“Oh my God,” Sherry said when she noticed the spreading wet patch on Simon’s pants. She shook her head and smirked.
Soon hot urine dribbled down his legs and onto the carpet. Simon wanted to move his hands, to try and fight with her. But his arms wouldn’t comply with his brain. Instead, he whimpered.
“I hoped you wouldn’t recognise her face,” Sherry continued. “But I really messed her face good, so I didn’t think there was any chance of that. Same with her body…Lord knows you got to know that well.”
“W…why?” he breathed. He wanted to say more, but didn’t have the air in his lungs.
Still, she knew what he had meant.
“I just wanted to have fun. Play a game with you. Some might call it sick. I call it genius. I can’t believe you fell for the notes. I mean, who the fuck would know what I was going to wear before I was going to do it?” She chuckled. “Me! That’s who.”
Sherry looked him deep in the eyes. “Plus I wanted you to see just what sort of woman you cheated on. Tease you with my body, which you so willingly gave up, all for that…that whore. And the best part is, it looks like it was all you. Your fingerprints and yours only are on the murder weapon. Your fingerprints are all over the dead woman’s body. And your fingerprints are all over the suicide note.”
In a flash of movement so sudden that Simon didn’t see before it was too late, Sherry stuffed the barrel into his mouth.
“Not to mention you have reason to kill yourself.” She then blew his brains out through his head.
As the machete fell to the floor and Simon was sent flying backwards, Sherry laughed. “Didn’t I tell you to close your fucking mouth?”
She watched as Simon crashed to the lounge room floor, then hurried into the bedroom. She had to act quickly.
The first thing she did was to slip on the black gloves she had hidden inside the bedside drawer. Then she had the freedom to get dressed and gather up her bag. She picked up the rumpled note and stuffed it into her bag. Then she closed the closet door, grinning as she did, and dashed out of the room. Running through the kitchen, Sherry stopped to collect the second note, then hurried into the lounge.
She rubbed the gun thoroughly before wrapping Simon’s right hand around the handle then placed it where she guessed the gun would’ve dropped if Simon had been holding it. The last thing she did was place the suicide note on the coffee table. She wandered over to Simon and crouched down.
“Rot in hell, you pervert.”
She stood up, took off the gloves and shoved them into her bag, along with the first note. She threw the bag to the couch then rushed to the phone.
She plugged the cord back into the socket, then picked up the receiver and called the police.
My first ever published story.
This first appeared on the Horrorfind website, back in 2000. I had just started writing, this was about my third or fourth attempt at a short story. I knew about the site from the various message boards that were around at the time (the old Masters of Terror, I think, and others I can’t remember the names of now and are probably long gone or morphed into some other site). I had heard of the name Brian Keene, the fiction editor at the time (this was before he was the Brian Keene). I decided to submit the story, see what happens. To my great surprise, I got the email back from Brian saying how much he loved the story, that it reminded him a lot of the great Richard Laymon. I was stoked; more than stoked. I was delirious. To not only get an acceptance of a story I had written, but then to be told it reminded the editor of my all-time favourite writer (and whose writing was a big influence in this story, as well as my writing in general)! Boy, that was a great day! Pity we haven’t heard from Brian since…
HEARING THE OCEAN IN A SEASHELL
(Your weakness will be your downfall…)
“Back late.”
Jackson nodded to the night watchman behind the desk — an elderly yet still strong looking black man — then headed towards the elevator.
“Been awfully quiet tonight,” the old man said, now smiling. “How about you — have a good night?”
Jackson didn’t answer as he hurried past. He heard the night watchman mutter “Asshole,” but Jackson didn’t care.
He arrived at the elevator (commonly referred to as ‘the deathtrap’ by the tenants), hit the ‘up’ button and waited.
When Jackson heard the rustle of a newspaper and then the watchman sigh, he figured either the old man was saying, Well fuck you, or he was so apathetic towards his work he just didn’t care what was going on in the building.
Still, Jackson glanced over his shoulder and wondered if the night watchman suspected anything.
Why would he? He’s an old man who sits on his ass all night.
Jackson squinted, trying to read the headlines splashed across the front of the newspaper, but he couldn’t quite read them from where he was standing.
The elevator chimed, signalling its arrival. Jackson turned around and stepped inside. The compartment was bathed in a light the colour of pale urine and the stale vomit and cigarette smell never failed to sicken him.
(I can’t believe you. You sicken me. I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong…)
He jabbed the number 6 button with his index finger, saw the old man tip one corner of the newspaper and eye him, then the elevator doors closed.
Thank God I’ve got a better life than that.
When the elevator jolted to life and started its rickety ascent to the top floor, Jackson took a long, relaxing breath then leaned back against the grubby brown panelled walls of the elevator. He was safe.
Nobody had followed him.
Unless there are a group of policeman waiting for me in my apartment.
He thought it hardly likely; after all, the old man had said it had been a quiet night. But what if he had been lying? What if he had been covering for the rotten pigs?
What is the correct term for a group of cops? he wondered. A gaggle? A herd? A flock?
Jackson was mulling it over, when the elevator stopped at the first floor.
The doors opened.
Jackson waited.
When nobody entered, he straightened, walked to the open doors and looked out. There wasn’t a soul around.
“Damn eleva…” He stopped when he spotted the baby.
It was sitting with its legs crossed and was gazing right at him. Jackson smiled. The baby didn’t smile back. “Hey there, fella. What are you doing out here?”
The baby — he couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy — didn’t make a sound. It didn’t laugh or cry or gurgle. Just sat there in the middle of the hallway, rocking back and forth. Staring. Looking sad.
The doors began to close.
Jackson stepped back and let them shut.
Where are the parents?
He leaned back against the wall and shrugged. It was none of his business. Maybe the kid belonged to a hooker and she didn’t want to take it in with her while she conducted business. Couldn’t find a babysitter, so she had to bring it to work.
Whatever the reason, Jackson didn’t care. What did play on his mind was how miserable the baby seemed. But did babies get miserable? Could they have those complex emotions at such a young age?
Jackson wondered what would become of the kid when it grew older.
I can’t worry about such things. I have my own problems.
He knew it was silly — he didn’t even do anything tonight — yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling something wasn’t right. Was Gloria telling him something? Was she telling him not to go up to his room because there were a gaggle of cops waiting?