigger. We need you to take the fall for the murder wrap. Capiche?”

Suddenly, Best understood what the senator had in store for him. He could already feel the prison bulls reaming him another asshole.

“Yeah, I'd say killing a senator’s wife should get you life without any possibility of parole since the state doesn't have the death penalty. But before we blow her brains out with your gun and call the cops to take you away, don’t you want to see the look on the bitch’s face when she looks in the mirror?”

The senator threw his hands in the air like the conductor of the New York Symphony, and everyone in the room, except Best, shouted with gusto in unison, “We do!”

And then like the sweetest music ever played on earth, they heard Crabtree’s pitiful whine begin to vibrate the crystal in the dining room fixture. An arsenal of firearms turned n her direction.

Like a putrid carcass of road kill ravaged by a flock of turkey buzzards on a hot summer day, the monstrous face rose from the table and tried to focus with two of her three eyes on the mirror in front of her.

For a few seconds, everyone stood like statues, riveted in their tracks, unable to breathe from the unspeakable horror before them.

Then, everyone, including Best, who was about to spend the rest of his life being sodomized by prison bulls, broke into a tirade of uproarious, hysterical laughter, as Crabtree began to scream and scream and scream some more….

THE BLIZZARD

Helen saw the drifting snow outside the kitchen window. Harry was supposed to get home early. His company only worked half a day before the Christmas holidays. She wondered if he had lost track of time and missed the train. It usually did not matter if he was a little late, but this weekend they were to meet at her parents’ estate in Medford, New Jersey, which was two and a half hours from Manhattan on a good day. Tonight was Christmas Eve and the Friday before the long holiday weekend; now, together with the blizzard, the commute by rail would certainly be a nightmare. There was no telling when Harry would arrive in Medford.

Helen hated to think she might be alone in this spooky old house for most of the evening. Even on a summer day, the great expanse of the 200-year-old, twenty-room mansion unsettled her, but she feared the night and the blizzard without Harry to keep her company would stress her to the breaking point. Even when Harry was with her, the incessant, weird noises frightened her enormously, particularly those that came from the part of the house that hadn’t been occupied for years. Whenever she mentioned hearing a strange sound, Harry called her an “old fraidy cat” and laughed mercilessly. She knew old houses were prone to have creaks and groans, but that reality had never given her comfort.

Placing another log in the fireplace, she turned on the TV and channel surfed to a soft rock music station. She’d prepared an exquisite dinner and chilled a bottle of expensive champagne.

They always opened one present on Christmas Eve, and the rest in the morning. Malcolm, their devoted caretaker, had brought in a twelve-foot tall tree and decorated it in the expansive living room for this special weekend. He’d also hung red stockings from the mantle just like the ones the family had when she was a little girl.

Outside, the howling wind and the sound of the snow on the exterior added a foreboding feeling in spite of the festive decorations. The clock on the mantle pounded out seven ponderous bongs. Helen decided to go to the wet bar and make a martini to calm her nerves. Returning to the living room, she sat on the sofa and sipped the potent Grey Goose cocktail while snow danced on the wind across the picture window. She wondered how Harry would ever make it to Medford in this blizzard.

Suddenly, the phone, ringing on the end table beside her, startled her so much she spilled a third of her martini. Picking up the receiver, she heard Harry’s voice mingled with a crowd of unhappy commuters in the background.

“Can you hear me, honey?”

“Barely. Where are you?”

“I’m at Penn Station in Newark. The commuter trains on the Northeast Corridor line have been delayed two hours due power outages because of the storm. I decided to park the car at Trenton rather than Hamilton, which gives me more choices on the trains.”

“Harry, I told you to leave early. I made dinner. Malcolm did a wonderful job on the Christmas tree and the decorations. The champagne is chilling. And you know I hate to be alone in this big, old house at night.”

“The special meeting went on forever, and I didn’t know there was a blizzard going on outside. The conference room where we met didn’t have windows.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re doing the best you can, but don’t fall asleep waiting for the train like you did last month. Set the alarm on your cell.”

“I promise I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you think you could drive over to Laura’s house until I get there?”

“I couldn’t get the car in the garage, and now I can’t even see it in the driveway the snow has drifted so high. I can’t get out, and I’m worried you won’t be able to get here even if you get to Trenton.”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me from spending Christmas Eve with you, darling. I know you’re disappointed in me, but wait till you see the surprise I have for you.”

The lights flickered for a moment, and Helen gasped.

“What is it?” Harry quaked as a background of static crept into the line.

”The lights flickered. Maybe the power is about to go off.”

“Don’t think about the bad things that could happen. You’ll whip yourself into a frenzy. Do you have your medication with you?”

“Yes, I have it, but I can’t drink alcohol if I take it,” Helen lamented. “I want this night to be romantic and special.”

She heard the front door creak and paused a beat so Harry wouldn’t hear a tremor in her voice, “Well, I’ll see you when you get here. Let me know if you are delayed any longer than expected. Love you. Bye.”

Helen turned the channel on the TV to a news station with the remote. Immediately, she heard the weather report. “South Jersey is calling for thirty inches of snow by morning,” the announcer said, showing off his pearly white teeth. “The highway department issued a travel advisory to stay off the roads unless it is a medical emergency. This could be the largest snowfall in thirty-one years.”

On the strip scrolling across the bottom of the screen she saw the following alarming words, “A criminally insane patient committed for murdering two people fifteen years ago has escaped from the Princeton Sanitarium.”

“Whoopee. A lunatic is on the loose to add to the list of creepy things that will make me crazy in this noisy, old house,” Helen muttered. She changed the channel to reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond to lighten the mood.

Heavy snow continued to fall outside, and the wind continued to howl. She watched the reflection of the Christmas lights blinking on and off in the large picture window overlooking the frozen lake for a time. Then, feeling too exposed to the darkness outside, she got up and pulled the curtain. She did not want the maniac to know she was alone in the house if he was out there.

Sitting back on the sofa, she chuckled to herself about how long any person would last if they were outside in this hellish snowstorm.

The levity ended abruptly when someone rang the front doorbell. Helen rose from the sofa and felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck as she pondered her next move. No one in his right mind would be out on a night like this. No one, that is, except an escaped maniac who had no other place to go.

She crept to the door and tried to sneak a peek through the peephole. The front door light was not on, and all she could see was a shadow moving across the opening.

“Please help me,” said a desperate, raspy voice from the darkness. “My wife is pregnant, and I’ve run out of gas on Route 70 on my way to the hospital, and my cell died. I need to use your phone. Please let me in.”

Helen remained silent, fearing the man was lying, but still fearing the consequences if she didn’t help the poor couple in distress.

“Please. I know you’re in there. I can hear the television.”

Helen stammered, “I can’t open the door. The news just said there’s a maniac on the loose in the area. I’ll call 9-1-1 for you, but I can’t open the door. You say your car is on Route 70?”

Helen saw the shadow move away from the door. She listened for a reply, but the howling wind was the only sound.

“I really want to help you. Give me your name, the make of your car, and I’ll call 9-1-1.”

Helen listened, but there was no answer. She turned on the porch light, and to her surprise, saw no one at the door. She could only see the steady torrent of snow drifting onto the porch. Her heart raced as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. “The stranger must have been lying about his pregnant wife,” she thought, “he only wanted her to open the door. Could the maniac really be outside?”

She ran to the phone and listened for a dial tone. Nothing. Were the lines down, or did the stranger cut the connection to the house? Opening her purse, she rummaged around for her cell. Finding it, she punched in 9-1-1 and could not believe it when she heard a voice on the line, “Hello, what is your emergency?”

Helen spoke in a flurry, relaying the details of what the man who had come to my door had said and added, “Now that it’s clear he didn’t need to use the phone, I’m deathly afraid the man outside is the maniac who escaped from the sanitarium.”

“What’s your name and address?” asked the emergency operator.

“Helen Pierce. My address is 928 Lakeshore Drive, Medford.”

“I’ll call the sheriff’s department and try to get someone out there, but the number of calls we’re receiving due to the weather are….” The voice ended abruptly. She tried several more times, but there was no longer any service.

Helen turned off the television, plunging the house into darkness except for the Christmas lights on the tree and the glow of the logs in the fireplace. A moment later, she jumped when she heard a cinder fall through the grate. The bushes scraping the windows and the whistle of the wind seeping in from under the thresholds caused her to turn the television back on to hide the mixture of creepy sounds that continued to unnerve her.

The stranger at the door was the only thing on her mind. Could she or Malcolm have left a window or door unlocked? It was such a big house, and there were so many windows and doors.

If only the police would come. If only Harry would come. Then, a terrible thought gripped her, “What if Harry came home, and the maniac attacked him before he could get inside the house? Someone could easily be lurking in one of the outbuildings just a stone’s throw away.”

Every fifteen minutes, she picked up the phone and tried to get a dial tone. She also tried her cell, and as before, there was still no service. Whatever happened, she was on her own.

The front doorbell rang again. Hoping, by some miracle, the police had actually responded to her 9-1-1 call, she ran to the door and looked through the small opening. Helen couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw a man in a blue uniform wearing a hat in the glow of the porch light.

“This is the Medford police. Did you report a prowler?” the man said, trying to see through the peephole.

Helen immediately sensed that the policeman’s raspy voice sounded very much like the voice of the stranger who had come earlier. “Can you show me your badge?” she said, stalling before opening the door.

The police officer stepped back into the light, and Helen noticed a spray of blood on the silver badge fastened to the chest of his uniform. She stood paralyzed in fear as the officer looked down at his shield, and wiping away the blood with his glove, he said, “I‘m sorry you had to see that. It’s dark out here, and I didn’t see the splatter until I stepped under the light. In any case, I’m freezing my balls off out here and need to come inside. Make it easy on yourself. Open the door, or I’ll kick it in. I promise I won’t hurt you. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? It’s the season to be merry. What do you say?”

Helen remained silent and moved away from the door. Picking up the remote, she turned off the TV and the Christmas lights.

When the lights went out, and Helen did not open the door, the man made several futile attempts to muscle down the thick, solid oak door. She heard him cursing after each thunderous kick.

Time passed, and then came the earsplitting report of a gun on the front porch. A large hole appeared in the right panel of the door, followed by another blast that created a similar hole in the lower left panel next to the jamb.

Helen stifled a scream and ran into a dark recess off the foyer. Opening a door that she assumed had not been opened for years, she inched into the black hallway that led toward the section of the house where her bedroom was located when she was a child. The light from the fireplace dimly illuminated the hall. Clouds of dust motes filled the opening as she closed the door and locked it, plunging the hall into total darkness.

She felt the sensation of déjà vu sending shivers up her backbone. Even in the complete darkness, she remembered this hallway like it was yesterday. She had played hide and go seek with her siblings countless times, and she knew every inch of the space even in the dark. Memories of the past returned as she felt for the first doorknob on the right side of the hall.

When Helen touched the cold, round doorknob, fond images of Jimmy, her younger brother, flooded her mind. Poor Jimmy. She could see his bushy red hair and his big brown eyes, but most of all; she remembered how blue his lips were when Malcolm covered him with a piece of tarp the day he drowned in the lake.

She heard more gunfire in the main house and the sound of breaking glass. She heard the muffled shouts of the stranger behind the locked door as she moved deeper into the long corridor.

Touching the second knob on the right, she saw her younger sister in her memory, running playfully through the green grass in the yard. Poor Gillian. She had died when Helen was twelve. She fell through the ice on the lake. The image of her being taken away in a black body bag haunted her to this day.

She trembled when she touched the third knob, which had been her older brother’s room. Helen had loved him dearly until the day he tried to strangle her in the bathtub. Thank God, Malcolm had come home unexpectedly and saved her. Poor Hugo. She had never forgotten the look on his face when the police took him away in handcuffs. During the trial, he confessed to killing their parents and later Jimmy and Gillian on the lake. He was such a handsome boy until he ravaged his face with a butcher knife. He had been committed to the Princeton Sanitarium for what seemed like an eternity.

Suddenly, the possibility that it could have been Hugo who escaped from the institution registered for the first time. “Wouldn’t that be an incredible coincidence?” she thought. “The news flash did not give the name of the person the police were searching for, but she remembered the reporter had said he’d been committed fifteen years ago.” Her face darkened when she did the math and found Hugo went to the insane asylum about fifteen years ago. If it was Hugo who escaped, could he find his way back to this house in the middle of a blizzard after all these years? She hoped not, for her sake.

Finally, Helen touched the last doorknob at the end of the hall and opened it. This was the room her parents said to go to if someone ever broke into the house.

Inside the outer door, the wall looked like a bank vault. Turning on the light, she spun a cylinder and pushed open the heavy steel door. Helen crawled through the center of the opening and turned on a new set of internal lights and a generator switch to activate the heat and air conditioning, and then closed the door. The interior of the space had a sink with running water and a telephone. The space was initially created in the ‘50’s as a bomb shelter and updated as a place to go in an emergency just before her parents were killed in 1995.

She picked up the telephone and found it as dead as the phone in the living room. She remembered her father telling her this was a dedicated line that would not be affected even if someone cut the connection to the house. She wondered if Malcolm had continued the service even after her parents died. If he had, once the outage was repaired, she would be able to call 9-1-1 and have someone come to her rescue. The intruder could destroy the rest of the house, but he would not be able to reach her in this bomb shelter without high explosives. This room was both bomb and fireproof.

She was safe, but she still had to find a way to protect Harry from the intruder if she couldn’t call for help soon.

She sat down at a desk and turned on a series of surveillance monitors she had loved to play with years ago. She was amazed they still worked. Possibly, Malcolm had been maintaining the system as one of his chores, and he had never mentioned it. In any case, this was a godsend. She wished the old caretaker was here now, but she had left strict instructions for him to take the weekend off.

The monitors showed the rooms inside the house, the parking lot, the porches, and several out buildings. The first screen showed a police car parked at the entrance of their circular driveway in a snow bank under a streetlight. When she panned to a closer view of the side window with the zoom feature, she saw a man in a tee shirt with his face pressed against the side window and another man in a police uniform slumped in the passenger seat next to him. There was a splatter of blood on the glass, and neither man was moving.

In the monitor that showed the living room, she saw the man in the police uniform thrashing about shouting for her to come out of hiding. Then, she saw him looking into the camera lens at a distance and seeing something that tipped him off she was watching him.

He walked up to the camera and said grinning from ear to ear, “Helen, I know Harry is on his way here. If you don’t come out, I promise I will cut off his fingers and toes and then his balls right here in the living room so you can see it in your monitor. You don’t want that to happen, do you? So…if you’ll open the safe in the den, I’ll be out of here. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Who was this killer?” she thought. “He didn’t sound like a maniac from the sanatorium. Was he the stranger at the door? Did he overhear her conversation with 9-1-1 when she told them to send the police? How did he know their names and the location of the safe?”

The intruder reached up, and grabbing the camera from its perch, disconnected the line. The monitor in the living room went black. Helen tried the phones again to see if service had been restored, but nothing had changed. She tried to think of a Plan B if Harry arrived before she could reach the police.

She had several rifles in the shelter, but she had never fired a gun and had always hoped she never would.

As the hours passed, the snow continued to fall relentlessly across the landscape outside. She could hear the killer ranting for her to come out on several of the inside monitors, but she continued to stay within the safety of the impenetrable shelter.

Then, Helen’s worst fears were realized when she saw headlights approaching through the swirling snow in the monitor. She recognized Harry’s Hummer fishtailing up the hill. After pausing at the police car that was completely covered in a drift, the Hummer proceeded past two other abandoned vehicles and plowed its way toward the circular driveway leading to the front entrance.

Helen punched in Harry’s number, but just as before, she could not get through. She watched Harry struggle to open his car door, and after exiting, lost him in a snow bank between the driveway and the front door. Poor Harry was walking into certain death. She had to act fast and take drastic action if she had any chance of saving his life.

She opened a cabinet on the wall and taking the Glock from the shelf, verified the gun was loaded. Moving to the entrance, she wasted valuable time trying to figure out how to unlock the massive door. Finally, when it clicked open, she scurried down the dark hallway to the door opening into the foyer.

She heard gunshots explode behind the locked door. Terror gripped her as the thought of Harry being another victim of the killer who’d broken into the house. Determined to blow his ass away if he had hurt poor defenseless Harry no matter what the consequences, she quietly opened the door to the foyer and peered into the dimly lit expanse of the main house.

The embers in the fireplace provided the only light as she moved forward as stealthily as she could. The same irritating noises that had plagued her all night clouded the sound of anyone moving in the dark living room. She slid down onto the ceramic tile floor, and crawling slowly toward the center of the enormous room, she listened for the slightest unfamiliar sound.

Trembling with a level of crippling fear she had never experienced, she pointed the handgun into the darkness and inched forward.

Suddenly, Helen’s hand felt something wet and slippery on the tile. A dark shape lay motionless on the floor in front of her. Unable to avoid the pool of warm blood surrounding the body of a man, she shimmied forward on her stomach. Then, she made out the outline of the silver badge and saw the distorted face of the killer in the light that remained from the flickering firelight.

With a burst of elation, she stood up and screamed, “Harry! Where are you?”

“I’m here, my darling,” came a shout from the center of the dark living room.

“I thought I’d lost you. Thank God, that awful man is dead. I was so afraid. He killed the policemen, and I was certain he would kill you, too.”

She ran to Harry, threw his arms around him, and kissed him passionately. He stood rigid and did not reciprocate with a warm embrace. She felt something heavy in his breast pocket as the tears started to roll down her face.

Feeling the sticky substance on her dress, Harry recoiled with a sudden start, and looked at her coldly. “Helen, you’re covered with blood. Have you been shot?”

“No, I’m fine. I got his blood all over me when I crawled across the floor. How did you get his gun away from him?”

Harry loosened his grip on her shoulders and stepped back. After an awkward silence, he said, “I brought a gun of my own.”

“A gun of your own? Where would you get a gun?” Helen asked dumbfounded.

“I bought one for this occasion. It’s the surprise I told you about.”

“Surprise? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I decided not to pay Louie the money I promised him to kill you. You should have seen the look on his face when I pulled the trigger. He never suspected I’d have the balls to do it.”

“You paid him to kill me?” Helen choked in disbelief. “I thought you loved me.”

“Loved you? I’ve loathed you from the moment we met, but unfortunately, I couldn’t leave without your money. By killing you, I’ll have it all, which will allow me to continue enjoying the lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to.”

“You ungrateful bastard. You’ll never get away with it.” Helen stammered.

“I think I will. Louie killed you, and I killed Louie in self-defense. There’s nothing to tie me to the three-time loser. It’s the perfect crime.”

“I have a big surprise for you, too, my darling.” Raising the Glock, she said coldly, “I have a gun of my own.” She saw the priceless shock in Harry’s eyes as he made a feeble attempt to draw his gun just as Helen planted two gaping holes in his midsection. The impact of the bullets sent him flying backwards into the coffee table. His gun skittered across the tile floor.

Helen walked over, placed the barrel in the middle of his forehead, and considered obliterating his pathetic face from her memory. But reconsidering, she decided such an act would be too hard to explain to the police.

Suddenly, the overhead lights came on, and she winced seeing how the scarlet pools of blood clashed with the living room’s beige color scheme. She wiped her fingerprints from her gun and placed it in the stranger’s hand. Her story would be the intruder shot Harry with a gun he found in the master bedroom, and Harry managed to return fire and kill the intruder before he died. She would say she was an eyewitness to the gruesome affair, and poor Harry saved her life.

Based on her stature in the community and the reputation of her parents, she did not think she would come under suspicion at all. She had not been a suspect before when her parents, Jimmy, and Gillian’s deaths were investigated. She had never known why Hugo had confessed to all the murders she had committed after he tried to strangle her. The gentle giant had always done things no one in the family could understand, even as a child.

She went to the wet bar in the study and made a very dry martini. Returning to the living room, she opened the curtains, and turned on the Christmas lights on the tree. Taking a seat on the sofa, she listened to the unsettling sounds with a new frame of mind. Somehow, after what she had been through, they didn’t seem to bother her as much.

She could not believe she’d fallen in love and lived in harmony with Harry for so long, not knowing, he loathed her. He had fooled her completely. She had never in her wildest dreams imagined he had married her for her money. He had certainly played a convincing role in the bedroom. At least, she had enjoyed her share of blissful orgasms.

Harry had certainly been a handsome devil. He had always reminded her of Clint Eastwood in Play Misty For Me. If he had never loved her, she wondered about the affairs he must have had along the way. Oh well. She would start looking for someone new in a month or so. If it didn’t work out, there was still a lot of water in the lake or in the ocean, whichever worked best.

She had always been a cold, ruthless woman. Someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it. Even as a little girl, she had never liked to share. She had to be number one. Always. When her parents favored Jimmy and Gillian right from the start, they had unknowingly written their death warrants.

Helen remembered her parents screaming for mercy as the flames enveloped their master bedroom suite. She had barricaded the bedroom door and trapped them inside. They couldn’t escape through the windows because of the security bars. Afterward, she removed the two by fours before calling the fire department, and no one knew the difference. Everyone suspected her parents had passed out from smoke inhalation and never tried to reach the door to escape.

She could still hear their pathetic screams even now, but not once had she lost one minute of sleep regretting having all their wealth for herself. She could still hear Jimmy and Gillian pleading for help after she pushed them off the yacht into the deep water. Neither of them could swim worth a damn, but Gillian made a gallant attempt treading water until her head finally went under that last time. It took so long for her to drown; Helen thought she might have to give her a whack in the head with one of the lifeboat oars. Thankfully, she finally stayed under without the extra effort.

Poor Hugo was the only one who could see the evil in her. He knew what she was capable of all along. When her parents died, he looked at her with that knowing smirk on his face. The same one he had on his face when her brother and sister had been carried away in body bags from the lake. I guess he knew he would be next, and that’s why he decided to strike first. Thank God Malcolm was there to save her.

She picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. She told the woman who answered her gruesome story with all the remorse and emotion she could muster. Afterward, she put down the phone and took a sip of her martini. Outside, the snow falling on the lake brought back fond memories of Jimmy and Gillian and the wonderful holidays they had shared before she killed them. She watched the Christmas tree lights blinking on and off in her memory.

Like a ghost from the past, the reflection of a tall shape in a hospital robe shambled into view from behind her in the picture window. She recognized the same infernal smirk on his haggard, scarred face as his strong hands gripped her neck the same as they had so many years before. Only this time, Malcolm had the day off.

She wondered if the gentle giant would stop strangling her if she asked him about Osgood, his favorite teddy bear. She wanted so much to make him stop; there was so much more life she wanted to live.

With her last gasp, she pursed her lips and mouthed the only words she could think to say, “Hugo, forgive me.”

IT LURKS ON THE MOUNTAIN

“Another Bud,” Jack Springer said, inserting a ketchup-covered fry into his mouth. He had been game warden in the county for more than twenty-five years, and during that time, had knocked down many a beer at Bubba’s Bar and Emporium. He remembered the good old days with every stool and table occupied with shit-faced, paying customers.

Bubba Rexrode, the owner and currently the bartender, put down an icy draft on a coaster, wiped a dollop of mustard from the bar top with a wet rag, and said with a long face, “Friday night, and I’ll be lucky to take in $100 when I close at midnight.”

“I told you when you fired the pole dancers it would be disastrous for business,” Jack teased with a wink.

“I’ll bring ‘em back if you want to pay for them,” Bubba lamented. “When the muffler plant shut down, the town died. We just didn’t know it for a year or two. All the young people moved away, and the geezers, who were regulars, started dying.”

Jack took another sip of Bud and ogled the half-naked calendar girl on the wall next to the cash register. He reminisced the good times that he assumed would never roll again.

Sprinkling a few more peanuts into the bowl on the bar, Bubba continued, “We need something to bring new people into town. A corporation could start up the old muffler plant with a new product for chump change. The wages would be dirt cheap.”

“Good luck on that,” Jack replied, popping a peanut into his mouth. “Who would they put on the assembly line, you and me?”

Bubba ignored the sarcasm, “I also heard a few years ago a company was planning to put in a ski lodge. Pennsylvania has a lot of ski lodges. They make artificial snow.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that.” Jack smacked a ten on the bar and rising from the stool said, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” Exiting the bar, he saw only one couple at a table in the back. Something had to happen soon, or Bubba would have to close.

Jack headed for his office at the town hall. Stepping inside, he stopped at the front desk where Lucille Piddy sat painting her nails with a shocking, pink polish.

“Anybody get lost in the woods this morning?” Jack joked. “How many grizzly attacks so far? Avalanches?”

Lucille, a plump, dirty blonde with a slight mustache looked at him and smiled, “None of those things we’re called in so far, but I do have something for you to check out that’s even more exciting.”

“What’s that, Lucille?”

“There’s been another Big Foot sighting.”

“Where ‘bouts?” Jack asked, rolling his eyes and putting another piece of bubble gum in his mouth.

“Widow’s Peak. Three campers called it in right after you went to lunch. Pausing to control her laughter, Lucille chortled, “They seemed very distraught, but I told them not to worry, Big Foot is afraid of people and has never attacked a human being in these parts before.”

“I guess I’d better get up there. At least, I can have a good laugh this afternoon.”

Jack went to the parking lot, climbed into his Jeep, and headed toward the mountain.

As he drove deeper and deeper toward the campsite, Jack had to chuckle at the absurdity of the legend that continued to raise its ugly head every few years. It all started when Rocky Jenkins put on a gorilla suit and had one of his friends film him running through the woods. Rocky wanted to attract hunters to his fishing and tackle shop at the foot of the mountain, and attract them, he did. After the local paper ran the picture on the front page of the morning edition, there was a tourist or a hunter with a camera or a rifle behind every tree. That is, until Rocky knocked out the front tooth of his camera friend in a bar fight, and he retaliated by exposing the hoax.

Pulling into Deer Creek State Park, and continuing deeper into the thick forest, Jack remembered that after Rocky’s picture made the headlines, four hunters shot four other hunters on four different occasions when they thought they had seen Big Foot and tried to bag him.

After five years had passed without a sighting, there had been three in the last three months. Jack wondered if someone was prowling around in a gorilla suit again. Three sightings in such a short period did not seem like a coincidence. The only reason he could think of for making people believe Big Foot was on the mountain when he was not would be to bring hunters and tourists back to the area. He and Bubba had talked about the Rocky Jenkins deception a shitload of times, and he wondered if his old friend had something to do with the recent sightings.

Pulling into the parking lot, he saw a dilapidated truck and three men with rifles sitting at a picnic table. The men stood and met him as he got out of the Jeep.

“I’m Jack Springer, the game warden in these parts. Are you the hunters that think you saw Big Foot?”

The tallest man stepped forward pointing at a rocky crag in the distance, “What would you call a big, hairy giant about ten feet tall bounding over the top of that ridge. We know what we see’d. We tried to follow the critter, but he disappeared like a fart in the wind. That’s when we came upon the body parts.”

“Body parts?” Jack choked, almost swallowing the massive wad of bubble gum he had in his jaw. Why didn’t you mention that to Lucille when you called?”

The tall man continued as the other two men stood silent with big chaws of tobacco in their jowls, “At first, we didn’t know if they were animal or human. We thought we’d let you decide when you got here. But after we called, we found a loose eyeball in the leaves, and then an ear. The rest of it was a hodgepodge of blood and guts, the likes we never see’d.”

Jack looked at the three of them like morons and demanded, “Show me what you’re talking about. If you’re hunters, you must know what animal parts look like.”

A man in a plaid shirt with a maroon baseball cap piped in, “It didn’t have a head and no arms and legs. It was so torn up, we didn’t know what it was until Jasper spotted that eyeball. Then, right beside it, like Buford said, we see’d the ear that thing musta ripped off one of them heads.”

“Haven’t you ever dressed out a deer? What kind of hunters are you?” Jack retorted.

The tall man replied, “This is our first hunting trip. We never see’d bloody body parts and an eyeball out of its socket before. Believe me; it’s nothing like what you see on TV or the movies. I never knowed blood was so red. I puked all over my new boots when I saw it. I think they’re ruined.”

After a few minutes, the man with the maroon baseball cap, who had wandered away, shouted, “It’s over here!”

A buzzard squawked and flew off when the foursome emerged from the bushes. When Jack saw what the men had described, he did a double take at a sight far more gruesome than anything he had ever seen. Blood and pieces of torn flesh littered the terrain.

Jack grimaced as he inspected a splayed ribcage, “It’s human all right. In fact, I think it might be three or four bodies of different ages. Maybe a family. It’s hard to tell with no heads and no arms and legs. It looks like pieces of torsos all chopped to hell to me.”

Huge footprints of a barefoot person encircled the grisly remains. Judging by Jack’s size twelve shoe, which he placed beside the print, he estimated the apparent giant would wear a shoe twice his size.

“You say you saw a hairy giant disappear over that ridge.”

“Yep, he went right up yonder,” the third hunter with orange suspenders said, pointing to the spot.

“I want you guys to stay here and keep the varmints away while I call the sheriff and the coroner?” Jack replied, heading for the parking lot.

Nothing he had seen at Widow’s Peak made any sense. He couldn’t get a signal on his cell and had to use his car phone to call the office. When no one answered, he said after the beep, “Hey! This is Jack, Gloria. Some hunters have found some body parts up here at Widow’s Peak. It looks like some kind of animal attack, but the heads, arms, and legs are missing, which makes no sense. I don’t think these guys are telling the truth. I need Ed up here ASAP to tell me what he thinks, before I call the Sheriff. I’m in sector 28. Tell him to meet me in the parking lot.”

Signing off, Jack heard screams from the direction he had just come from and raced back with his sidearm ready.

When he arrived at the place where he had left the hunters, they were gone. He remembered their old truck still in the parking lot when he had come running to their rescue.

Suddenly the sound of the forest seemed graveyard still. Straining to hear the slightest movement, he started back toward the parking lot with wary apprehension. Reaching the Jeep, he got in and quickly locked the door. He cracked both windows and stayed alert, watching and listening.

After a half an hour of peering into the eerie woods, he saw two white vans approaching in his rear view mirror. When he recognized the coroner and his crew pulling in on both sides of his Jeep, Jack breathed a little easier.

When Ed Forbes, the coroner, got out of his van, Jack stepped from his vehicle to meet him and said, “The body parts are behind those bushes over there. Follow me.”

The coroner and two men followed him to the crime scene now swarming with flies. Forbes put on some rubber gloves and stooped to pick up a bloody piece of flesh. He smelled it, and examined it under a magnifying glass he extracted from his suit coat, and then placed it in a plastic bag. Shaking his head, he looked at Jack and said, “The flesh is human all right, but it smells like it’s been swimming in formaldehyde for quite a while.”

Forbes’ eye fell upon something almost buried in the leaves under a slab of meat that had a belly button. Moving to it, he picked up a plastic bag with red liquid residue inside and concluded, “I’d say someone bought some blood plasma and splashed it around for effect, but were too dim-witted to take the container with them. Yes, Jack, my initial assessment is this is a hoax, and not a crime scene.”

Jack looked at Forbes incredulously for a time, and then exhaled deeply at this conclusion.

The coroner shook his head and replied, “I can’t believe anyone would be so stupid to think an autopsy wouldn’t uncover the difference between a fresh kill and a body preserved by formaldehyde. It must have been someone who never had a TV to watch CSI.”

Jack thought about the hunters and the gaps of their missing teeth and said, “I think I know just the morons who probably did this. I hate to say it, but I think Bubba put them up to it.”

“Bubba? He seems too smart to come up with a ridiculous idea like this.”

“I think he’s desperate to attract more people into town and had poor judgment in who he hired to pull it off. Actually, sending public officials on a wild goose chase is the only crime our favorite bartender may have committed today. If we can connect him to this ruse, I think we can drink free beer at Bubba’s for at least a week.”

Jack left the coroner and his crew, returned to his jeep, and headed for town to confront Bubba. He noticed the hunters’ truck remained in the parking lot. He thought of the creepy feeling he had felt when he was alone before the coroner arrived. The sheriff would have to send out a search party, and he would probably be asked to join them.

Pulling into one of the many empty spaces along the street in front of Bubba’s, Jack went inside and took a seat at the bar.

His old friend twisted off the cap of a bottle of Bud, and placing it on the counter; he said with a wry smile, “I hear there was another Big Foot sighting today.”

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. Did you hire three numbskulls to plant body parts at Widow’s Peak and say they saw Big Foot?”

“What? Big Foot? Body parts?” Bubba spat, appearing genuinely upset by the accusation.

Jack told him about the three hunters, the Big Foot sighting, and what they had found at Widow’s Peak.

“How desperate would I have to be to get involved in such a crazy idea?” Bubba scowled, wiping the bar with a rag.

“You said you were desperate to drum up more business, and it crossed my mind, you might have hired someone to run around Widow’s Peak in a gorilla suit like Rocky Jenkins did way back when.”

Ignoring this, Bubba asked, “Did you find any footprints?”

“We saw humongous footprints all around the body parts, and what’s more, whatever made them walked upright on two feet.”

“Well, for God sakes, pick up the phone and call somebody at the Mountain Ledger. Tell them what you’ve seen. This could be just what the doctor ordered to bring new beer guzzlers into town.”

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about what we found in the woods?”

“I’d swear on my mother’s grave. I’m innocent.” Bubba said, placing his right hand over his heart.

“I’ve got a splitting headache,” Jack groaned, rubbing his temples. “I think I’ve been chewing too much bubble gum, and it’s given me a migraine. I’m going back to my house to take some medicine and lie down for a spell.”

“Be sure you call the press as soon as you can,” Bubba yelled as a reminder.

As soon as Jack went out the door, Bubba went into the back room where the three hunters from Widow’s Peak were drinking beer. His face turned redder than a matador’s cape and then he cut loose with spit flying, “I can’t believe you guys were stupid enough to think cadavers would pass for Big Foot victims.”

“We didn’t know,” the tall one explained. “We hacked up the torsos we bought from the medical supply house with a hatchet. We didn’t have enough money to buy the heads, the arms and the legs.”

“Thank God for small favors. At least, it will be harder to ID the torsos,” Bubba grumbled.

“After spreading out the slabs of meat, we splashed the blood we bought on the pieces. It looked damn good to me.”

Bubba winced at the stupidity. “Did you leave a lot of tracks with the Big Foot molds I gave you?”

“Absolutely. All over.”

Bubba kept firing questions, “You drove the stolen truck, and the one I loaned you to the site… and which one did you leave in the parking lot?”

“Golly gee, Mr. Rexrode, we left the stolen truck, o’course. How dumb do you think we are?” the tall man grimaced, looking at his silent partners leaning against the wall.

“Just checkin’. And you got away clean?”

“After we screamed for help like Big Foot was after us, we hightailed it to the other pickup we had parked down the road and took the long way here to be sure nobody see’d us. We done everything just like you said. Well, everything except for the body parts.” the tall hunter replied, guzzling more beer.

“Well, at least you did something right,” Bubba’s heavy-handed demeanor relaxed. “What about the stilts?”

“We made them like you said, but we’re not going to parade around on them so some hunter can blow our brains out.”

“I told you not to go into the forest where the hunters are. It’s critical that no one sees your disguise up close. You only show yourself when you know someone is watching from the hotel window. As soon as you’re spotted, get down behind a bush, take off your costume, and stow it in the back pack I gave you.”

“You’re gonna have to hire somebody dumber than us for that job,” the tall man muttered, rising from his chair.

Bubba handed him $500 to split between them and said. “As soon as it gets dark, sneak out the back door, and walk quietly through the woods to where you hid your truck. Be sure you don’t let anyone see you. Once you’re out of the town limits, haul ass back to the holler, and stay there ‘til I call you.”

* * *

The next day, the Mountain Ledger headline caused quite a commotion. “THIRD BIG FOOT SIGHTING. THREE HUNTERS MISSING. BLOODY BODY PARTS FOUND AT WIDOW’S PEAK.”

Jack could not believe his eyes when he read the coroner’s interview about what he had found at the crime scene. He called him for an explanation, “You told me the body parts were from cadavers. Why did you change your story?”

“When I got back to the morgue and tested them, I found my initial findings were incorrect.”

“How could you make such a mistake?” Jack ranted, suspicious of Forbes’ new diagnosis.

“Nobody’s perfect. Look, I’m really swamped over here, I’ll have to talk to you later,” Forbes blurted, like he had to put out a fire.

“Wait! Do you have any way of identifying the bodies?”

“It doesn’t matter now. Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?” Jack could not wait to hear him explain another new wrinkle.

“Someone broke into the morgue last night and stole the body parts. Every scrap of evidence is gone.”

“Do you have any leads on the break in?”

“The sheriff says whoever did it was a pro. They didn’t leave anything behind.”

Jack hung up, exasperated. Some kind of conspiracy was in play here, and he was certain Bubba was in the middle of it, and Forbes would be drinking free beer for God knows how long. He decided to drive out to Widow’s Peak and take another look around.

When he arrived in the parking lot, the hunters’ truck was still there along with ten other vehicles in the Sheriff’s search party. He could not believe no one had called him to participate in the wild goose chase. He did not believe for a moment the three hunters were still on the mountain.

When he returned to the place where the hunters had said they had spotted Big Foot, he found that someone with a dozer had dug an enormous hole right where the hunters had found the body parts. It must have happened in the dead of night. Pieces of yellow tape littered the bushes and floated in the ocean of mud at the unrecognizable crime scene. It had poured down rain early that morning, and water partially filled the giant cavity. Someone other than Big Foot had intentionally destroyed all the evidence, and it did not take a Sherlock Holmes to guess who that might be.

With nothing left to check, Jack drove back to town.

* * *

The next Friday night, droves of hunters, tourists, and reporters from miles around packed Bubba’s Bar and Emporium. Just like the good old days, shit-faced customers occupied every stool and table in the place. A long reservation line led a block down the street. Bubba had posted a $20,000 reward for any hunter who captured Big Foot alive and $5,000 for his carcass. The reward had attracted more people than Jack had ever seen in this neck of the woods.

Weeks passed, and hundreds of new hunters combed every inch of the woods without success in finding Big Foot. Every night, Bubba’s place was standing room only. Customers had to make reservations a week in advance to get a table.

Jack wondered what Bubba would do next to keep the bubble from bursting. Something new would have to come soon to sustain this level of interest.

Two weeks later about dusk, a hunter spotted an enormous beast walking erect on a high ridge four hundred yards away. In his scope, the colossal brute appeared to be at least ten feet tall with hair covering his entire body. The hunter thought about the $20,000 reward, but realizing how far away the hulk of a man-beast was, decided to pull the trigger to ensure garnering the $5,000 prize.

When the shooter and his two friends reached the peak, they found the body of what the sheriff later identified as a retired wrestler named Mountain Magnus. His biography said he stood 7 feet, 2 inches tall, but with the molded plastic stilts he had strapped to his legs, his height was 9 feet, 6 inches. He wore a gorilla suit and an incredibly realistic Big Foot mask, which had been ruined by a gigantic bullet hole in the middle of the forehead.

Jack and the sheriff found a backpack nearby with molded plastic shoes that would leave twenty-four inch footprints when a normal man wore them.

The headline in the next day’s Mountain Ledger was deadly to the town’s business. It read, “BOONTON’S BIG FOOT GIANT HOAX. RETIRED WRESTLER ON STILTS SHOT DEAD IN GORILLA SUIT BY HUNTER SEEKING REWARD.”

By the next afternoon, every hunter and tourist had vacated the cheap motels along the main highway. Jack stopped by Bubba’s Bar for an update and a brew. When he took a seat, he noticed Bubba had a big, black shiner.

“What happened to you?” Jack asked, grabbing some peanuts from the bowl on the bar.

“The hunter who bagged the wrestler wanted his $5,000 reward. He claimed he shot the only Big Foot on the mountain, spent a fortune in expenses, lost a month’s wages, and might be arrested for murder. When I told him I had nothing to do with the hoax, he popped me.”

“I expect there will be others coming to see you.”

“Did you notice my wooden Indian at the entrance to the Emporium?” Bubba groaned.

Jack turned and looked through the plate glass window, “No, what happened?”

Somebody scalped him with a chainsaw. And, all my tires are flat on my SUV to boot.”

“Did the sheriff try to arrest you?”

“For what? There’s not a shred of evidence linking me to the wrestler or the missing hunters. I’m innocent. Pure as the driven snow.” Bubba said firmly.

“Tell me, Bubba, who else stands to profit from the Big Foot hoax? You own more than half the town. You must have made a fortune the last couple of months. You know there’s no Big Foot on the mountain. That’s why you offered the $20,000 reward.”

“That reward really did bring in a shit load of new business.” Bubba said, grinning from ear to ear. “Still, I’m innocent until proven guilty. This is America, isn’t it? Are you drinking or just loitering. I can’t keep jabbering with you. I’m the chief, cook, and bottle washer around here now. I fired everyone else. I’ve got to check on the couple in the back booth.”

“Don’t bother. They were leaving when I came in. I’ll have the usual”

Bubba groaned as he placed a frosty bottle of Bud on a coaster, “The sorry sons of bitches left without paying their tab.”

“What are you gonna do about business?”

“I just received a call from a nomad in the Himalayas who says he has something to sell me for $15,000. It sounds like a hoax, but I’ve got a friend looking into it for me. Until then, I guess I’ll have to wait till Big Foot shows his ugly face again,” Bubba said, drumming his fingers on the bar.

Jack shook his head at his friend’s persistence with the legend, drank some beer, and said; “I think you better try a vampire or a werewolf next time. No one will believe in Big Foot after this.”

* * *

Three months later, Bubba woke the sheriff in the middle of the night, claiming he saw Big Foot glaring at him through his picture window.

When he recognized Bubba’s inebriated voice and looked at the clock, he said, “I’m going fishing in the morning. I’ll stop by on my way and give you a report to fill out. Say hello to Big Foot for me.” Click.

“The thing in the window is the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen. I emptied my bladder into my drawers when it looked at me like a juicy piece of hamburger.” Bubba blubbered, then waited for a reply. When he realized there was no one on the line, he hurled his phone against the wall and saw it shatter into pieces on the floor.

When the sheriff stopped by the next morning, Bubba was furious, “That monster could have killed me last night. I’m lucky to be alive. I’m going to make sure you never get elected again. You’re finished in this town.”

“Bullshit! We both know you didn’t see Big Foot in your picture window last night. You were drunk as a skunk. I could barely understand what you were saying. You musta been seeing pink elephants or spiders crawling up the walls. Fill out this report. I’ll pick it up on my way back from fishing.”

* * *

A week later, Bubba called the sheriff again about Big Foot watching him through his picture window at three o’clock in the morning. When he said, “Fuck you!” and hung up the phone, he called Jack Springer and pleaded for him to come to his rescue.

“Look, Jack, when I called the sheriff last week, I was drunk out of my mind, and having a bad dream about the crates I received from the Himalayas. This time I’m sober, and I’m scared to death. I bought two Sasquatches from that nomad I told you about.”

“You what? Come on, Bubba. This is Jack on the line. Enough of this Big Foot bullshit. You need to come up with a new idea.”

“Listen, this is no bullshit,” Bubba stammered with his voice quaking. “One of the Big Foots broke out of his cell, and he’s trying to get at me.”

“Bubba! It’s almost three o’clock in the morning,” Jack groaned.

“I swear the fucker is at least ten feet tall with big ugly teeth and claws about two inches long. I left my rifle in the truck, and I’m afraid to go outside to get it. Get your shotgun, and get over here now, I can’t hold it off with a measly butcher knife.”

Jack thought about it, and hoping he could get a few more free brews out of the situation, he relented. “Okay, Bubba, I’ll come on out, but it’s gonna cost you, big time.”

“Hurry, and you can drink free beer at my place for a week. Hurry!”

When Jack arrived, he saw every light in Bubba’s house burning bright. When he got out of his Jeep, he noticed the front door was hanging on one hinge. He grimaced and grabbed his shotgun when he saw a trail of blood leading from the front door into the woods. He called the sheriff.

“Don’t you know it’s three o’clock in the morning?” the sheriff said gruffly.

“I’m at Bubba’s house. The front door is open, and there’s blood everywhere on the porch.”

“Jesus, Jack! It’s just another hoax he’s concocted.”

“Maybe so, maybe not, but it’s your job, not mine to check it out.”

There was a silence on the line, and then the sheriff exhaled and said, “Okay, I’m on my way.”

When the police cruiser pulled into the driveway, Jack met the sheriff on the front porch.

His eyes got bigger when he saw the blood, “Did you go inside yet?”

“I’m a game warden, not a homicide investigator. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

The sheriff winced when he saw the bloody footprints leading from the foyer. The two men moved cautiously inside and immediately found a pile of body parts on the deep pile white carpet in the middle of the living room. Like on the porch, a trail of humongous, bloody prints encircled the partially devoured human remains. Glass from a broken picture window peppered the carpet.

The sheriff looked at Jack with a smirk, “Does this remind you of anything?”

Jack knew exactly what he meant. The pile of bloody body parts strewn about the room did resemble what they had seen at Widow’s Peak. Neither of them could identify a head, an arm, or a leg.

“I think Bubba’s up to his old tricks, damn him to Hell,” the sheriff growled.

Jack called the coroner and told him what they had found. When he also resisted getting out of bed and was about to hang up, Jack snarled, “Get your sorry ass over here. I don’t think this is a joke. Do your job, for God’s sake.”

Deciding not to wait for the coroner, Jack and the sheriff followed the bloody footprints out the front door, and then into the woods. With the aid of a flashlight, they followed the mammoth prints about 200 yards behind the main house to a structure built into the opening of a cave.

They could see someone had expertly camouflaged the building so that no one could see it until they were right up against it. Several signs nailed to trees along the way warned trespassers they would be shot on sight if they entered the property. They noticed a light on inside the building.

Approaching as quietly as possible, they entered through an open door into a space about the size of a two-car garage. They immediately smelled an intense gamy odor.

Inside a cage filling half of the interior space, they saw an enormous hairy monster sitting on the floor in a pile of hay making a meal of Bubba’s head. The door to the cell stood open with a key in the lock. If the wooly beast sensed their presence, he did not seem to care. In the shadows of the adjacent corner, a smaller version of the adult creature sat chewing happily on a bloody bone.

The larger monster looked up at Jack and the sheriff, and pausing in the middle of sucking a dangling eyeball from Bubba’s cheek, it said, “Do you know any place around here you can order fries at this time of night?”

COLD CALLS

Mortimer slammed his fist on the table. His face reddened as he glared at the real estate tax invoice that was due in a week. Mount Chester was looking less prestigious every day and yet taxes were still rising, even though property values had plummeted.

As he peered out the window at the sidewalk, he saw a different class of people had moved in since the halcyon days of his father’s time. The pedestrian parade was still a melting pot of nationalities, but now, everyone was dressed down. Not just on Friday, but every day. He remembered the time when wearing a suit was commonplace in downtown Mount Chester. Now, people assumed anyone dressed up must be going to a funeral. But even that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. He should know; he was the third generation owner of Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor.

For example, Mortimer was shocked at what people wore to the wake for Hector Alvarez the previous Friday night. Only one couple of the twenty who came for the viewing dressed appropriately, at least, in his opinion. The rest of the rabble looked like they had just come from a construction site or from picking up pop bottles along the road. One woman with a missing tooth forgot she still donned her Burger King crown on her head and was still wearing it when she left.

These losers were so poor they could only afford the wooden coffin that cost $250, which is the paltry amount social security pays when someone dies. They had to take up a collection from their friends for the embalming. They also saved on the burial plot by burying Hector in an abandoned cornfield. And, of course, they didn’t even consider a concrete liner. Well, at least the worms would be happy.

So much had changed since his father died five years ago. Most people preferred cremation now; it costs so much less, and the idea of being buried had become less appealing. A smile crossed his lips as he thought of his dear old dad turning over in his grave if he knew the average cost of a funeral these days compared to when he was scamming his clients. The biggest change on the other side of the coin was the current cost of a burial plot in Mount Chester where the real estate taxes were obscene.

In order to make ends meet, Mortimer had been forced to sell his father's five-acre estate on Upper Panoramic Avenue. He never had a care in the world when he was growing up. His father often suckered grieving spouses into shelling out between $10,000 and $15,000 for a beautiful hand crafted mahogany casket with a velvet lining. When you added a marble headstone, the premier liner, and a Rolls-Royce hearse, the total cost would approach $30,000. Those were the days, and he knew they would never come again.

Now, with his father's money almost gone, he had to think of something to bring in more business. He was too young to retire and couldn't see himself in a trailer in West Virginia.

Suddenly, the phone ringing on the desk startled him. It was the first time the phone had rung in two days.

“Hello, Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor,” he said in his most sincere voice. “Can I be of service?”

The man on the line spoke rapidly in an irritating nasal staccato that assaulted his ears, “This is your lucky day. You are the 500th person I have called, which entitles you to an all-expense paid vacation in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Can I have your name so I can send you the tickets for this unbelievable value?”

“Listen, Mac, I wasn’t born yesterday. This is Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor, and I am on the National Do Not Call list. You're breaking the law, scumbag, and you can receive a big fine for calling me.”

He heard the click and slammed the receiver down in its cradle.

Later that night, while watching a mind-numbing reality show on his twenty-five inch TV, Mortimer took pleasure in muting every inane commercial that interrupted the program. He had heard them all a thousand times: Several ambulance chasing lawyers claimed you could receive three times more money from an auto accident by hiring them. One car dealer had annoying catch phrases like “whatever it takes” while another had their daughter babbling, “where everybody rides.” Another commercial, with a man sitting in a kindergarten chair with four irritating brats, made him feel like putting his foot through the screen. Thankfully, he didn't have the energy to lift his leg that high.

Suddenly, the phone rang on the end table beside him. Calls from the funeral home were automatically forwarded to his home after hours. Mortimer didn't have any friends so he couldn't think of who else could be calling except a potential customer. He crossed the fingers on both hands, and praying someone rich had died, picked up the phone and solemnly said, “Hello, this is Mortimer of Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. Can I be of service?”

A deep voice ignored his greeting and began his own spiel; ”I am calling on behalf of the Children of Firefighters and Policemen Fund for those who have paid the ultimate price of dying during the call of duty.”

He slammed down the receiver in disgust. His leg was still too short to reach the TV screen to obliterate an anorexic looking female pitching a new weight loss program on the next commercial. He turned off the TV and sat looking at the blank screen, which seemed much more soothing and comforting to the eye and the ear. Looking on the coffee table, he grimaced at the stack of bills he’d received in the afternoon mail. He let out a long sigh and said to the furniture, “Something has to be done, but what?”

After a time of idle circumspection, he picked up the first envelope and sticking his finger in the side pocket, ripped it open. Unfolding the paper folded within, he saw in big block letters, “YOU MAY BE READY FOR THE HEREAFTER, BUT ARE YOUR LOVED ONES READY FOR THE RISING COSTS OF A FUNERAL? WHY NOT MAKE ARRANGEMENTS NOW? CONTACT HILLSIDE MEMORIAL SERVICES FOR A NO OBLIGATION CONSULTATION.”

“Wow,” he thought. Doctors, lawyers, morticians, everyone advertises these days. What was once unprofessional is now the norm. Mortimer liked the wording of the Hillside ad but thought he could do better. He wondered how much it would cost and how wide circulation would be for such an ad if he hired an agency to sent a flyer like that in the mail. A mailer might bring in the new business he needed so desperately. He certainly didn’t want to make cold calls like the joker who had called him earlier.

The next morning, Mortimer found a company that mailed flyers for what seemed like a reasonable cost. However, in order to limit the cost further, he decided to share a page with another business and buy only a half page ad. The sales rep went on and on about the astronomical results their ads had produced. On average, a half-page ad increased business 20%, and a full-page as much as 50%.

Mortimer grew more excited as the day of the launch approached and couldn't wait for the weekend when the flyer would be mailed to every house in a ten-mile radius.

On Saturday, Mortimer went to the post office, bubbling over with anticipation and withdrew nine envelopes containing bills he couldn't pay and one folded yellow pamphlet of local ads. As he browsed the pages searching for his ad, he was thoroughly impressed with the professionalism and the compelling savvy of the company that produced the slick flyer.

Finally, on the next to last page, he saw the most eye-catching half-page advertisement of them all, which was a clown with a humongous red nose and a balloon of text that read “HAPPY HARRY THE CLOWN IS GIVING AWAY CAMRY’S THIS WEEKEND AT CIRCUS CIRCUS TOYOTA.” Underneath, his completely boring ad of a man with a light bulb over his head looking satisfied he prepaid his funeral expenses made him feel like going home and blowing his brains out. But instead, he simply hung his head in despair, knowing he had driven another nail in his coffin by not asking to see the ad he was sharing the page with beforehand.

The next day, as he sat on the bench in the town square obsessing over his imminent financial ruin, he saw a decrepit old woman with a cane hobbling by. The old biddy looked like she was older than George Burns when he saw him in Vegas just before he died at 99 years old. He immediately saw her in his mind’s eye in his Emperor model casket with the staggering price tag of $30,000. The quality of her conservative black dress told him she undoubtedly had money.

He watched her get into a Mercedes, and after an eternity elapsed, he saw her drive timidly into the street. She drove so slowly that by the time she was half way into the turn, two other cars were blowing their horns at her. Without turning her head to see what was coming, she crossed in front of them and almost creamed an Altima that veered off the road to avoid her.

With nothing better to do, Mortimer rushed to his car and followed the old woman to her home on Upper Panoramic Avenue. Like many of the homes on that street, she had a view of the New York City skyline. An ancient nameplate hung in the front yard that read “THE MELTZERS.” He made a note of the address.”

When Mortimer arrived home, he rummaged for a copy of the telephone book he had never opened and looked for her last name in the white pages. Sure enough, there she was, Mabel Meltzer, the only Meltzer on the street. That afternoon, he mailed a flyer he had created on his computer that morning, which outlined the advantages of prepaying funeral expenses. He also made a mental note of running off 500 of them at Kinko’s later that day.

As he expected, a week passed and Mabel Meltzer had not responded to the flyer.

Mortimer assumed Mabel would soon make some funeral home richer and decided to make a cold call to her for the hell of it. He dialed the number he’d noted on the yellow pad and listened as the phone rang about ten times without going to an answering machine. As he was about to hang up, he heard the sound of someone fumbling with the receiver, and then came a weary, apprehensive voice that was almost a whisper, “Hello.”

After a shocked pause, Mortimer went into his rapid-fire spiel, “Oh, I'm following up on the call I received on voice mail by someone wanting more information about the prepayment of funeral expenses. The person seemed concerned that her loved ones would have to deal with the unpleasant task of arranging the burial in such a restricted time frame…. Let me see, yes… you are… Mrs. Mabel Meltzer residing at 3400 Upper Panoramic Avenue in Mount Chester. Correct?”

The extremely hoarse woman, using what seemed to be all her strength to muster a sentence said, “You've reached the right number, but I didn't make any such call concerning funeral arrangements.”

Mortimer could tell this woman was not the sort to rudely hang up on a caller so he continued, “Really, yes, I can tell by the sound of your voice that you are much too young to think about such matters. Is there anyone else at this number that may have made the inquiry?”

“Not really,” Mabel said in a fearful, agitated tone. “There must be some mistake. You have the correct name, but I didn't make such a call, and I'm not interested.”

Mortimer could almost hear her heart beating like a scared rabbit and hoped to get in another word or two, “Oh, Mrs. Meltzer, I'm so sorry I troubled you. I don't know how my assistant got your name and number confused…. He heard the click in his ear and made a note to follow up with a flyer every so often.

After speaking with Mrs. Meltzer, this new way of approaching business excited Mortimer so much, he went to the town square each day and waited for a decrepit person to come along who looked like they had more than one foot already in the grave. He even made it a point to strike up a conversation with the person to see how timid and excitable they were. He would watch them until they left, and then follow them home to obtain their address, and then, their telephone number.

Mortimer went to the local grocery store and paid cash for a telephone card. He was certain he would need to make anonymous calls no one could trace soon.

At dusk, he searched every street for possible payphones in the least traveled areas. He was happy when he found the perfect location in a shadowy alcove nestled in the parking lot of a defunct gas station.

Since Mabel had not responded to his mailings, Mortimer decided a more drastic course of action would be required to reach the desired conclusion. In preparation, he went to the high school football field when no one was there and began practicing his most scary voice every day for a week. He jotted down some notes on the script he thought would be effective to scare the old hag to death.

When the moment came to finally put his plan into action and lift the pay phone from its cradle, he had to take several deep breaths before punching in Mable’s number. His fingers were trembling so much he could barely hit the right keys, but finally he got them in, and the phone began to ring. After it rang nine times, and he was about to give up, he recognized the feeble whisper of Mabel Meltzer’s voice. Sounding like she was already at death’s door, she gasped, “Hello.”

“Hello, Mable, your time has come… Hee, hee, hee.”

“Who is this?” she asked excitedly. “What do you want?”

“It's the Grim Reaper, Mabel, and I'm coming to get you at midnight. Hee, hee, hee. Get ready to die!”

Mortimer heard a high-pitched whimper in her throat and proceeded with his best impression of a Shakespearean actor’s laugh so deep and loud, it vibrated in his earpiece like he was in an echo chamber. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

He heard the phone skitter across the tile floor and the beginning of a breathless scream.

“I'm coming for you, Mabel, look for me at midnight.”

He listened. The line was still open, but he no longer heard Mable's labored wheezing to catch her breath. He could hear the faint sound of the TV in the background. Had she fainted? Was she dead? If this had worked this easily, he couldn’t wait to find another feeble old soul, hopefully obscenely wealthy, and try it again.

“Now what,” he thought, putting down the handset. Returning to his car, he drove to the street where Mabel lived. As he passed in front of the large mansion, he saw that the living room light was on. It was nine o'clock, and from his past surveillance, he knew Mabel turned in around ten every night. This was when the light in the living room should go out.

His heart quickened as his watch moved closer to ten.

At 10:30, the light was still on.

It was still on at 11:30.

Mortimer assumed his plan might have worked. Now that everything had gone so perfectly, how could he connect with her loved ones so he would be the one selected to bury the old bag. He had never imagined his first call would frighten the old woman to death. Things had moved much faster than he anticipated. His only chance now was to connect with whomever might find one of his flyers in the mail. Just to be sure, he drove to the mailbox and stuck in a fresh, new one. Afterward, he sighed and drove home dejected and feeling like an idiot for his poor planning.

For the next two days, he drove by the house both nights and found that the light in the living room was still on. He saw two newspapers in the driveway.

When he returned home and turned in, he couldn't stop thinking of how perfectly his cold call scenario had worked, and yet, he probably would not be selected for the funeral arrangements.

Three more bills came in the mail the next day.

The following afternoon while eating a cold ham sandwich, the phone rang. He could see from the caller ID the call had transferred from the funeral parlor to his home. “Hello, This is Mortimer from Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. How can I be of service?”

After a long pause, Mortimer heard a deep, solemn voice laced with emotion begin, “My mother has passed away, and I came upon your flyer in the mailbox after I found her. I am an emotional wreck, and I'm clueless as to what to do. I'm not from this area, and I need your help.”

“With whom am I speaking?” Mortimer asked politely.”

“My name is Cornelius Meltzer.”

“Yes!” he screamed silently to himself. “All is not lost after all.”

“The next door neighbor called me about newspapers accumulating in the driveway. When I came to investigate, I found my mother, Mabel, dead on the floor.”

Then, Mortimer said in his most sincere tone, “I'm so sorry for your loss. Rest assured, I will do everything I can to make this horrible experience as easy as I can for you. Is there anyone with you that can comfort you during this time of deep sorrow?”

“Yes, my wife is here with me. What do we do now?”

“If you haven't already, you should call 9-1-1. The emergency paramedics will come to verify your beloved mother is deceased, and they will notify the police and the coroner who will come to investigate as soon as possible. Once they examine the body, if no autopsy is required, they will ask you if you have selected a funeral home to arrange for the funeral and the burial services. You will give them our name, and we will take it from there. I will advise you of the necessary paperwork required. Do you know if your mother made any decisions on what she wanted in the event of her death?”

“All I know is she did not want to be cremated,” the son explained.

“Hallelujah!” Mortimer thought, his heart racing with excitement. He could barely keep from screaming out loud at that news.

A half an hour later, Mortimer pulled into the circular driveway of Mable's home on Upper Panoramic Avenue. The sun was going down over the rooftops to the west. A Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud that appeared to be a block long glistened in the streetlights that had just come on.

He noticed the light in the living room was still the only light on in the entire house. He thought it strange the house was so dark if people were inside. He saw no police cars or emergency vehicles in sight. “Where was everyone?” he thought.

As he approached the front door, he had an eerie feeling like a wisp of a spider web had fallen on the back of his neck. Reluctantly, he rang the doorbell.

Suddenly, from within, he heard a deep ponderous dirge that seemed oddly familiar. He believed he had heard it years ago at someone's funeral. He couldn’t swear it, but it may have been his father’s funeral. The sound was more like a Hammond organ in a church rather than a sound a doorbell would make.

As he stood in the dark waiting for someone to answer the door, the only light inside went out. For some peculiar reason, like the touch of a corpse on an embalming table, Mortimer felt the icy fingers of fear creep up his spine. In the bay windows to the left and the right of the front door, the curtains were thick and black. He listened for the sound of footsteps, but after a time, he assumed no one was home. Was someone playing a prank on him?

Mortimer almost jumped out of his skin when the front door creaked slowly open a crack. He recoiled a step and had the uncanny premonition something was ready to spring upon him from the black interior.

Then, from the silence behind the door, a sensual, breathy voice that reminded him of a madam who might operate a whorehouse whisper, “Yes, can I help you?”

Mortimer tried his best not to appear rattled and muttered almost inaudibly, “I’m Mortimer Jeepers from Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. I received a call from a man who said his mother passed away.” He pulled out a note pad, which he couldn’t read in the dark, and replied, “Could my colleague have written down the wrong address?”

He waited for a response as he strained to see the person standing in the darkness inside the door. Then, the eerie, seductive voice came again like a chilly breath of wind as long, claw like fingers appeared like a veil across the shadow of her face, “My husband did call, Mr. Jeepers, but for some reason, you have come to the wrong house. Mother’s remains, rest her soul, is at our estate at Shadow Lane.”

Mortimer stood speechless, and finally trying to recover, said, “Really? My assistant gave me this address. How he got it, I don’t know.” Flustered, and still trying to read his notes in the murky light, he muttered nervously, “I thought I’d been to every street in Mount Chester at one time or another, but I don't think I’m familiar with Shadow Lane.”

Mortimer winced when he heard the sound of the woman's voice suddenly change from sultry to a throaty rasp, “Are you familiar with the cemetery down by the railroad tracks and the old Victorian estate above it on the hill?”

Mortimer’s face lit up with recognition, and then darkened; as he pictured a dilapidated, old ruin of a mansion that everyone in town said was haunted. “You aren’t referring to the old Lugosi Estate, are you? As far as I know, no one has lived there for years.”

“Our family bought the house last year and have just begun to renovate it. It's a lovely old house with such an enchanting history.”

“It has a remarkable history all right,” Mortimer thought, but didn’t say, “legend has it that several families met with violent and mysterious death there. He remained calm and replied, ”Yes, I know the location well, now that you mentioned the railroad tracks. Listen, could I come in for a few minutes? I hate to speak with you on the front porch about a funeral.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jeepers, I’m afraid I’m not presentable at the moment. After all, I did not expect to be receiving visitors at this location,” she said coldly.

Mortimer immediately changed the subject, “Do you know what cemetery you have chosen for the interment?”

“I must go in now,” she said abruptly, “I don’t like full moons, and I see one peeking over the rooftops over there. I’m afraid my husband will have to fill you in on the details.”

A car turned into the street, and its headlights washed the front door with a beam of light. For a split second, Mortimer saw a pale face in the doorway with deep sunken eyes and hollow cheeks that recoiled as she threw up the hem of her gown to shield her face like a vampire lifting his cape to block the sun. Her head appeared as hairless as a cancer victim after months of chemotherapy.

After the Chevrolet passed, Mortimer stood with his jaw agape at the glimpse of the strange woman caught like a deer in the headlights. Then, an even stranger voice emanated from within that sounded almost baritone.

“You’d better be going, Mr. Jeepers, my brother is waiting for you.”

The door whispered closed as Mortimer stood transfixed for a few more seconds in shock, and then he returned to his car. The way she or he or whatever it was just said, “my brother is waiting for you” reminded him of the chilling line from Night of the Living Dead, ”They're coming to get you, Barbara.”

Suddenly, financial ruin didn't seem quite as important now. The thought of going to Lugosi house for the corpse was more than he had bargained for. He found it particularly odd that the thing in the doorway hadn't grilled him on why he’d come to an address entirely different than what he’d been given. What seemed like his lucky day did not seem so lucky now.

It had been many years since Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor had buried someone in the old cemetery on Shadow Lane. He remembered his father conducting services there when he was in grammar school.

The house and the old cemetery were located at the edge of town. Both were like a well-guarded secret no one talked about. The tombstones were crooked, broken or missing, and weeds had grown over most of them. It was a forgotten place no one visited. The sons and daughters of the loved ones buried here had passed themselves long ago. Among the gnarled, barren trees on a hill overlooking the graveyard was a dark foreboding monolith of a house surrounded by a gray picket fence with random slats that reminded Mortimer of missing teeth.

As he sat in his car peering at the mammoth structure with its new gable roof, he noticed the windows across the front, which were mostly broken the last time he’d been there, had been replaced. Someone had also repaired the large entry door that had once hung on one hinge. A black Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud of a similar vintage to the one parked at the estate on Upper Panoramic Avenue glistened in the moonlight in the newly poured concrete driveway. Heavy, black curtains covered every window, and only a faint light was visible in one downstairs window.

Mortimer gasped in wonderment at the makeover of the old house and couldn't imagine what kind of degenerate would want to live there.

Reluctantly, he exited his Crown Vic and slowly trudged to the door. A heavy brass doorknocker was affixed to the center of a huge ancient door that would have been perfect for a horror movie. Lifting the heavy brass knob, he rapped three times.

In a few moments, someone drew the bolt, and the door creaked open. A weird, skinny, little man with a narrow face and a prominent Adam’s apple peered at him from the darkness. His creepy, exaggerated smile was so wide, Mortimer could see every tooth in his head when he croaked, “Mr. Jeepers, I presume. Please come in. Lady Meltzer is in her bedroom.”

The spindly little man with the odd teeth motioned him to follow and strode off into the shadowy interior. The only light came from a chandelier in the foyer with only three of the eight bulbs burning in the enormous fixture. Mortimer wondered what wattage these extremely dim lights might be.

Passing several doors on the long corridor lit with the same low wattage bulbs, the spidery form opened a door and led him inside to a huge four-poster bed. A single candle flickered on an end table situated on each side of the richly adorned headboard. There, in the middle of a king-size bed, Mortimer saw Mable Meltzer, lying motionless in a black nightgown. She didn’t appear to be breathing, but she didn’t look dead in the least. Her skin was pale and showed no signs of discoloration that normally comes with rigor mortis.

“Have the EMT’s, the sheriff, and the coroner been here yet?” Mortimer inquired.

“Master Cornelius met with the authorities, and he had a notary sign and stamp all the papers. He said you are welcome to transport Lady Meltzer to your place of business in preparation for the funeral. As the Master indicated, she will be buried in a special mausoleum in the cemetery at the bottom of the hill.”

Mortimer’s face creased in disbelief, “You actually want me to bury her in the abandoned graveyard next door?”

“Exactly, the Master desires his mother be interred as close as possible to the family home. He will give you the specifications of the mausoleum, which must be followed to the letter. Mrs. Meltzer is of the Jewish faith and will not be embalmed. Since she died four days ago, your immediate attention in a speedy service is critical. Will any of these instructions pose a problem?”

“No problem,” Mortimer said, “I am your devoted servant in your time of grief. We have a special room set aside for those of the Jewish faith where friends and family can view their loved one through a glass partition. Not to brag, but I must say I am an expert in preparing the deceased for the viewing in spite of the number of days…”

Before Mortimer could finish, the thin man cut him off and said sternly, “That will not be necessary. The master has requested there be no viewing. Only the immediate family will be present at the wake, and they want to remember her as she was in life.”

“Shall I make arrangements for the announcement in the paper?”

“That also will not be necessary. We don’t want to make Lady Meltzer’s passing a sideshow as so many others do.”

Mortimer took notes of the bizarre instructions given him by this peculiar man who must have been born with the some kind of birth defect that he showed every tooth in his head when he opened his mouth. He wondered if Cornelius Meltzer was really in agreement with these stipulations. He also wondered if the authorities had actually been there. Things were happening much faster than usual. Whoever heard of wake with no viewing and no obituary in the newspaper?

Mortimer waited for Cornelius for almost an hour. Frustrated, he went into the hall was about to call out when he realized he didn’t know the butler’s name. Faced with no other choice, he called, “Hello” several times, but received no answer.

The interior was as soundless as a tomb, which continued to unnerve him. He had the uncanny feeling someone was watching him. He didn’t want to linger in this creepy house any longer than necessary. Consequently, he decided to dispense with protocol and move the body to the funeral home right away. He’d secure the required papers later.

He removed the phone from his suit pocket and called Leonard, the beefy young man who helped him with the heavy lifting.

After three rings, a spaced out voice, obviously short on brains, answered, “Hello, Mortimer, do you need us?”

“Why else would I call, Leonard?” Mortimer said curtly. “Can you pry your butt off the sofa and bring the hearse to 666 Shadow Lane?”

After a silence, “Where’s that, Mortimer?”

“Do you know where the old cemetery is down the road from Shady Rest?”

“You mean the insane asylum?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know where it is, I used to go frog hunting there years ago.” Leonard said brightly.

“Do you remember the big old house on the hill?”

“You mean the Lugosi house… where all those people were hacked to death?”

“You have a way with words, Leonard. Yes, that’s where I am now.”

“Jeepers, Mortimer, they say that place is haunted.”

“Well, that’s drivel. I’ve been here for over an hour, and I haven’t seen any ghosts yet. Get your ass in gear and get over here. And don’t forget to wear a suit. Tell Larry.”

“I dunno,” the meek voice replied.

“Get over here now!” Mortimer clicked off, not waiting for a reply and returned the phone to his pocket.

While he waited, Mortimer took a seat in a large stuffed armchair and purposely refrained from looking at the old woman’s corpse. Something about it didn’t seem right. The first thing was she didn’t look dead. “Why was there no rigor mortis after all this time?” he thought.

“Do you need my assistance, Mr. Jeepers?” came an eerie voice behind him that startled him so badly he felt like he’d lifted off the chair. He had not heard the whisper of a sound that the man had entered the room.

“No, I wouldn’t think of asking anyone in the family to assist me. My colleagues are on the way to transport Mrs. Meltzer to the funeral home. By the way, what did you say your name was?”

“Wolf, sir,” he said, with his disconcerting toothy smile. This time, Mortimer noticed the hideous gums around his oversized teeth looked almost black.

“Remember, Wolf, I will need the death certificate and the other papers from the authorities before I go much further.”

“The master will meet you at your facility shortly,” The wide cavern between his teeth sent shivers up the undertaker’s spine.

Forty-five minutes later, Mortimer heard heavy footsteps approaching the room. He rose from his chair as Leonard and Larry rolled a stretcher in ahead of the man who looked deader than Mrs. Meltzer. Mortimer could see he made a similar impression on his two strong men. He was also a little embarrassed by the way their jaws dropped open when they saw the old woman’s body.

In a whisper, the mortician said, ”Shut your mouths and get on with it. I’ll meet you at the hearse. And don’t let the body fall on the floor this time.”

After the transfer of the body transpired to the funeral home without a mishap, Mortimer paid the two gophers fifty dollars for their trouble and went into the embalming room to prepare the body,

Cornelius had called earlier and instructed him to place his mother in the finest casket he had and asked him to order a thousand dollars of red and white roses, which he said was his mother’s favorite flowers.

“Despite the bad vibes he’d had all along, everything was coming up roses,” Mortimer sighed under his breath. Including the mausoleum, he could see a cool $50,000 invoice for the Meltzer funeral and interment.

As he stood in awe at the appearance of the woman who died four days ago, there was nothing he really needed to do. Even Mable's hair looked radiant, as if she’d just come from the beauty parlor.

As he removed the gauzy gown to transfer the corpse into a tub of soapy water to clean it, he noticed there was no sign of body fluids that always follow death when the muscles of the deceased shut down. Someone had already bathed the body. In fact, the skin had a luster and an unmistakable bath oil fragrance rather than the stench of urine and fecal matter.

Turning the body on her side, he couldn’t believe that her back was entirely free of the discoloration that always occurs and get darker over time. In fact, her skin although paler than a normal person, still had a pink, rosy undertone.

He lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He grabbed a stethoscope from a shelf and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Putting down the instrument, he removed a mirror from the side table and placed it under her nose. He looked for the glass to fog up for two long minutes to be sure. And, again, nothing.

From all indications, Mrs. Meltzer was dead. He abruptly went for her ribs and tried to tickle her. Not even a twitch. As he stood washing her body with his black beady eyes, he was aroused by the firmness of her ample breasts and the larger than normal areolas that encircled her nipples. He became embarrassed when he felt the erection growing in his pants and stepped away to let it pass. What was wrong with him? How could he feel this way for an 80-year-old woman who could be his grandmother? Of course, he had mounted a number of young women over the years, mostly corpses still warm after an automobile accident.

Mortimer took a load off and reclined in a nearby chair, reminiscing one of the most striking bodies he had ever seen in all the years of preparing stiffs for viewings. God knows he would never forget that one buxom brunette. He remembered he’d come four times that night while rigor mortis was setting in. What a fox. What a waste. None of the other women had ever given him an erection as hard as… what was her name…? Dallas, that was it. He remembered the red scarf he’d used to cover the left side of her face that was sliced off in the crash. Mortimer’s motto had always been “if it feels good, do it. Necrophilia is just good clean fun, and where was the victim here? The woman was dead, for Christ’s sake.

Mortimer went to the sink and splashed cold water in his face. His erection had subsided, and he dutifully began to dress Mabel in the clothes her son’s servant had given him. Afterward, he applied light makeup to her face, and after gluing her eyes shut, applied mascara to her lashes. He still planned to place her body in a separate room with the viewing panel even though they said they didn’t want it. Pausing to take yet another look at the state of her body, he couldn't detect the slightest trace of an unpleasant odor from the corpse.

Leonard and Larry arrived at 6:30 to arrange the casket and to distribute flowers around the viewing area and the altar.

Mortimer had called Mabel’s son several times to ask about the death certificate and other legal papers, but he had not returned the call. Mortimer was still obsessing over confronting Cornelius when he received a Federal Express envelope with a check for $25,000 marked as a deposit. Mortimer was worried about what the authorities would do if they found out he proceeded with the funeral without the death certificate, but not enough to jeopardize $50,000 by doing something stupid. He reluctantly decided to proceed and hoped the fine for his oversight would not be significant if the authorities did discover it.

At ten until seven, several middle-age couples appeared dressed in expensive looking suits and gowns. “No Burger King crowns for this service,” Mortimer thought happily.

Mortimer cordially circulated among the twenty or so guests who attended the two-hour affair. He made it a point to give each couple or individual a business card.

Something about this group seemed unusual. Aside from their dress, their demeanor had a formality he hadn't seen for years. Half of them had an odd accent he guessed was European. When he greeted them, their hands seemed oddly cool to the touch. There was also something peculiar about the way they spoke. They were… tightlipped. That was the only description he could think of to describe it. It was as if every one of them had just had Botox injections preventing them from opening their mouths and enunciating properly. He had seen this many times with older people, but not an entire crowd.

It was the strangest, most unorthodox wake ever held at Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. After everyone finally left, and he was alone, Mortimer once again slumped in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the viewing room and exhaled deeply. By tomorrow afternoon, he would have $50,000 and could pay off most of his creditors.

Even better than the money, he had a new way of doing business. Rather than waiting for someone to die, he would simply sit in the park or in the town square and look for decrepit old geezers with more than one foot in the grave. There were a lot of them around Mount Chester, and many of them had money, particularly the ones on Upper Panoramic Avenue. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He didn't remember his father entertaining such a grand idea, but that was another time.

The memory of his dear old dad made his heart beat faster. No, his father had never tried to scare people to death to make a buck, but he certainly had scammed them in every other way. Whenever someone ordered an extremely expensive casket, he had his gravediggers dig up the casket the night after the burial and transfer the body into the cheapest wooden box of plywood money could by and rebury them. Since the grave was already fresh, no one was ever the wiser. After a little refinishing, he placed the expensive coffin back in the showroom and sold it again.

His father always removed the expensive watches and jewelry before he closed the coffin for the last time. He also had a special set of needle-nosed pliers he used to extract the gold fillings before he sewed the corpse’s lips together.

Sometimes, if the family quibbled about his price, and he had to lower it a tad, he would exchange the more expensive casket before it left the funeral home with one where only the top was what they paid for. The sides and the bottom were cheap plywood covered with a velvet cloth. In forty years, not one person discovered the devious and disgusting business practices that made him filthy rich, and he did mean filthy.

Mortimer also remembered his father substituted coal and wood chip dust in the crematory urn rather than spending money on the fuel for the cremation. No one ever knew he had his men carry the body parts after he hacked up the corpse in a wheelbarrow to the back of the property and dump them. The rats did the rest.

What an ogre his father was, and he did it with the most warm and gracious smile he had ever seen. Mortimer had tried hard to emulate that perfect smile, but he never could duplicate it. Mortimer was certainly a chip off that old block, but he had never quite sunk to his father’s level of depravity. A person really had to be the scum of the earth, totally amoral without the slightest shred of sympathy or compassion for another human being to be like dear old dad.

A sudden knock from the sealed room startled him. Had he fallen asleep? Was he having a bad dream? He didn't think so.

He rose and proceeded to the glass panel separating the two rooms. He noticed a slight discoloration on the pane as if someone had breathed on it and made it cloud over. “How strange,” he thought. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the glass clean. He shuddered when he realized the wisp of fog was on the inside of the glass.

Then, he noticed one of Mable's eyes that he had glued shut had popped open. Mortimer stood transfixed, staring in horror at the gruesome, unnerving blind eye, as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Catching his breath, he wondered if the eye had come open during the two-hour service. He guessed not, since no one had said anything or fainted. He couldn't wait for tomorrow to be over. He didn't believe in ghosts, but Mabel was stretching his suspension of disbelief to the limit like no one else before her.

He decided to wait for the sun to rise before he entered the sealed room the next day for the final preparations. He drove home, urinated, and went to bed without brushing his teeth.

He felt like he hadn't slept a wink when the alarm sounded at 7:30 a.m.

After dressing in one of his best-tailored suits and having coffee and a bowl of shredded wheat, Mortimer drove past the cemetery on Shadow Lane to check on the mausoleum. He had been notified the previous afternoon it had been completed and was ready for the new occupant. It really looked impressive in the distance as he passed.

When he arrived at the funeral home, he found the parking lot deserted. He dreaded preparing the Meltzer woman by himself after the creepy feelings he’d had the previous evening. Leonard and Larry would be arriving shortly to transfer the body from the viewing room into the casket and move it into the main cathedral for the service.

He trudged to the sealed room, unlocked the door, and reluctantly entered. Immediately, the stench of death struck his nostrils like a knockout punch. Turning on the light, he saw the corpse’s black and purple discolored face and two bulging open eyes. Her forehead had deep crevices that had not been there when he left her last night to go home. He could see the stitches that were now visible between her lips as well as the tip of a black tongue protruding from between her yellow teeth.

Mabel had become a monster overnight. If she had remained, as she had been the previous evening, her son could have viewed the body one last time if he decided to. Now, that was out of the question. The ceremony would definitely have to be conducted with a closed casket.

During the church service, even with the closed casket, an unpleasant dead smell hung like a black cloud over the twenty people who came to pay their last respects. But, finally, like a horrible nightmare, the miserable affair ended without any further complications.

Leonard and Larry wheeled the casket to the front of the church. Six pallbearers carried the beautiful $30,000 casket down the front steps and pushed it into the back of a long, black hearse.

The police led a caravan of mostly late-model and high-priced automobiles to the cemetery at the bottom of the hill where the Lugosi house stood like an oversized tombstone against the gray, October sky.

After the family members departed, Cornelius handed Mortimer an envelope with the last half of the payment, plus the $1,000 for the flowers. Mortimer thought of mentioning the missing paperwork, but decided not to. He would pay the fine if it came up.

He consoled Cornelius, who was overtly distraught, as best he could. Mortimer didn’t see the peculiar manservant or the son’s weird wife among the people who came to the gravesite. He heard someone say there would be no gathering at the Lugosi house or the home in Mount Chester after the burial ceremony. Mortimer thought this was extremely odd as well, but almost everything about this funeral was odd.

* * *

Later that night, just before midnight, Mortimer remained at the mortuary while Leonard and Larry went to exchange the expensive coffin for the plywood one. The transfer was a no-brainer since the coffin was in the mausoleum and not buried six feet under.

As Mortimer sat at his computer desk setting up the payments of his outstanding bills, he could still smell the horrible stench emanating from the sealed room. The thought of having sex with the horrible thing he'd seen that morning almost gagged him.

After an hour and a half of waiting for Leonard and Larry to return with the expensive casket, Mortimer began to worry. Had the Meltzer family discovered them in the old cemetery? He didn't see how since the gravesite was shielded from view through the front windows by part of the hill. For the tenth time, he punched in Leonard’s number on his phone, and just as before, the call was immediately forwarded to voice mail. Something had definitely gone wrong. Had his greed ruined the entire affair? Had they been caught exchanging the coffins? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? There was nothing left to do, but to go to the cemetery and face the music.

As Mortimer pulled into a grove of trees at the bottom of the hill, he could see the gaunt structure of the Lugosi house silhouetted against a crescent moon in the midnight sky. No lights were visible within. He could make out several black limousines parked in the driveway. There was no sign of Leonard or Larry, or even the hearse from this vantage point.

Silently, he exited the Crown Vic and crept behind the cover of the trees and underbrush toward the old cemetery and the newly constructed mausoleum. On one stretch of ground, he got down on all fours and crawled among the leaning tombstones past the part of the graveyard visible from the black windows of the old mansion.

Mortimer choked off a scream when his hand groped into a stew of something foul in the coarse grass. Peering through the space between two headstones, he saw the black hearse parked close to the alabaster, granite mausoleum.

Crouching low, he crab-walked to the driver’s side of the Rolls and lifted his head just enough to peer through the window. In the dim light of the moon, he saw nothing unusual inside. The back portion of the interior was empty, which meant Leonard and Larry had removed the plywood coffin, but had not replaced it with the expensive one.

Moving closer to the front of the mausoleum, he noticed the enormous granite door was ajar, and a dull light emanated from within. Had he ordered electricity to be run from the house to the mausoleum? He didn't remember it. If Meltzer had requested this extra feature, Mortimer had not invoiced him for it. He made a mental note.

Listening at the yawning crack of the door, he heard a low moan resonating from within.

“Leonard? Larry? Are you in here?” Mortimer called in a low whisper.

He heard a muffled incoherent response and ventured forward reluctantly into the dimly lit eerie tomb that was much bigger than the plans he had seen.

The next thing he noticed was that someone had removed the top on the $30,000 mahogany coffin, and the cheap plywood box lay on its side against the statue of a cherub with a harp.

As he inched closer, he saw three more coffins on pedestals across the expanse of the mausoleum. Above each coffin, something dangled from the ceiling that he couldn’t quite make out. As he moved ever closer, the dangling thing began to turn slowly around like a chandelier caught in a breath of wind.

Mortimer cringed in horror as Leonard’s haggard face spun into view. His eyes were hollow orbs, and his lips had been stitched together with black wire.

Mortimer recoiled, and turning to run, he saw Larry’s body turning toward him like a human piñata.

The weird voice he recognized from the crack in the door at the house in Mount Chester echoed within as strong hands wrestled him to the ground. After securing his legs and arms with leather straps, someone punctured his jugular vein with a plastic tube and placed the other end in the closest coffin to him. Afterward, cables lifted him to the level his assistants were above each coffin.

Mortimer heard a sound like someone sucking the last drops of a chocolate shake through a straw and felt his strength beginning to ebb as his blood coursed through the plastic tube into the pursed lips of Mable Meltzer’s undead corpse. Her hungry eyes were ravenous as her hideous teeth swam in a mouthful of blood that oozed down her chin. She looked as radiant now as the first time he’d seen her.

Twisting his head from side to side, he could see the pale faces of Leonard on the left, and Larry on the right, and he could hear the sound of the vampires below them in their coffins sucking their blood.

He couldn't make out the blood donor to the left of Larry. Whoever hung there was extremely frail with the tangle of snow-white hair.

Then, he heard the familiar voice of his dear old dad from the gloom, “Son, is that you?”

“Not believing his ears, but knowing that voice as well as his own, he muttered, “Yes, dad, it’s me.” With his strength waning from the loss of blood, Mortimer tried to think of something eloquent to say after all these years, and finally, he said solemnly, “I must be in Hell, if you’re here.”

“They’ve been drinking my blood for five years. They won’t let me die,” his father grumbled, beginning to drift into unconsciousness again. “They plan to use us for blood donors for all eternity. It’s not fair,” he croaked. “I didn’t know their aunt was a vampire when I dumped her body in the septic field. How was I to know she’d burn to a crisp when the sun came up?”

As Mortimer began to feel himself falling deeper into a stupor, he couldn’t believe his ears when his father asked with a rasp, ”How many times did you sell the Emperor coffin so far, son?”

THE TOMB

Brian Mitchum was fifty and had worked twenty-nine years for the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. During his years of service, his ten expeditions into some of the most exotic places on the globe had yielded nothing the museum considered worthy of putting on display. His father, Angus Mitchum, on the other hand, was a legend in archeology and exploration and had supplied the museum with enormous quantities of priceless artifacts during his fifty years of employment.

Right after Brian’s graduation, Angus had convinced the director at that time to hire his son with no experience. Unfortunately, Brian never lived up to his father’s lofty opinion of his talents, but the museum continued to look the other way to appease their most successful and valued explorer.

The combined cost of Brian’s substantial salary, his well-appointed office, and his secretary was the price they chose to pay for Angus’s ongoing contribution. Brian could read the Post in the morning, the News in the afternoon, and enjoy a three-martini lunch at the Museum’s expense. The board preferred he sit in his office and twiddle his thumbs rather than requisitioning funds for another one of his fruitless expeditions.

Finally, one day, after years of no contact, Brian received a request from Archibald McManus, the director, to come to his office. He had a bad feeling as soon as he received the call. He prayed it would not be an evaluation of his pathetic career performance.

Entering the palatial, fashionably decorated office, Brian saw McManus seated in an overstuffed leather chair behind an enormous teak desk. Feeling completely ill at ease, he took a seat in one of the four lavish chairs that probably cost more than his annual salary. He watched the bushy eyebrows of the legendary curator, and now director, rise and fall over a thick manila folder.

McManus finally looked up over the top of his Ben Franklin style spectacles, and clearing his throat replied, “Brian, I’m sorry to say, the board has asked me request your immediate dismissal based on your inability to secure a single artifact worthy of placing on exhibition in twenty-nine years of employment. To be frank, you’ve been spared all these years due to your father’s great contributions to the museum.”

Brian gave the director his most convincing look of startled disbelief, and then responded with a wounded whine, “You mean now that my father is retiring, you’re firing me?”

“Brian, you know very well your performance has been abysmal. If you were anyone else, we would have fired you three months after your hiring like anyone who did not produce.”

“Archibald, I beg you to give me one last chance. I have recently received a lead to Usercari’s tomb from a reliable source.”

The director looked at him skeptically and smiled, “Is that so, Brian? Can you supply me any evidence that what you say is true? Why haven’t you come forward with this grand discovery before now?“

“I just received the parchment last Friday.”

“Really,” the director said, picking up his pipe from his desk, and breaking the museum’s strict rules against smoking, lit up. A strong, sweet aroma that began to fill the room made Brian’s eyes water. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I intended to write you a check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for your severance pay, but instead, I will appropriate that amount for your expedition to find Usercari’s tomb. If you are successful, based on the strong lead you say you received last Friday; I will reconsider your termination. Would you be interested in such an arrangement or do you want to have Margaret prepare your severance check?”

“One hundred and fifty thousand is certainly a paltry amount of severance for almost thirty years of service,” Brian grumbled, slumping backwards in his chair.

“Not when you consider the money we gave you for accomplishing nothing. It’s certainly more than you deserve. As additional compensation, you can take the meager pots and broken dishes you brought back from your expeditions with you when you leave. They’re only taking up valuable space in storage. Consider this my gift to sweeten the pot.” He paused, and taking a giant puff from his pipe, leaned halfway across the desk and glowered, “Well, Brian. What’s it going to be? The search for Usercari’s tomb or the check?”

* * *

Later that night, Brian called his father and asked him to meet him for drinks at Docks.

After ordering two Ketel 1 martinis, Brian broke the ice, “Well, Dad, Archibald has agreed to give me one last chance to redeem myself. If I fail….” Brian drew a finger across his Adam’s apple.

“Do you want me to speak with him?”

“It won’t do any good this time. The board has spoken. Now that you’re retiring, and they can’t squeeze any more treasures out of you, your recommendation won’t carry any weight. But… there is one thing you can do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Come with me on the dig. No one in the world knows more about the tombs of the Egyptian pharaohs than you.”

Angus shook his head wearily and sighed, “Son, I’m too old and out of shape to trek across the Sahara for a tomb lost for three thousand years. All I want is to find a mountain lake where the fish are biting 365 days a year. That’s all the excitement I need at my age.”

“You know and I know there is no such place. Look, all I want you to do is advise me. You can be a consultant. My crew and I will do all the heavy lifting. In fact, if you can’t walk, I’ll have some of the bearers carry you.”

“Don’t you think my involvement is a no win situation for you? If you don’t find the tomb, you’re out, and if you’re successful, the board will give me credit for the discovery. They still might fire you.“

“I hear what you’re saying, but I’m willing to take that chance. I hate to admit it, but you’re the only chance I have. I can’t make it without you. Look what I brought back the other ten times. I don’t blame the board for firing me. They should have tossed me out on my ass years ago.”

“How long do you think we’ll be gone?”

“The initial advance is only $150,000. If we don’t find something within the first three weeks, it’s over. You know how fast money goes.”

The bartender placed the two martinis in front of them. After draining half the glass the first time he bent his elbow, Angus grimaced and agreed to accompany his son on the expedition against his better judgment.

Brian was relieved, and after two more martinis, they left the restaurant and hailed separate taxis. Brian returned to his apartment. Angus returned to the museum to pack some of his personal items to get ready for his last day at work.

After Brian opened the door to his apartment on the thirty-first floor, he walked to the window, opened the drapes, and looked across the expanse of Manhattan like a man who had just received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. He had lived a wonderful life. Up to this point, his position at the museum had allowed him to eat in the finest restaurants, live in a beautiful apartment near the UN, and to buy just about any gadget he wanted to pass the time. His marriages had failed, and he had never had a child, but he was happy. Unfortunately, he had never put a nickel away for a rainy day. This was the rub. Losing the lifestyle he had taken for granted for so long. One thing was certain; no one on earth would be crazy enough to hire him if he lost the job at the museum.

At that moment, he would’ve sold his soul to the devil to keep the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed, but damn it to Hell, he didn’t know how to contact the old hellion.

The next afternoon, Brian met with an expert in ancient Egyptian lore. After browsing through the man’s impressive shop and listening to him bragging about the obscene prices he charged, Bomani Bokar escorted him to an office in the back of the showroom to discuss the upcoming dig.

The conversation was cordial at first. The two exchanged small talk about the sites Brian had excavated in Egypt during his career. An exotically dressed woman served the two of them a cup of herbal tea.

Taking a sip of the strong aromatic brew, Brian said, “The museum is sending me to your native land to search for the tomb of Usercari.”

At once, Bokar’s face reddened as if Brian had slapped him.

“What’s wrong, Bomani?”

“Based on your position at the museum, I thought you would be well acquainted with Egyptian lore. Don’t you know about the ancient curse on anyone daring to enter the sacred tomb of Usercari?”

“I’ve read all about the curse, but I’ve never been superstitious. I don’t believe in ghosts, goblins, the boogeyman, and way down the list, avenging mummies and Egyptian curses.”

Bokar stared at him in disbelief. His face reddened even more, and he barked with spit spraying from his quivering lips, “Then you are a fool, sir, and you and everyone with you will surely die because of your stupidity. Please leave my establishment. You are putting my life in peril just being here.”

“Wait a minute,” Brian stammered, pulling his wallet from the inside of his coat and placing five one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk.

Bokar’s eyes widened with fear as he glared at the open door behind Brian’s chair as if he expected something unspeakable to ravage them at any moment.

Leaning closer, he whispered in a rasp, “I can’t believe you fully understand the consequences of what you are about to do. If you did, you wouldn’t have come here in the first place. Risking your life as well as everyone connected to the dig is one thing, but my ancestors believe Usercari’s tomb is the entrance to Hell and breaking the sacred seal will bring the end of all humankind. Did you ever wonder why Usercari’s tomb is the only one not violated?”

“Look I’m not here to debate what your ancestors have believed for more than three thousand years. I know about the curse on anyone entering the tomb, but certainly, you can’t take the extinction of all mankind seriously. Usercari was only a pharaoh for about four years, and due to his brief reign, never even had a pyramid built for him. I assume his tomb is much smaller than any of the others, and that’s why no one has found it.”

Bokar stood abruptly. “You, sir, are a dead man. My ancient ancestors will never allow you to search for Usercari’s tomb, much less enter it.”

Brian rose from his chair, astonished by Bokar’s uncompromising trepidation in getting involved in the project. Placing another pile of money on the desk, he pleaded one last time for his involvement, “I was told that you are the only person who can secure me safe passage into Egypt with the authorities and provide laborers and bearers for the dig when I arrive.”

“I will not lift a finger to help you. What good is money if I won’t live to spend it?”

“How pray tell will this supposed curse be meted out? Will it be at the hands of a mummy who’s been dead for three thousand years or will Anubis, the guardian jackal, be the avenger?”

Bokar’s lips curled in a sneer, “I don’t imagine you’ll find the retribution very funny on your day of reckoning. I don’t think death will come from the hands of a mummy or Anubis, but I know it will be horrible beyond belief. It could be anything, an insidious trap, a fungus, or simply breathing the air that has become lethal from being closed up for so long.”

Looking at the pile of bills in the center of the table and hoping Bokar would change his mind if he left it there, Brian said, ”I appreciate your advice, Bomani. I know you mean well, but I suggest you forget what happened thousand of years ago and update your thinking to the twenty-first century. There is no evidence that any pharaoh’s curse is any more than folklore and legend. If you change your mind, here’s my card. My father and I will be leaving for Cairo on November 23.”

When Brian stood to leave, Bokar said, “Don’t forget your money. To take it would mean certain death. I hope my ancestors will not punish me for talking with you as it is.”

Brian grabbed up the bills and stormed out with deep frustration and disappointment etched upon his face. His last hope was with a man named Mustafa he had met in Egypt on his last dig.

The next day, Brian saw a lengthy article in the Post about Bokar’s mysterious death. The account indicated he’d been strangled the previous night only hours after they had spoken. The merchant’s wife, Nefertiti, heard a loud noise and then a scream. When she investigated, she found her husband dead on the floor behind his desk.

The authorities reported they found pieces of the front door to the shop scattered in the lobby. Robbery was ruled out as a motive since the register was full of cash and an inventory revealed that not one of the artifacts, some worth more than $500,000, was missing. Mrs. Bokar indicated her husband was a religious man who had no enemies she knew of. Consequently, she was at a complete loss as to who could have done this gruesome, premeditated act.

Suddenly a sharp knock on the door startled Brian, and after a momentary thought of impending doom at the hands of a rampaging mummy, Brian realized a mummy would not knock before entering. He would simply tear the hinges off the door like Karloff and Christopher Lee did in the old movies. Then, a gruff bark of authority from the hall further allayed his fears, “Brian Mitchum, this is the police. Open up, we need to talk.”

Brian gathered his composure and went to the door, peeked through the peephole at two figures with hats, and opened the door.

Before him, he saw two men in dark suits with stern faces both holding their badges in his face. Before he could speak, they brushed by him and surveyed the room suspiciously.

Brian muttered, belatedly, “Come in, what can I do for you.”

The taller man said in a brusque staccato, “I’m Lieutenant Jessup and this is my partner, Ben Alexander. We are investigating the murder of an artifacts dealer named Bomani Bokar. His appointment book listed you as the last person he spoke to other than his wife before someone broke down the door to his shop and strangled him. Did you meet with him yesterday about lunchtime?”

Brian stood feeling somewhat naked, as the less than friendly detectives looked him over from head to toe as if branding his image into memory. He cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, I did meet with Mr. Bokar concerning a dig I am planning with my father to Egypt.”

“Are you aware he was brutally murdered only hours after you spoke?” Alexander barked, accusingly.

“I just came across the item in today’s paper only a few minutes before you came to my door.”

“Did he seem ill at ease or seem worried about anything during your conversation?” Jessup continued, making notes on a pad.

“Actually, he was worried about my involving him in the dig. In fact, I’m sorry to say, I may be responsible for his death.”

The two detectives looked at him incredulously as if a light had come on in a dark tunnel, and Jessup finally broke the silence, “”You’re not saying you killed him, are you?”

“Certainly not. I asked Bokar…actually I begged him for his help in securing the necessary papers required by the Egyptian authorities to search for a pharaoh’s tomb, as well as supplying manpower and provisions. I even placed a substantial pile of money on his desk as a deposit.”

“Why do you say you may be responsible?” Jessup asked, not comprehending.

“Ancient legend says that anyone involved in breaking the golden seal of Usercari’s tomb will meet a violent end. There are other preposterous beliefs too ridiculous to mention, but the first premise is pretty universal.”

“Can you spell ‘Usercari’?” Alexander asked, scratching his head.

“U S E R C A R I,” Brian replied, saying each letter as distinctly as possible. He was pharaoh during the fifth dynasty, and his tomb is the only one still not discovered. Bokar warned me that his ancestors would not allow such an expedition to take place. The last thing he said was he hoped that talking to me would not lead to his death. I thought his fears were ridiculous at the time and paid them no mind since I don’t believe in curses, but it looks like he was right about the intentions of his lunatic ancestors.”

“He didn’t mention any names specifically, did he?” Jessup asked.

“No, he said he didn’t know what form the avenger of death would take, but he said it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“To be frank, Mr. Mitchum, Bokar had the most god-awful look of terror on his face I’ve ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen some humdingers. Whoever killed him, scared the shit out of him.”

Brian was surprised by Jessup’s comment and wondered why he had told him something about the crime scene that was not in the newspaper.

The detectives saw the questioning look on Brian’s face, and Jessup explained, ”I’m only giving you a preview of what the Post is going to print in the evening edition. Some asshole leaked the details of the murder to the press.”

“Lieutenant Jessup, my father and I plan to leave for Egypt in three days. Am I free to go in light of what’s happened? Am I a suspect in Bokar’s murder?”

The two detectives traded looks, and the hint of a smile formed at the corner of their lips as they put away their note pads, and Jessup asked, ”Let us see your hands?”

Brian held them out, turned them over, and let the detectives get a good look at them.

“Your story jives with what Bokar’s wife already told us, and the imprints of the killer’s hands on his neck was like two catcher’s mitts squeezing a softball. He was not only strangled, but his trachea was crushed and his spinal cord severed in two places. Whoever did this, must have looked like “The Rock” or Hulk Hogan. Your hundred and seventy-five pound frame doesn’t fit the profile.”

“I appreciate your candor. I hope a mummy is not loose in Manhattan.”

“A mummy?” Jessup said, and then chuckled, “Oh, yeah. I get it. Like in the movies, a mummy protecting the tomb of the pharaoh. Very funny.”

Brian didn’t see the humor in his statement now that he was a believer.

“By the way,” Jessup said coldly, “if what Bokar said is true, the killer or killers will be coming after you and your father, won’t they?”

Brian stood before the detectives, pondering his next move. He had no doubt Bokar’s killer would be coming for them soon. In fact, he could be outside the door right now. He faced Jessup and asked for a favor, “If I move into the Marriott Marquis for the next three days, can you provide police protection for me and my dad?”

Jessup consulted Alexander for his opinion, and after he nodded his approval, he replied, “We can provide police protection until you leave the city. After that, you’re on your own. My advice for you is to buy a gun with a lot of stopping power. I’ll call you about coordinating the surveillance.”

The two detectives wished him well, and after checking the hallway before they entered it, left.

Brian called his father and told him about Bokar and his meeting with the detectives.

Trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, Angus asked, “Did you tell anyone else about the dig?”

“Not really. The only ones who know about it are Archibald and the board. I haven’t seen anyone else to tell. Look, Dad, some psychopathic maniac is on the loose, and he’ll be coming for us next. The detectives have offered us police protection if we check into the Marriott until we leave for Egypt.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

Trying to help his father see the merits of the move, Brian stretched the truth, “Lieutenant Jessup said the killer ripped Bokar’s head off just for speaking with me. What do you think he’ll do to us, the leaders of the expedition?”

“I see your point,” Angus grumbled. “I’ll pack some stuff and meet you at the Marquis in three hours. Be careful, son, I’d hate to lose you.”

When Angus returned to his apartment to pack, he sensed something odd as soon as he stepped inside the front door. Turning on the lights, he peered about the familiar interior with a foreboding scrutiny much like he had when he entered an Egyptian tomb for the first time.

Sniffing the air for clues revealed nothing. Listening for the hint of a peculiar sound, he again detected nothing unusual. Moving like someone walking on eggs, he tiptoed across the living room to the media cabinet. Opening the center drawer, he withdrew the trusty Colt 45 that had saved his life so many times in the past.

Everything in his sight seemed perfectly in place as he inched forward toward the two bedrooms down the hall. After inspecting the guest bedroom, he headed to the master suite, which was the last door on the right. Opening the door that stood ajar wider, he entered in a crouched position, wielding the firearm left and then right. An inspection of the walk-in closet and the master bath also revealed nothing out of place.

He sat on the bed and said, “My son has me all creeped out.” Then he felt something move beneath the covers, sliding from beneath his weight. A slithering mass fell from the bed into a pile at his feet. He pushed backwards and somersaulted across the king-sized bed as the cobra’s fangs sprung like a steel trap and sunk into the mattress. Bounding from the other side of the bed, Angus made a wide sweep around an armchair and fired a single shot, which blew the viper’s head off.

Afterward, he cursed at letting the anxiety of the moment cause him to put a huge hole in his expensive wall-to-wall carpet.

Just as his son had warned, someone had tried to kill him the old Egyptian way. If he had come home after some hard drinking and fell into bed as he normally did, instead of joining his son on his expedition, he’d be on his way to the cemetery.

He called Brian to warn him.

“It’s okay, Dad. The police were already here when I got home. My neighbor next door heard glass breaking in my apartment and called the cops. My place is totally trashed. Someone ripped everything to shreds.”

“Did anyone see who did it?”

“I think my next door neighbor did,” Brian responded.

“What did he say?”

“I’m afraid we’ll never know. Someone found him with his neck broken in the hall. They say the expression on his face was horrific, just like Lieutenant Jessup said Bokar looked.”

“Shit!” Angus cursed, his face reddening with rage. “This dig is more than I ever bargained for. It’s dredged up a raving maniac who’s hell-bent on killing us and anyone else we involve just like Bokar said. Don’t you think we should call it off?”

“After what happened to Bomani, who only talked with me about the expedition and would not accept any payment for providing me information, I don’t think the maniac will stop trying to kill us no matter what we do. Our only chance is to nail him when he makes another attempt on our lives. If we don’t get him now, he’ll come when we least expect it.”

“What have you gotten me into, son? All I wanted to do is go fishing on a lake and drink a few beers until I achieve unconsciousness every night.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. If I could turn back the clock, I’d do it, but it’s too late to think about that now. At least we’ll have police protection until we leave. Lieutenant Jessup has promised me.”

* * *

After three days of hiding out at the Marriott under strict surveillance by the police, Brian and Angus boarded a plane at JFK without incident. After ordering two martinis, Brian asked, “Has anything like this ever happened before on other expeditions?”

Angus thought about it and replied, “There were cases of sabotage where supplies, food, and water turned up missing. I received a number of death threats on strange parchments, some in hieroglyphics, but no one ever physically attacked us. I can’t say the same about some of the less fortunate tomb raiders. I don’t know what really happened, but tales of avenging mummies have always been the reason the locals attribute to violent deaths associated with a pharaoh’s tomb.”

“But you never took any of it seriously?” Brian asked, shaking his head.

“Not really, but those who live in that part of the world believe in all kinds of demons and ancient curses.”

“Tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Angus paused, sipped his martini, and replied, “For example, several members of the King Tut excavation died of mysterious maladies shortly after entering his tomb.”

“Certainly experts must have found what really killed them by now.”

“You’re right,” Angus said sucking on an olive, “and they spent an enormous amount of money and time researching it. I saw it on the history channel.”

“And what were their findings?”

“They concluded bacteria and the mold they breathed after entering the tomb killed them,” Angus recalled. “The prognosis being that air trapped inside for so long became toxic, and prolonged exposure led to their deaths.”

“At least we won’t have that problem,” Brian said, rising to leave. “Everyone entering the tomb on this dig will be wearing a gas mask.”

* * *

When Brian and Angus arrived in Cairo, a consultant of Arab descent named Mustafa met them at the airport. Brian had hired the man as a last resort to assemble a crew of bearers and laborers for the dig.

“Is everything ready for tomorrow?” Brian asked, melting in the intense heat of the blazing sun.

“The news of the mysterious deaths in your country frightened away half of the locals I hired. I had to find laborers from out of the area and double their pay.”

“Do you have enough manpower now?”

“I’m only one short of what I had originally,” Mustafa beamed.

“Good. I’d like to start digging at first light if you can arrange it. I can’t wait to get started.”

“Very good, Mr. Mitchum. We’ll be ready.”

That night as Brian, Angus, and Mustafa sat around their campfire with three massive T-bones on their plates, Brian turned to Mustafa and said solemnly, “I hope you have enough fire power around the dig tonight. As I mentioned before, I anticipate we will be attacked by a horde of lunatics hell-bent on stopping us from finding Usercari’s tomb.”

Popping a square of very rare meat between his pearly whites that glistened in the firelight, the Arab responded calmly, “Not to worry, Mr. Mitchum, we are fully prepared for such an assault. My men are…shall we say, armed to the teeth.”

The words had no sooner passed his lips than they heard a series of explosions and saw sporadic bursts of light not far away.

“What was that?” Angus asked, pulling his 45 from his holster.

Mustafa answered matter of factly, “The first layer of our defense is a barrier of minefields surrounding the perimeter of the camp. Apparently, a number of those lunatics have blundered across the trip wires that are virtually invisible after dark and, unfortunately, have just had their legs blown off.”

Brian and Angus looked at Mustafa in disbelief as he dipped another morsel of beef into a brown sauce and devoured it.

In a short while, they heard the pitiful cries of the victims from the minefields begging for mercy.

“Christ, Mustafa, the poor bastards are suffering. Can’t we put them out of their misery?” Brian groaned, unnerved by the screams that grated on him like sand on a tin roof.

“Don’t worry, without medical attention, they will bleed out in no time. Would you care for another steak?”

Brian and Angus shook their heads and placed their plates on the slate table in front of them. The agonized shrieks continued for several more minutes, and just as Mustafa predicted, one by one, they ended, and the night became as silent as a tomb.

The next morning, Mustafa woke them with an update that eleven mutilated corpses comprised of both men and women had been carted off to the nearby buzzard heap.

After a meager breakfast, Brian and Angus met Mustafa and his crew at a site directly between two prominent pyramids on the skyline. Other archeologists had found the tombs of these massive structures over fifty years before.

Brian took some measurements with a laser device while scrutinizing a dog-eared piece of parchment. After fifteen minutes, he pointed to three gigantic boulders in their path. “By my calculations, the entrance to the tomb is about thirty feet below these boulders. They mark Usercari’s tomb.”

Mustafa seemed astonished at Brian’s certainty of the tomb’s location, and said, “As I had hoped, the bulldozers and the crane will come in handy.”

Brian nodded in agreement. “Once you remove the boulders, you must have the laborers dig by hand. The depth may have changed in three thousand years, and we don’t want to blunder into the tomb with a dozer.”

Brian saw the skepticism in Mustafa’s eyes regarding the depth, but the digging would come later in the day. For now, the crew began the process of hoisting the huge boulders out-of-the-way with a dolly and a crane. After a half day of clearing the site, the crew of laborers started with their shovels.

During the next week, just as Bokar had warned, thirty-two more men and women joined the others in the buzzard heap. The ones who made it through the minefields were cut down by machine gun fire or incinerated by flamethrowers.

Mustafa commented as Brian and Angus watched his men load the corpses into a dump trunk and haul them away, “The Bedouins, as you call them, carry only the ancient weapons of their ancestors. Killing them is as easy as stepping on a scorpion. They pose no real threat. I assure you we have more bullets than they have suicide victims.”

At the end of the week, Brian and Angus stood alone at the edge of a giant crater fifty feet square and thirty feet deep. Mountains of sand surrounded them. Whenever Brian left the tent to urinate, he felt as if he were stepping into a blast furnace. He did not know how the laborers could work in this heat.

Angus shook his head, “Are you sure you got the numbers right?”

“I’m positive. I checked it three times. You know the old saying, ‘measure twice, and cut once’. Somehow, I didn’t think it would be this deep.”

Angus reminded him. “Like you told Mustafa, a lot can happen in three thousand years. We’ve only been here ten days, and in case you didn’t know, tombs are always hard to find. The pharaoh had the tongues cut out of all the people who worked on his tomb, and when he died, they were buried with him.”

“Somebody had to close up the hole.” Brian countered.

“You have a point, but they made a pact to commit suicide as part of guarding the secret. In any case, I’ve been on digs that lasted for years.”

“Well, this one better not take that long,” Brian groaned. “I only have $150,000 to spend.”

“You’re kidding. I thought you said that was just the first installment.””

“I lied; that’s all Archibald, in his infinite wisdom, would authorize.”

Angus looked at the legion of men in the pit and wondered if this would be another wild goose chase financed by the museum. Grabbing a canteen of water, he asked, “Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

“The truth gets worse. I’m spending my severance pay on my last chance to save my job.”

Angus looked at him in disbelief. “Why did you go along with such a preposterous proposal? You’re looking for the only tomb left to discover in all of Egypt. Your chance of actually finding it would probably be less than winning the lottery.”

“It’s not quite that bad,” Brian said with a gesture of pulling a rabbit from his hard hat. “I’ve had an ace up my sleeve in the form a map to the tomb for twenty years.”

“Twenty years! Why did you wait so long to use it?”

“The dying man who told me where to find the map warned me that entering Usercari’s tomb would lead to Armageddon. It would spell doom not only for those violating the tomb, but also for all humanity. He claimed that opening Usercari’s tomb would be like opening the door to Hell.”

Angus interrupted him, “Get to the good part. I still want to know why you let the ravings of a dying man stop you from using the map to find the tomb. I admit this character surpassed the run of the mill pharaoh’s curse with a real whopper, but you know and I know curses are simply bullshit.”

Angus listened to the horrific story, but gave no sign he thought it would change his mind about Egyptian curses.

Brian looked at his father’s skeptical expression wearily and said, “This is the good part. When I arrived at this man’s home, I found the front door standing ajar and heard someone inside crying out in mortal pain. Reluctantly, I went inside to see if I could help. To my utter horror, I found a man writhing on the floor surrounded by the mutilated bodies of a woman and several children. I really couldn’t tell how many there were since the body parts were scattered about the floor in pools of blood and gore. Are you awake, Dad?”

Angus repositioned his butt cheeks in the director’s chair and said, “Go on.”

“I could tell the man hadn’t long to live from the massive swelling all over his body. Despite his condition, he grabbed my shirt with the strength of a madman and pulled me closer so I could hear his last mutterings. He told me when he came home; he found the monster of the curse had slaughtered his wife and children. He fell to his knees, and while he wept uncontrollably, he received several lethal bites from cobras slithering among the body parts. He couldn’t move and was dying an excruciating death when I found him.”

Angus interrupted, “Brian, look at that circle of buzzards over the pit. Do you know there are morons who believe when buzzards appear when nothing is dead, it’s a bad omen?”

Brian ignored this remark and continued, “Right before he took his final breath, he begged me for the sake of all that’s holy to go to the secret place he had hidden the parchment I’m holding now and destroy it. That’s when he told me that Usercari’s tomb is the portal to Hell, and if anyone broke the golden seal and violated this sacred place, it would lead to the mass extinction of mankind.”

“And you believed that bullshit,” Angus bellowed, in disbelief. “It’s a sad story, but shit happens and sometimes nice people get hurt. I’m still shocked that some cobra-bitten, delirious Bedouin could, pardon the expression, “poison your mind” with such inane mumbo-jumbo. Pretty soon, you’ll tell me you believe in the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. A curse is the same thing.”

“You had to be there to feel the emotional enormity of that moment. Something in the man’s eyes scared the hell out of me even more than the pools of blood, the body parts, and the possibility of a cobra biting me. The poor man gripped my wrist so tight I thought he had broken it.” Brian’s faced turned ashen, and his eyes grew wild as the memory of that fateful day twenty years before returned like a hellish nightmare he would have until the day he died.

Looking down at the laborers still digging in the heat of the blazing sun, Brian said, “I found the map right where he said it would be, and I put it in a safe deposit box at Chase Manhattan Bank twenty years ago. I never thought I’d ever have the inclination or the balls to use it.”

Brian’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment, and tears rolled down his face, “I regret it now after several people are dead because of me, but after the meeting with Archibald in my darkest hour while totally shit-faced, I might add, I said, ‘fuck mankind,’ it’s every man for himself on this mountain. At that moment, I stood at the edge of the abyss and knew that map was my only chance to avoid taking my own life.“

Angus tried to console his son who was crying like a baby. Placing his arms around him, he hugged him for the first time in forty years. After a long embrace, Angus said as a tear rolled down his own cheek, “I never told you this, son, but I’ve been on that mountain myself a time or two. I’ve looked into that abyss, and I know it’s a scary place. No one would ever go there if he could find another way out. Sometimes, getting yourself out of a hole that deep requires not just getting your hands dirty, but your soul, as well.”

Angus grabbed his son and shook him, “Stop blubbering a minute and listen to me.”

Brian lifted his tearstained face, looked into his father’s cold steely eyes, and let his words pour over him, “I’ve done some things in my life I’m not proud of, son, but if there is someone out there who says he hasn’t, they’re either a boldfaced liar or some kind of pussy who never dared to take that leap of faith you need to take sometimes. Either way, I’d never pay them any mind, and I’d certainly never turn my back on them. What do you say, we get drunk tonight, and see if we can solve all the world’s problems?”

When they stepped apart, they both felt better they had shared that special moment. Brian was first to break the silence. “Oh, there’s one more thing that made me believe that cobra-bitten, delirious, old Bedouin.

“What was that?”

“I grabbed a piece of what looked like mummy wrappings on the doorstep and had them analyzed. The lab report confirmed they were three thousand years old.”

“The killer probably planted them at the crime scene to perpetuate the curse. Why didn’t the mummy come after you when you took the map from its secret hiding place?” Angus smirked, not giving an inch in Brian’s attempt to validate the man’s belief in the terrible curse.

“The only plausible reason I can think of was I never intended to proceed with the dig. Look, Dad, think about what has happened since I did decide to go ahead with it. Two people are dead, and someone tried to kill you with the cobra the same as the poor devil with the map.”

“So now you’re trying to tell me the mummy could read minds and knew if you intended to violate the tomb. I still don’t buy it, Brian, think about what you’re saying.”

Suddenly, victorious screams resonated from the pit, and Mustafa bounded up the ladder to where they stood and shouted, “We just broke through the golden seal of Usercari’s tomb.”

Looking past Mustafa’s beaming face, brimming with tears of pride and excitement, Brian muttered, “Oh shit” when he saw the legion of laborers clutching their throats and struggling to breathe. A foul, black smoke spewed from the gaping, gold encrusted entrance to the pharaoh’s tomb. The three men watched in horror as the exposed flesh of every man in the pit withered and crumbled into black dust before their eyes. In seconds, all that remained were piles of ash lying among the clothes they had on when the black, hellish cloud billowed over the landscape from the depths of Hell.

Brian turned to Mustafa and his father who stood paralyzed in horror watching his body disintegrate like a maniacal time-lapse video. The last thing he saw was the flesh on their faces turning black and their ballooning eyes popping from their sockets like enormous wads of veined bubblegum.

In minutes, the sky became as black as the devil’s soul, and the blood-red ball of the blazing sun exploded in a sonic boom, obliterating every trace that anything had ever been there at all.

From Billy Wells

Thanks for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it.

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Other Short Story Collections by Billy Wells

In Your Face Horror

My most gruesome stories from Black As Night and Shivers and Other Nightmares.

Thrillers & Chillers

My least gruesome stories from Black As Night and Shivers and Other Nightmares for my readers who love thrills and chills, but not so much horror that includes vampires, werewolves, and hairy monsters. They prefer deranged human monsters.

Places To Find Out More About Billy Wells:

Billy Wells Amazon Author Page

billywellshorror.com home page

Billy Wells Horror Pinterest

Billy Wells Horror You Tube Channel

Billy Wells Coffeesmoke You Tube Channel