Tag: horror

Trunk Stories

A Sudden Itch

prompt: Center your story around a photo that goes viral. 

available at Reedsy

One frame out of nearly a quarter million, that’s it. Filmed at a hundred-thousand frames per second, it was there for only one frame, and that one frame was plastered on websites, blogs, and the front page of most of the tabloids.

Dr. Amy Silva had printed out a hard copy, framed it, and hung it on the wall of her office. She hadn’t expected to see something like it…ever. Had it not been her experiment and setup, she’d have rejected it as a hoax.

The experiment was run and filmed as part of a broader film course on nuclear fission and criticality. Like the “Demon Core” but smaller, a sphere of plutonium was enclosed in a spherical beryllium chamber that reflected the neutrons from fissioning atoms. Unlike that earlier, deadly experiment, it was contained away from people and the top half of the spherical container’s position was controlled by a robotic arm, rather than just a scientist holding an edge up with a screwdriver.

Even in the bright lighting of the chamber, the high-speed camera caught the blue glow as the air outside the gap of the cover ionized. It was there, just three frames after the first sign of criticality, that it appeared.

Just what was in the image depended on who was talking. The tabloids had drawn lines in the sand; nearly half claimed it was an angel, the same number called it a demon, one said it was the ghost of Louis Slotin, while another — known for its devotion to cryptozoology — swore it was a fairy. The scientific community — less those who dismissed it out of hand — were far more measured in their response.

The data, the camera, its sensors, the chamber, and the entire setup had been examined by four independent teams. They ruled out camera or sensor error, reflection on the shielding between the camera and the core, light leaks in the chamber, vibrations, and flat-out fakery.

Every plausible hypothesis posited by scientists including Dr. Silva had been tested and disproved. This left only speculation — opinion that sounded like hypothesis but was untestable and therefore unscientific. These ranged from a minor tear between universes to a glitch in the simulated universe.

Regardless of which non-scientific explanation resonated most with the viewer, the image was at once enigmatic and unmistakable. A three-centimeter humanoid form, with dragonfly-like wings, an outstretched hand as if to block the camera, which seemed to have squeezed out with one foot still inside the gap of the beryllium sphere surrounding the core.

Amy stared at the framed print. If not for the data forensics team verifying that the image data from the camera hadn’t been tampered, and that she’d been present when it was recorded, she’d swear it was the best special effects she’d ever seen.

She hadn’t seen it when it happened, of course. Ten microseconds wasn’t enough time to register in the human eye. She wondered how she might have reacted if she had been able to see it.

It appeared to be coming from within the core itself, as if it had squeezed through the millimeter opening as it exited. So much detail in that one frame. A thick head of curly hair swept back from an androgynous face of indeterminate ethnicity and age, set in an expression of surprised shock.

With the scarcity of required materials, the experiment had not yet been replicated, but Amy spent weeks talking to her peers to find someone who could. The difficult part was the plutonium sphere. She’d borrowed it, along with the beryllium reflection chamber, from the government’s nuclear research lab and they’d taken it back before she’d even had a chance to go through the footage.

Another month and the hype would die down and Amy would never see the same thing again. Of that, she was sure…until the call from the agency that had loaned her the core. They wanted her to be present while they repeated the experiment with a faster camera.

They’d put it to her as though they expected her to back out, but she was more excited at the prospect than they were. She was to recreate every step of the experiment in their containment laboratory, with their robot, and their million-frame-per-second camera.

She was surprised at their setup. They had not one, but five cameras, all set at different angles. The cameras were protected against alpha particles by lead glass. The robot was the same make and model she’d used in her lab, with the same controller software.

Amy went through the checklist from her earlier experiment, explaining each step as she went to the government scientists and the other scientists they’d invited along. A news crew from one of the major organizations was there as well, documenting the entire process.

There was a palpable feeling of expectation in the room as the countdown began. On cue, the robot began to lower the upper beryllium hemisphere and the cooling fans of the cameras whined to life. Two seconds later, the robot raised the hemisphere, and everything shut down.

Aside from the blue glow of the ionized air, no one saw anything unusual. The images from the cameras would tell the whole story, though. Now it was a matter of waiting for a couple hours, while the computers connected to the cameras downloaded the images and processed them into a “watchable” film — assuming one wanted to spend twelve days watching those two-and-a-half seconds.

After processing, the images were scanned by an AI model that looked for anything anomalous. When such frames were found, the twenty-four preceding frames along with the twenty-four trailing were matched with the frame codes from the other cameras. The idea was that anything that happened in view of one of the cameras would be shown at twenty-four frames per second along with the same time from the other four cameras.

The news crew was visibly bored, and the scientists had broken into small groups to talk. Amy, however, hovered near the computer, waiting for it to finish.

When it finished, the number of anomalous frames processed read well over a million. Roughly thirteen-and-a-half hours of footage to go through. Amy wasn’t sure whether to be excited or frightened by that.

A hush fell over the room as the footage began to run on the large screen TV that dominated the side away from the viewing platform. The news crew filmed, but the reporter stood, like all of them, in stunned silence. Goose bumps rose on Amy’s arms as she realized what she was seeing.

Although they clearly zoomed in and out of the core, they hadn’t come from the core. It was as though they’d been in the chamber all along and were only visible while being bombarded with ionizing radiation.

Any idea that they were somehow benevolent or even benign was discarded, though, as their mouths — which opened to insane proportions — were caught in that state more than once, filled with jagged teeth. They fought with each other, four of them ripping another one apart and devouring it in the space of less than ten microseconds after it squeezed out of the core.

Amy looked away from the screen and wondered how many of the toothy little things zipped about her at that moment…and began to itch.

Trunk Stories

All Alone

prompt: Set your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds.

available at Reedsy

The waves were whipped into a foamy fury around the small, rocky island where the lighthouse stood. The swirling mists carried by the winds pounded the lighthouse as if it stood in the path of an oncoming hurricane.

“It’s coming. Look at the radar again, hell, call the weather service, then tell me you don’t believe.” Lance, the grizzled lighthouse keeper of more than forty years laughed through his wild grey beard. The years of salt air had etched their lines across his face, most deeply around his eyes where laughter and squinting against the sun had shaped them. He placed a hand on the wall and closed his eyes.

Maddison, his granddaughter, stood over the laptop. The Doppler radar was clear, the weather service reporting calm seas and an onshore breeze of one to two miles per hour. “This doesn’t make sense,” she said.

“Maddie, put your hand on the wall. You can feel it, pounding on the walls.”

“I can feel the vibrations, and I can look outside and see what has to be some sort of microcell storm. It doesn’t mean it’s your creature.”

He laughed again. “It’s not my creature. It does whatever the hell it wants, whenever it wants. I’m just glad you get a chance to see it. Seriously, though, put your hand on the wall.”

She put her hand against the wall. The steady thrum of the winds carried through the concrete structure gave her an inkling of just how strong the storm had to be. She was going to pull away when she saw her grandfather holding up a finger, signaling her to wait.

Madison was about to give up when she felt it. It wasn’t wind or a wave, but something solid pounded against the wall. “What was that? Did a ship just get washed up against the lighthouse? We need to go see.”

She was already sprinting up the stairs from the watch room toward the gallery deck before Lance could call out, “Don’t open the gallery deck! The wind’ll knock you right off!”

Maddison ran past the gallery deck, continuing up to the lantern room. She looked out the windows from every angle, looking for a ship against or near the lighthouse.

When she saw her grandfather joining her, she called out. “Gramps! I can’t see it. It must be right up against us. Give me a harness and tie me off. I’ll look down from the widow’s walk.”

He grabbed her shoulder. “You’ll do no such thing, because there is no ship. Now, we really should move down out of the lantern room, before it breaks the glass again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Too late.” He pulled on her shoulder trying to get her to the stairs.

She felt rather than saw a darkening in the south. When the great light swung around, it reflected off a shimmering blue and green surface just past the edge of the widow’s walk.

Maddison was frozen in place, waiting for the lamp to come around to the south again. When it did, it was clear to her that the surface wasn’t shimmering, it was moving, and she caught a hint a lighter underside with suckers, ringed with sharp, teeth-like structures.

The tentacle flipped and grasped the lantern room, exploding glass inward. Finally freed from her stunned trance, Maddison ran down the stairs behind her grandfather. She nearly knocked them both down when he stopped at a landing one third of the way up from the base and closed the heavy door against the wet wind rushing down from the shattered lantern room.

There was a window at the landing, but as it was designated as a hurricane shelter, the glass was thick, bullet-proof glass. It had seen its share of rough weather and still held up.

“Why are we stopping?”

“To let him know we’re not food or foe.”

“Him?”

Lance shrugged. “Maybe her, I don’t know.”

“That looked like a giant squid tentacle,” Maddison said, “but they can’t survive at the surface, and I’m not sure they get that big.”

“They don’t. It’s no squid,” he said. “At least not like that.”

The lighthouse shook over and over as whatever it was outside pounded on the walls. The sound of the light exploding carried even down through the storm door.

“Good thing we were out of there before the lantern got a serious spray of cold seawater.”

“Gramps, what is that thing?”

“You’re the college grad, I thought you might have an idea.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “I’d venture to guess it’s what they used to call the kraken.”

“I thought that was just tales to explain washed up giant squids. This is—” she stopped short and pointed at the window.

Lance shook his head and said, “Yep,” as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

An array of eyes and small tentacles moved past the window, until a single, large eye filled the three-foot-by-three-foot window. The pupil was barely contained within the boundaries of the window. The eye pressed against the glass, the huge, spherical lens obvious as it moved to focus on the occupants of the room.

Maddison stepped toward the window with slow steps. She raised a hand and moved it toward the window, the lens repositioning to focus on it.

She touched the cool glass and pressed against it. The sphere of the lens moved forward. Maddison felt emptiness wash over her, a loneliness that went beyond human experience. There was a spark of curiosity, too, and obvious intelligence. The feeling of being alone in a vast universe though, took precedence over everything else and she collapsed, weeping, on the floor.

The eye moved away from the window and the room brightened as the sun returned. The sky was clear, the water calm. It was as though none of it had happened.

Lance sat on the floor and cradled his granddaughter’s head in his lap. “What did you see, Maddie?”

“I didn’t see…anything. But I felt it.”

He smoothed her hair. “I saw the vastness of space, everything flying away from me. I saw how small we are, how small our galaxy is. I saw that we aren’t even intelligent compared to the universe.”

“We’re all alone,” she whispered, “the creature, too. It just understands it better. Nothing…no one…should have to feel that, ever.”

Trunk Stories

Intrusive

prompt: Write a story about someone trying to resist their darker impulses. Whether they succeed or fail is up to you.

available at Reedsy

Intrusive thoughts, that’s what my therapist calls them. But they aren’t just thoughts, they are fully realized scenes that play out in the theater of my mind.

The colors, the sounds, the smells, the feelings…that’s what they are. I watched the old guy in the store with the pistol on his hip. He didn’t pay attention to where he was or what was around him. Twice I’ve managed to sidle past him in the aisle and put my hand on it; the second time I just stopped myself from pulling it when I had hold of the grip.

I had to hide in the diaper aisle while the scene played out in my head. I draw the pistol and shoot him, point blank. The look of shock makes me laugh. I continue with my shopping, like nothing is wrong while everyone runs from me. I approach the checkout lane and use the pistol to encourage the cashier to ring me up. I pay with my card while waving at the cameras. Anyone who gets in my way, I shoot them and continue. The blood is beautiful, as beautiful as the looks of fear.

Once the scene had played out and I was done grinning like a loon, I pulled myself together.

“Are you okay?” the soccer-mom looking woman asked me. She was looking at me as if I’d gone mad.

“Oh, yeah. I took a shortcut through this aisle and couldn’t help remembering when my boy was a baby. Happier times.”

“Happier?”

“Yeah. Teenagers are the worst. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.” I left her with her lower-middle-class suburban haircut and cart full of cold cereal, milk, yogurt cups, and training pants to get back to my own chores. As if I’d ever have kids.

I saw a police officer in uniform, probably just came off shift. He was far more aware of his pistol than the old man. On a whim, I stopped him in the cracker aisle and asked if he could reach one of the boxes on the top shelf. It was a reasonable ask for someone as short as I.

He put his right hand on his pistol as he reached up and grabbed the box with his left. “Just the one?” he asked as he handed it to me.

“Yeah, just the one,” I said, “thanks. Good work on weapon awareness, by the way.”

“You a safety instructor?”

“No, just pay attention.”

“Well, you have a good day.” He looked at me as though he suspected something but couldn’t do anything about it.

I finished my shopping and told the cashier I’d changed my mind about the crackers. With full reusable bags in hand, I made my way to the bus stop.

I’d lost my driver’s license when I let the “intrusive thoughts” win and threw it into park on the freeway. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. The car just slowed down until it came to a stop, then the transmission made a loud clunk as it shifted into park and wouldn’t shift out of it.

The other people on the freeway got all the excitement. One guy slammed on his brakes to avoid rear-ending me and got rear-ended himself, spinning him into the next lane. That created a chain reaction that involved fourteen cars and a semi-truck. Problem was, it all happened behind me, and I couldn’t see much of it.

I almost missed my bus, as I was busy trying to recreate the scene that had played out behind me that day. I lugged my bags to an empty seat and sat. The bottle of malt vinegar bumped against my ankle, and I chuckled.

I empty everything but the bottle from the bag, then stand. The bag handles in my grip, I swing with all my force. I laugh at the sound of the bottle cracking skull. Head injuries bleed a lot, and the scene is glorious. Someone tries to grab me, and I swing at them. The bottle connects with their wrist, a sharp snap as their ulna breaks under the impact. I cut their scream off with a hard swing to their head, the bag now thoroughly soaked in blood.

The other riders on the bus have gotten used to me. I’m sure they thought I was mentally impaired in some way. Still, I felt eyes on me; someone was staring.

I looked around and found them. A woman in the sideways seat in the front stared at me. I looked at her, opened my eyes as wide as they would go and licked my lips. The way she almost jumped out of the seat and turned away to look out the front made me laugh.

“Thank you, darling,” I said. “I ain’t been eye-fucked that good in a long time.”

I blew her a kiss as I got off at my stop. I skipped the elevator and took the stairs to my apartment. It was always good for a little extra exercise.

My therapist said that exercise was a good way to combat the “intrusive thoughts.” I didn’t agree, but I did have to admit that I was better shape than I had been in a long time.

After a so-so take-out dinner, I settled in to watch every horror movie on stream…or at least the ones with gore and rated R or MA. I was still watching and laughing at the splatter-fest on my screen when the sun came up.

I didn’t have any plans, so I decided to just fall asleep in front of the television whenever. There were still hours and hours of movies to go, and I wasn’t tired. I ordered breakfast from one of the delivery services, since I didn’t want to pause the movie too long, it was the funniest I’d seen yet.

It consisted of a thin veneer of plot over a plethora of inventive and increasingly complex methods of gory murder. When a kid’s intestines were slowly wound around a hose reel, I laughed so hard that I nearly choked on my breakfast burrito.

I liked it so much, I restarted it as soon as it ended. At some point, I laughed myself to sleep.

I woke feeling tired, my body aching, as though I’d been working out. I reached out for the remote, but my hands were bound to the table in front of me. Handcuffs. A scratchy blanket was wrapped around me. I looked down, and saw that I was nude under the blanket, and covered in blood.

I hurt, but not enough for the amount of blood. It couldn’t be mine. “Fuck!” I pounded my fists on the table. “It must’ve been amazing, but I don’t remember anything! God damn it! It’s not fair.”

“You don’t have to remember. We have you on camera. We’re just trying to establish a why.” The detective tried to talk all gentle and polite, but I could tell she was a hair from snapping.

“It’s on camera? Can I see? I want to see. I need to see!” I shook the blanket off and looked at the blood that had dried on my body. From the looks of it, I had painted myself with it.

“We’re not going to let you wa—”

“If you show me, I might remember why,” I said. “It’s not fair! I don’t remember it, but it had to be good. Just look at me!”

The detectives decided they weren’t going to get anything useful out of me and booked me. They didn’t know that while they left me waiting in the hall, I was able to see some other officers gathered around a monitor, watching my antics. I just wished I could remember what it felt like in the moment, but it was hilarious to watch.

I couldn’t stop laughing, even while I was booked, forced to wash, and thrown into a cell. It was just too funny, and I imagined all of them with their intestines on a hose reel, which just made me laugh more.

I wondered if my therapist would even talk to me any longer. She’d probably be disappointed. That thought made me momentarily sad. I could find out where she lived and go talk to her; let her know it wasn’t the same — it couldn’t be the same — because I don’t remember it. To talk to her, of course, I’d have to get out the jail first, but I was already working on an idea or two.

Trunk Stories

Achievable

prompt: Start your story with someone making a vision board.

available at Reedsy

Matthew was certain this arts and crafts project was a waste of his time and patience, but he’d promised the doctor. Things I want for my life, things I can work toward, things I can achieve in the coming year, he thought.

It took long hours searching the web, finding just the right images, printing them out on the color printer, and stuffing them in his backpack before anyone could see. The library wasn’t the ideal place for this, but it had to do. He wasn’t about to spend a bunch of money he didn’t have on magazines just to cut out the pictures.

The library was closing. Matthew shut down the computer he’d been working at and walked across the street to the crafts store. There he picked up a piece of poster board, a pair of scissors, and some glue. On a whim, he picked up some paper letters he could use to add “inspirational words” to his board as the doctor had said.

Backpack in place and poster board under his arm, Matthew took the bus home. He rode with the city’s outcasts to his own gutter of a neighborhood where the filth and stench threatened to choke him.

He didn’t mind the fifth-floor walk-up; a little exercise was good for the body and soul. There were plenty of things that others in the building complained about, but they didn’t bother Matthew in the least. The rats and cockroaches were just following their biological imperatives, the boiler going out on occasion didn’t matter if you always took cold showers and had extra blankets, and the water tasted bad, but that’s to be expected in the city.

What the complainers in the building ignored, what bothered Matthew most, was the never-ending miasma. It was a roiling, fuming blend of rotting garbage, the constant use of the alley as a pissoir, and the unwashed bodies that went about their business as though they didn’t reek or tried to cover it up with cloying perfumes and “deodorants.”

He took a cold shower, scrubbing the stench of the city off every inch of his person with a clean washcloth and the lye bar soap from the hardware store down the next block. He scrubbed until his entire body was pink and the only thing he could smell was the chlorinated water.

Matthew dried with a clean towel and placed it with the washcloth and his dirty clothes in the apartment-sized over-under washer dryer in the kitchen and started the load.

Dressed in a clean outfit identical to the one he’d been wearing, he spread out his materials for the “vision board.” He began cutting out the printed images; a bit from here, a bit from there, and another bit from somewhere else. As he worked, he felt the turmoil in his brain settle.

Words came to him unbidden: clean, pure, proper. He worked into the wee hours of the morning arranging the images and words until it spoke to him, moved him.

“You might be right, doc,” he said, “this does help me put things in order.” As he said it, he glued the picture of her face in the center of his collage.

He looked through the images he’d printed but hadn’t used. They interested him, sure, but not like the ones on the board. He’d discard of them in the paper recycling bin in the morning.

Matthew removed his shoes and placed them where he could get them on in a hurry if there was an emergency. Always prepared for the worst, he laid down on his bed fully dressed and pulled a blanket over himself. One would do, as the boiler was working.

He woke with the rising of the sun and began his morning routine. He folded the blanket and laid it at the foot of the bed, then laid out another set of clothes on top of the blanket. He stripped and threw the clothes in the washing machine, pulling the previous day’s wash out of the dryer. He folded the clothes and put them in his single drawer; two pairs of black jeans, two plain, black tee-shirts, two pairs of black socks, two pairs of black boxers, one black hoody. The towels and wash cloths he folded and placed neatly on the shelf in the washroom.

Matthew took his morning shower, again scrubbing himself pink until chlorine was all he could smell. The morning’s washcloth and towel went into the washer with the clothes.

He dressed in the clothes he’d laid out and grabbed the duffel bag from his closet. He had some shopping to do today, but it wouldn’t fit in his backpack. He checked the time; the hardware store didn’t open for another hour.

He sat at the small table where he’d put together his masterpiece and opened a “meal replacement” bar. It has everything I need, so why is it called a “replacement” rather than just a meal, he wondered. Matthew ate with careful bites, setting it down on the spread-out wrapper and chewing thoroughly before swallowing.

When he’d finished his regular, bland, morning meal, he folded the wrapper into a neat square and laid it atop the stack of unused images and scraps from cutting out the other images.

Matthew rolled the vision board into a tube shape, careful not to damage it, and placed it in the duffel. That done, he sat at the table in silence until it was time to leave.

He slung the duffel over his shoulder, picked up the papers for recycling, and the plastic wrapper from his meal bar. It was the only plastic to be found in his apartment. He allowed it only because it was the only way to get the one thing he could stand to eat.

Matthew made his way down to the foyer, then headed to the back door. There, in the alley, were the bins for recycling and garbage. He placed the papers in the recycling bin, then held his breath to open the garbage bin and throw away the little square of plastic.

As soon as the lid banged shut, he ran back into the foyer and didn’t exhale or take a breath until he’d gone all the way through and out the front door. Still, it seemed as though he couldn’t get away from the stench.

He walked the nine minutes to the hardware store and stood in front of the door for four minutes until they opened. The cashier that opened up knew that he wasn’t a talkative sort, and she gave him a short nod which he returned.

He pushed a cart through the parts of the store he knew well first. Another bar of lye soap, a box of plain laundry detergent, a box of powdered bleach, and it was finally time to buy the gloves he’d looked at on every visit.

Matthew avoided the aisle with plastic bags and went to the tools section. He picked up the other items on his mental list, making sure they met his criteria of being comfortable to use and containing no plastic.

The items he wanted in the cart, there was one more aisle to peruse; the one he hated most. He took a deep breath and pushed the cart down the aisle of plastic bags. They ranged in size from “sandwich” to 33-gallon “leaf” bags. It was insane. As if there wasn’t enough plastic in the wild already, he saw single-use bags for a single serving of food, large ones to collect the small bags, and even larger ones to collect the large bags.

It was a roll of bags not stuffed into a box that caught his eye. The tag said they were compostable. Matthew knew the locations of at least fifty compostable garbage collection bins around the city, perhaps those would do.

He paid for his purchases with cash, and put them in his duffel, being careful not to damage his artwork. Outside the hardware store was one of the few remaining pay phones that still worked. He called the doctor at her home number to make sure she was there and let her know that this couldn’t wait.

He took the bus into the heart of the city and walked the six blocks to the doctor’s home. He walked around the building first, gathering his nerve to show her his artwork. In the alley, the smell of garbage and urine and unwashed bodies brought him back into the moment. It may be a more expensive gutter, but it’s still a gutter all the same. At least this alley had compost bins.

He walked through the foyer and headed for the stairs. Others may rely on an elevator to get them up and down, but he was one to not put himself where he could be trapped.

Eleven floors was a long way to go, but not so long as to tire him out. He walked through the quiet, carpeted hallway to her door, 11-G. Rather than ring the bell, he knocked. The fewer intermediaries between two people trying to communicate, the better.

She opened the door. “Come in, Matthew. I’m glad you called when you needed to talk, that’s something new. You should be proud of yourself.”

He entered and set the duffel down on the soft carpet. He opened the top and pulled out his rolled-up vision board. “You had to be the first to see this,” he said, “and you were right; it helped me organize my thoughts.”

“That’s excellent news, Matthew.”

“It took a lot of searching to find the right images,” he said, “especially ones where they weren’t blurry or whatever.”

“Why don’t you open it up for me and explain it?”

Matthew looked at the floor and cleared his throat. “I—uh—I’d rather that you open it up and look at it yourself, first. It’s the art piece I want to make.”

“Sure, Matthew. Why don’t you take a seat while I do that?”

She unrolled the poster board and gasped. “No, I—”

Matthew cut her off by grabbing her and throwing her to the floor. The thick carpets muffled the noise, and the walls blocked out her panicked screams.

It was harder to tie her hands and feet together with the rough hemp rope than he’d expected, but at least it wasn’t made with plastic like all the soft ropes. He stuffed her mouth with a rag he grabbed from the kitchen and tied it in place with another piece of rope. He cut off her clothes and removed his own. He’d expected her to have a washing machine, but she didn’t have one.

Instead, he tied her to an exposed beam in the living room and washed her clothes and his own in her tub and hung them to dry while she sobbed in the improvised gag. Her painfully annoying perfume washed out of the clothes, at least, but it permeated the apartment, seeming to even come from the carpet.

The clothes hung to dry, he untied her from the beam and dragged her to the bath where he scrubbed both of them pink with a washcloth and the lye soap until the smell of her perfume was gone. He felt clean for the first time since he’d opened the garbage can in the morning.

He stepped out of the tub and dried himself. She looked up at him, her hands and feet bound, her eyes pleading, and begged through the gag.

“Just hang on,” he said, “I’m going to put on those gloves and clean this nasty place until all the smells are gone and then complete the achievable goal on my vision board…today.”

He returned with the vision board and his other purchases from the hardware store; the natural rubber gloves, the bleach, a ball peen hammer — just in case —, a boning knife, and the roll of compostable bags. He left the board leaning against the wall with everything except the gloves and the bleach.

While he cleaned, scrubbing the apartment from ceiling to floor, the clothes dried, and the doctor’s cries weakened. When the only smell left in the apartment was that of chlorine, he returned to the bathroom.

“I’ll clean this room after I complete my art project. I mean, it’ll probably get pretty messy.”

He looked at the poster board and admired the collage of crime scene photos, each showing a different severed body part. Finding an image of every piece had taken him hours, while finding fourteen compost bins would be a breeze.

He pointed to the image of a left foot, severed at the ankle. “I want to start with this one. Start with the small goals first, right?”

Trunk Stories

The Dinner Vote

prompt: Write a story where a character’s life completely changes over the course of a meal.

available at Reedsy

Salvatore fumbled with the bow tie, an online video tutorial played on the tablet he’d leaned against the mirror. His pale blue eyes flicked back and forth between the screen and the mirror. The younger man in the video made it seem simple, yet he still struggled.

“Try this,” Eliza said, holding the tablet so it was reflected in the mirror. “Tell me again what this dinner’s about? And why I’m not invited?”

Salvatore found it easier to copy the movements of the video with it mirrored. “It’s about getting me on the board.” He finished tying a respectable bow and looked at the grey at his temples, standing out sharply from his black hair. “I should’ve dyed my hair.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You look distinguished.” Eliza kissed him the top of his head. “Especially in a tux.”

“Distinguished just means old.”

“Take a compliment.” She helped him into his jacket. “Now, why can’t you bring your fiancé to this dinner?”

“Fiancé, huh? When did that happen?”

“This is a common law state. We can claim to be married next year.” She straightened his lapels and stopped with her hands on his chest. “That counts as engaged, right?”

A smirk lit up his eyes. “I can’t argue that logic. But this is only for board members and prospective board members. Some sort of thing they do once a year.”

“I’m proud of you,” Eliza said. “You did the right thing and were rewarded for it.”

“I’m still shocked I have a job,” he said, “much less that I’m being considered for Simmons’ position.”

“What happened to him, anyway? I thought it’d be all over the news by now.”

“Ms. Butcher told me the board would handle it without involving the courts. The negative press would be more of a hit than the four or five million he embezzled.”

Eliza watched his face for a moment. “What are you stressing about now?”

“If they accept me on the board, I’ll be the oldest member.” He shook his head. “How the entire executive board of a large, old-money corporation could all be so young is…odd.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re so successful; new ideas.”

“Hmm.” Salvatore checked his watch. “My ride should be here any minute.”

Eliza gave him a kiss and squeezed his hand. “You’ll do great. Just be yourself.”

The limo pulled up for him as he stepped out his front door. The driver had opened the door for him by the time he reached the curb. It was as though the whole thing had been rehearsed.

The ride was silent, apart from the muted strains of some undefinable orchestral piece that surrounded him from hidden speakers. By the time the limo stopped at a mansion surrounded by woods, Salvatore had lost track of the time and where they’d gone. He checked his watch, an hour’s ride.

Before he could reach for the handle, the driver had opened his door. A woman in a butler’s uniform waited for him at the mansion’s entry. She gave a deep bow as she opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter.

Inside, another similarly suited woman called out, “Mister Salvatore Di Silvio; prospect.”

Across the expansive, marbled foyer, a double door was thrown wide. The music he’d been hearing in the limo carried from the room along with laughter and animated voices.

The woman who’d announced him bowed and said, “They’re expecting you, sir.”

“Thanks.” Salvatore walked to the open doors, the size and plain but rich decor of the foyer impressing him more with each step. Through the doors he entered a warm library with rich brown leather furniture, shelves of antique and likely rare books, a large serving cart on wheels bearing champagne and glasses.

The cart was attended by a young man dressed the same as the other servants. He didn’t ask but poured a glass for Salvatore and handed it to him with a slight bow.

Apart from Ms. Butcher, Salvatore knew the people present only by their images on the corporate website. He could place each to their name but knew nothing else about them.

As Ms. Butcher, CEO and President, looked to be at most thirty, and the oldest member of the board, Salvatore felt like a fish out of water. The other men wore their tuxedos with the casual ease that comes from familiarity, and the women wore their evening gowns with the same ease.

Before he got fixated on how stifling the collar and tie felt, he sipped at the champagne. He tried to make himself look at ease, but found it only made him more self-conscious.

“Welcome, Salvatore.” Ms. Butcher had approached from behind without him noticing.

He avoided jumping, just, and turned to face her. The emerald-green gown she wore made her black eyes shine, and her warm, golden-brown skin glow. Her crayon-red-dyed hair was tied in a sloppy bun that was far too flattering to not be a meticulous design.

“Ms. Butcher,” he said, “it’s an honor.”

“Please,” she said, “my name’s Drusilla, but call me Dru while you’re here, Sal. Can I call you Sal?”

“I—uh—sure. Sal’s fine, Dru.”

“Good. Now that’s out of the way, I think dinner is about to be served. I’ll walk you to the dining room.”

Salvatore found himself seated at the left hand of Ms. Butcher. Around the table sat the rest of the chief executives, minus the former CTO, Daniel Simmons. The collection of twenty-somethings, of all different shades, made Salvatore think of the “United Colors of Benetton” ads he’d seen as a child…before they got tragic.

The thing that stood out the most, though, was that bar himself, everyone at the table had black eyes. Not just dark brown, not even extra-dark brown…black; the iris and pupil indistinguishable.

Rather than the multi-course meal he expected, servants brought out full plates, restaurant style. A large portion of slow-braised pork, pan-seared vegetables, and a flaky roll rounded out the plate. No sooner was the plate set in front of someone than their water glass was filled with ice-cold spring water, and their wine glass generously poured with Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru.

There was none of the standing on etiquette he’d have expected from such a display. Instead, everyone dug in and began small talk; many with their mouths full.

Salvatore followed suit, at least with the eating…he wasn’t one for talking with his mouth full. He noticed that several had already needed a wine refill. He was determined not to get drunk, so he took his time with his.

The pork was succulent and tender. He thought it might be some special pig raised on truffles and champagne or something of the sort, as the taste was exquisite and unique. The vegetables were just cooked, with plenty of snap, and hints of being seared in the rendered fat of the pig. The roll, he thought, was nothing special.

Ms. Butcher tapped her knife against her wine glass. Salvatore was surprised to see that she’d already cleaned her plate while he was only halfway done. “Everyone, my brothers and sisters, we have important business this year.”

The table grew silent aside from the soft clink of silverware on plates as the few still eating continued. Salvatore wanted to set his fork down and listen, but something compelled him to keep eating until his plate was empty.

“Daniel Simmons committed a minor sin, revealing an unforgivable one,” she said. “His minor sin—”

“He got caught!” someone yelled, leading to a round of raucous laughter. As the laughter continued, Salvatore finished his plate. He was hungrier than when he started. The thought of licking the juices off the plate teased at him.

“That’s correct,” Ms. Butcher said, regaining control. “However, Danny also committed the unforgivable sin of stealing from the family; his own brothers and sisters.”

There were tuts and grunts of disdain around the table. Salvatore clasped his hands under the table to keep from grabbing the plate and licking it. The hunger was growing, and he began to feel light-headed. He wondered if he’d been drugged.

“For that reason, Sal is here as a prospect.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from listing to the side as he grew ever more dizzy. “From all signs, it looks like he’s a good candidate.”

The room grew darker in Salvatore’s vision, his eyes fixed only on the small pool of meat juice on his plate. Ms. Butcher’s voice seemed distant, dreamlike, while her hand on his shoulder felt like a vice, holding him in place.

“So, as we have reclaimed all that was Danny’s flesh, and as Sal’s body seems receptive, do any here oppose?”

No opposition was raised outside of Salvatore’s head. Had he heard right? The meat he’d just eaten, that he craved more of, was Daniel Simmons?

In the edges of Salvatore’s awareness, servants carried out the plates, glasses, and silverware. One of them handed a pitcher to Ms. Butcher, while another set out shot glasses filled with something he couldn’t make out.

She put the pitcher in front of his face, and he grabbed it. The smell intoxicated him, channeled all his new hunger toward the dark liquid. He began drinking it down in greedy gulps, not even stopping to catch a breath. By the time the pitcher was empty, his hunger seemed manageable, and his head cleared.

He saw the room clearly now, and by focusing on each of the others present, could see their true nature; ancient and undying, hidden in forever youthful flesh. All eyes were on him, and he realized he hadn’t taken a breath for quite a while.

Salvatore took in a great, deep breath, and sighed with a contentment that he’d never known could exist. The others clapped and welcomed him as a brother, and the new CTO.

Dru pulled him aside. “Avoid mortals for the next month or so, unless one of us is around. It’s for their safety.”

The evening ended with Dru presenting Sal with Danny’s heart. She explained that it wasn’t needed for the transformation, but it was traditional by now. He didn’t hesitate to wolf it down raw.

After the limo dropped him at home, he remembered Dru’s warning. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? He rode an hour in the limo without any problems…unless the driver is…. He let that thought die and checked his watch.

He opened the front door, and the familiar smells of home washed over him. Chief among them, Eliza. She turned the corner in the hall, and he was overwhelmed with emotion and hunger. He loved her more deeply than he thought possible, and at the same time, he wished to devour her; tear her flesh and eat it raw and wash it down with her blood.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked.

“I have to go,” he said. “Don’t wait up.” He slammed the door and ran. He knew there was an automated motel a couple miles down the highway. Without his car keys, though, it might be a long trip.

He was still debating whether to call Eliza and tell her to throw his keys out the window or not when he realized he had run all the way to the motel. His watch showed that he had run two miles, in a tuxedo, in less than six minutes.

He used his debit card at the kiosk to get a room. A look in the mirror as he got out of his tux both surprised him and was completely expected. The grey was gone, along with the faint lines around his eyes. He barely looked twenty, and his light blue eyes had turned black. He checked his teeth, but didn’t see any fangs, and he had no claws nor body hair he didn’t have before.

“I don’t know what I am,” he said to his reflection, “but I feel good, at least.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, too amped up to sleep, wondering what to do next. The sounds of someone exiting the shower in the next room combined with the smell that permeated through the thin walls, made him hungry…he began to wonder if he should go hunting.

Trunk Stories

Funny Machines

prompt: Write about somebody who likes to work in silence.

available at Reedsy

Silence is a rare and valuable thing. Even far outside the city, away from everything, sounds are still there; the rustle of leaves in the wind, the soft hum of traffic in the far distance, the airliner crossing the sky. In silence, I can hear my breath, my heartbeat, every twitch of every muscle. In silence, I can hear my thoughts.

The world is too noisy. When I was a child, the doctor called it “auditory hypersensitivity.” The earplugs plus the heavy-duty soundproof hearing protectors the closest I could hope to get to that kind of silence in my work. Rather than being caught up in the sounds of my tools and the funny machines I work on, I can focus on the actual work.

Usually, my work involves repairing whatever machine’s been left on my bench. Using my eyes, fingers, and sometimes nose, I can figure out what needs repair, and how it needs to be done. I lay out the tools I will need, in the order I will need them, and work as quickly as I can to get the job done. Then the tools are cleaned and returned to my tool bag.

There are times, however, where my job is to take a machine apart. It is not to be rushed, as the dismantling is exploratory. Sometimes it becomes necessary during disassembly to stop a leak. Never with the same care as when repairing, just enough to stop the leak.

I checked my bag, made sure I was stocked up on consumables; gloves, tape, cleaning cloths, and other assorted items that get used up during repair or the other thing. The bag has two top openings and a divider in the middle, which makes it easy to keep the repair and disassembly tools sorted.

Boss has known me since my childhood, and he developed a sort of gesture shorthand that allows him to give me orders while my ears are shut off from the world. For his part, the only gestures of mine he pays attention to are a nod or shake of the head, and a shrug of the shoulders. If I can help it, I don’t talk when I’m working. I don’t like the sound of my voice echoing in my head.

With a few gestures, Boss let me know I had a repair job coming in first, and the other sort after. The repair wasn’t overly complicated. A foreign body lodged in the machine, and the concomitant leak.

In the bright lights of my workbench, I donned magnifying goggles and went to work. As I suspected, the leak worsened when I removed the flattened piece of copper and lead from the hole. Careful repair to the fine structures, a patch over the repair, and it was ready to return to whatever it was meant to be doing.

After I had cleaned off the workbench and put my tools in the cleaner, I prepared for the next task. Boss preferred that I lay out my disassembly tools before the machine was placed on the bench. Sometimes, it meant that I didn’t need to do any work, but that was a rare occurrence.

This was not to be one of those times. The machine was bound to the bench and struggled against the bindings that held it in place. It was already leaking like the one I’d just repaired. For these quick fixes, I had developed my own method.

I cut the cloth covering the machine away with a pair of shears to get to the hole. With a shake of the can, I sprayed in an expanding foam to fill the hole, then with a small butane torch I ignited the foam. The smell of burning plastic mixed with the smell of burnt meat told me that it had worked and would stop the leak.

Boss examined it for a while, making me wait. I spent the time browsing the internet on my phone, fighting off boredom. I was in the middle of reading about the mating habits of Diplopoda when Boss tapped my arm.

A hint of ammonia had joined the other smells in the shop. The ear protectors kept the sounds out, though. The lack of sound allowed me to pay attention to how the machine rolled its eyes, the shape of its mouth, the clues that told me when it was safe to push on and when to let up.

One might think that Boss dealt with the noise because he needed to hear it in order to get them information he needed. Boss, from what I could tell however, lived for the sounds: the squelch, the snap, the sizzle, the sobs, the screams. Still, he wouldn’t deign to dirty his own hands. That’s why I was there.

Speaking of hands, Boss pointed to his pinkie and made a scissor action. I’d been doing disassembly long enough to know what he meant.

I picked up my side cutters and grabbed one of the machine’s extremities. Lining up carefully, I removed the last third of the extremity. I followed that up with a short blast from the butane torch to stop the leak.

Boss examined it for a while, then brought me back to prune a little more off. It went like that for hours. By the time I had removed ten extremities in twenty-eight cuts, I knew everything the internet could teach me about millipedes.

It was just a short while after that when Boss had me move on to internal disassembly. This requires skill and care to keep the machine operating while removing critical pieces. I know I said that Boss wouldn’t dirty his hands, but this time, it looked like he had. My enucleation spoon was dirtied, and Boss was holding the still-attached orb and talking to it before yanking it completely free.

I reset my tools, replacing side cutters, chisel, and torch with scalpels, clamps, and cautery pens. I began by opening it up at the soft, lower portion. From there, I could hook the tubing and extract it slowly, being ever so careful as to keep the machine working. When it would go into shutdown mode, I’d pause for a moment, and use the smelling salts to rouse it. Once I had all the tubing laid to the side out of my way, I had access to all sorts of other things that could be removed.

I had just started widening the opening so I could get at more of the insides when Boss stopped me with a tap on the shoulder. He made the signal to dispose of it. I gave him a nod and piled the tubing, and the soft globe, on top of it before transferring it to a cart for disposal.

It was still operational…just…when they pushed it into the incinerator and fired it. While that was happening, I cleaned up my work area and tools, and made sure my tool bag was set for the next job.

When I’d finished for the day, I thought about what I’d learned from the latest disassembly. The false silence of the stuffing and covering of my ears made that possible. I wondered how different my insides looked. Probably not too different, although, whoever dismantled me would have to deal with a uterus and ovaries. I hadn’t yet had a funny machine like me on my workbench, and I wondered when I would.

Trunk Stories

What He Wanted

prompt: Write about a missing person nobody seems to know or remember.

available at Reedsy

It started with an anonymous missing person tip on the city police website. In the following weeks, flyers began to appear on utility poles like an unlikely pox, spreading out in all directions from the city center.

By the time the news picked up the story, it was to tell everyone about the “mysterious disappearance” of Kyle Smith, assistant to the city council secretary. Bob Keller, the council secretary was nervously vague when asked what kind of person Kyle was.

“I, uh, guess I would have to say he was quiet,” Bob said. “I mean, I can see all his employment and pay history, including his signature on hundreds of documents that passed through my office, but….” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, I don’t remember ever seeing him, much less talking to him.”

The news anchor’s face replaced the pre-recorded interview. Her smile was practiced and plastic; completely out of place given the nature of the story. “Perhaps the most mysterious part of this entire case is that no one we interviewed had any recollection of Mr. Smith.

“Police have combed his residence in the Graham Tower complex for clues. All they were able to determine was that he had lived there for nine years, and not a single neighbor recalled seeing him. DMV have provided this photo from his current driver’s license. If you see this man, please call the hotline at the number below.”

Her plastic smile extended to near-unrealistic proportions. “Now here’s Susan with the weather.”

 Sid muted the TV above the bar. “Anybody here recognize this guy?” he asked.

There were grunts of dissent and shaking of heads. The patrons quickly lost interest in the subject and began pleading with Sid to switch the TV over to the game.

A chyron scrolled beneath the game. “Missing 42 days: Kyle Smith’s car found abandoned off I-5. Police fear missing man dead.”

“Shit.” Ally waved Sid over. “Another.”

He pulled a bottle of imported beer out of the cooler, removed the cap, and exchanged it with her empty. “Problem?”

“We have a leak in the department,” she said. “No one was supposed to pass anything to the press until we were done processing the car.”

“So the ‘feared dead’ thing? Is that legit?”

Ally grunted. “That’s pretty much been the thought after the first week. Now it’s just down to figuring out how, when, where, who, and why.”

“Isn’t it odd that someone could work in city hall for years, and no one remembers him? Not even his direct supervisor.”

“You saw the picture,” she said. “He looks like an ‘everyman,’ the type that spy agencies love to use.”

“You think he was a spy?” Sid asked.

“Nah.” Ally took a long swig of her beer. “He wouldn’t be an assistant secretary for city council here. Maybe in a city close to a military installation or a major financial and intelligence hub.”

“You think you’ll find the guy responsible?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s just a matter of time. The sick fuck has been sending us empty texts from Smith’s phone, but it never stays connected longer than it takes to send the text. It’s always when he’s on the same tower as me. I think he’s in sight of me when he texts, but we still haven’t seen him.”

Ally’s phone chimed. She checked the message. Another blank message from Smith’s phone. She called her supervisor. “Just got another one. Verify the location, I’m locking down the bar.” She lifted her beer and spilled a bit of it on her way to her lips.

“You okay?”

“Just a spasm,” she said, “probably stress and not enough sleep. Go lock the doors. No one’s leaving until we find that phone.”

#

Kyle had thought he’d enjoy the little city sprouting unexpectedly in the middle of miles upon miles of farmland. The big city where he’d grown up was too loud, too crowded, and he felt too seen.

He landed a job the second day he was in the city and moved into an apartment in a midsized complex. Still too crowded for his liking, and he had some neighbors that felt intrusive and nosy.

It was close to one year after he’d started working for the city council that he was already starting to feel too many eyes on him. He spent his free time hiding in the back stacks of the library where the rare and reference books were hidden. Then he found it; the book that contained a collection of rituals to bind demons to do one’s bidding.

He didn’t believe it, of course. He wasn’t stupid or superstitious. Still, he sounded out the nonsense words of one of the rituals there in the dim light of the library’s forgotten stacks. Feeling nothing, he chuckled and put the book back.

Kyle walked home, annoyed at the people he passed that said, “hello” or “good evening.” He just wanted to be left alone. If everyone around him could just ignore him, that would be ideal. He already did everything he could to keep his head down at work and not have cause for his boss…or anyone else…to speak to him.

Over the next couple of years, his refusal to engage with anyone approaching him or trying to speak with him began to pay off. He could come and go, unmolested and untroubled.

He had no interactions with anyone beyond that which was required to live his life. Kyle bought a coffee at 7:15 on his way to work every morning, requiring only the words “Americano, black,” and “thanks” on his part. He knew his job inside and out and had the files his boss needed ready and waiting before he was asked.

The grocery store’s self-checkout was a major boon. It didn’t require Kyle to speak to anyone, ever, and was always clear on his late Thursday night shopping trips. With his utilities and bills paid automatically through his bank, and his paycheck going into his account rather than a check, he fell into a solitary rhythm rather quickly.

Kyle was living in his perfect world, or so he thought. However, the day came that required him to speak to his boss. He hadn’t taken a vacation in nine years, and he wanted to get approval for a month off.

He entered Bob’s office, leave request in hand. “I…uh…would like to…um…get some time off, please.” He laid the request on the desk.

The council secretary continued staring at his laptop screen, not acknowledging Kyle’s presence. He continued to scroll through whatever he was watching, clicking occasionally.

Kyle walked around the desk to see what was so engaging. It was cat videos. “Bob? Mr. Keller? Hey. Could you sign my leave request?” He waved his hand between the screen and Bob’s face to no reaction. He tapped him on the shoulder; nothing. Feeling desperate, Kyle slapped Bob’s face. Still nothing.

He spent the rest of the morning wandering downtown, trying to get anyone to acknowledge his presence. It was as though he didn’t exist.

In a flash of inspiration, he went to the coffee shop where he’d ordered his coffee. Not only was he rudely pushed aside by anyone around him, but no one responded to any complaint, threat, tap, pinch or slap. It was the same at the grocery store.

After spending the day determining that no, he wasn’t invisible, and yes, he felt very much alive, he sat on his couch to figure out what he would do. He fell asleep pondering what could be done.

When he woke, he showered and changed, and decided that with or without Bob’s signature he was going on vacation. He carried his suitcase down to the garage, where he found his car had been stolen. Kyle dialed 911.

“911 dispatch, what is your emergency?”

“My car’s been stolen,” he said.

“Hello? 911 dispatch. Are you unable to talk?”

Kyle yelled into the phone. “My car! It’s been stolen!”

“Okay, if you’re not going to speak, I’m going to hang up now.”

Kyle screamed. “No!”

The call disconnected.

He decided to take another tack. Maybe he really was dead and didn’t know it. He went to the police website and tried to report his stolen car. The form told him to call 911 for vehicular theft. Trying again, he entered a missing person’s case for himself from their non-emergency contact form.

Kyle walked into the police station and found that he could go anywhere without question, assuming the door was unlocked. He followed one of the officers through the locked partition into the back of the station.

By wandering about and looking at everyone’s desk, he figured out which detective was assigned his case. Ally’s phone sat next to her, unlocked. He picked it up to get her number and sent a text from his phone to hers. He typed “I’m Kyle Smith and I’m standing right next to you,” and hit send.

Her phone chimed and showed an empty text. He tried again four more times over the next few minutes, every one of them empty on her phone. He watched as she looked up the number and discovered it was his.

Her next few hours were spent setting up a response team that could tell her what tower the texts were coming from. When she discovered that the texts had been sent from the area of the police station, officers scrambled, trying to locate him, although one said his phone was no longer “pinging,” whatever that meant.

Kyle began putting up missing posters with his picture, sending the printing job online and having them delivered to his post office box. The police staked out the post office and never saw him walking in, opening his box, and walking out with the stacks of flyers. On a whim, he attached one to the police car’s driver-side window. They didn’t notice it until their replacement got there.

After weeks of being unable to get anyone’s attention, including Ally, he decided to make it easier for her. He rode with her in the ride-share she’d taken to the bar. Neither she nor the driver noticed him.

The bar patrons were busy with the game, and Ally was suitably relaxed. No matter how he tried to get in her way, she avoided him. He put his hand where she’d been about to set her beer down, and her arm deflected so that she set it down just beyond his hand. Kyle texted her again. “I’m right next to you.”

She raised her beer again and he grabbed her wrist. “I’m right here!” he screamed into her ear. Despite spilling some of her beer, she still didn’t notice him.

He looked into the mirror behind the bar and saw a shadowy figure standing behind him. When he turned to look, it wasn’t there. He looked back in the mirror, and glowing orange eyes appeared on the figure.

The voice that rumbled through his head left no doubt that he was hearing the figure. “Are you not pleased? You got exactly what you wanted.”

Trunk Stories

The Town

prompt: Set your story in a town disconnected from the rest of the world.

available at Reedsy

My GPS got me lost…well, that and my desire to take the scenic route and avoid the freeways. The dense woods surrounding the route it had recommended blocked out everything. It was only when the road narrowed and became a potholed mess that I realized that I wasn’t anywhere near where the GPS said I was.

I should have been able to see the freeway from here, but there was no infrastructure beyond this ill-maintained forest road. Checking my phone, I saw that I had no signal. The choice was to follow this road that climbed ahead of me in hopes of a signal or attempt to turn around on the road that was, by now, a single lane of crumbling asphalt.

Deciding on a compromise, I continued up the road, looking for a spot where the trees were far enough back to allow me to turn around. As I crested a small rise, the road turned to gravel and continued upwards after a blind corner.

Two more blind corners, which had me white-knuckling with the fear that a logging truck might come barreling around toward me, and I reached the peak. Still no signal, but I could see that the road widened back out and led into a small town.

From the distance, it looked idyllic; as I drove through it looked frozen in time. A string of 1940’s and ’50’s cars were parked in front of Sal’s, a mom-and-pop diner. Across the street was an Esso gas station with a sign proclaiming, “Finest Gasoline: $0.27 / gal”. The gas pumps were even the old style, and I had no doubt they didn’t work but were for show. Every one of the ancient cars were in amazing condition. It seemed I had stumbled on a town full of classic car buffs.

A Woolworth’s sat down the street; I had no idea there were any of those left. Next to it was the post office and a barber shop. The barber sat in a chair on the sidewalk reading a newspaper with a headline that declared “Coup in Egypt: King Farouk Ousted.” An appliance and furniture store had old console-type black and white televisions in the front window.

After parking next to one of my dream vehicles, a 1948 Dodge Power Wagon truck with a small dent on the right rear fender, I headed into the diner. Seeing how everyone was dressed, I got the feeling that perhaps I had stumbled into a movie set. Not seeing any cameras or film crew, though, I sat at the bar and asked for a cup of coffee. One thing that struck me was the total lack of diversity. I hadn’t seen a single non-white face.

The waitress, a plump, middle-aged woman of peachy-pink complexion with blonde hair in a medium-length curly wave, dressed in a pink uniform with a matching pink name tag labeling her as Iris, poured a cup and asked, “Anything to eat, hon?”

“No, thanks,” I said, “can you tell me where I am, where to get gas, and how to get to I-80?”

“Eye eighty?” she asked. “Never heard of it. Gas is across the street.” She stared at me over her half-frame glasses. “You’re lost, ain’t ya? Well, you’ll find your way around soon enough.”

“I’m trying to drive coast to coast but not on the freeways. If you could tell me how to get to Toledo, I’d be able to get myself back on track.” I looked up and saw a sign I hadn’t noticed when I entered. It read, “Whites Only.” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“You can’t get there from here,” she said.

I didn’t know if she was making a joke or not, her face didn’t give anything away. The coffee was weak and bitter, not a good cup at all. I pulled out a credit card to pay, and Iris looked at it like it was something foreign.

“I guess you don’t take plastic,” I said. “How much?”

“Five cents.”

I pulled out a dollar and laid it on the bar. “Thanks, Iris. I guess I’ll gas up and get back on the road.”

“Sure. You do that, hon.”

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my car. I was still parked in the same place, but everything had changed. The old cars were replaced with new; the Power Wagon was now a Dodge Ram truck with a dent in the same location. The old Chevys, Fords and Chryslers had been replaced with newer models, and even a few imports. The Esso had been updated to an ExxonMobil station with modern pumps and a convenience store.

I looked at the diner, which was now called “Whirled Peas Grill.” The Woolworth’s had been replaced with a strip mall, the barbershop with a nail salon and a Starbuck’s, and the furniture and appliance store was now a Kroger grocery store.

Had I dreamt the whole thing? The town was small, but certainly modern, and more diverse than most small towns.

I walked into the diner again, or was it for the first time? The layout was the same, but the decor was completely different. I sat in the same stool at the bar, and a stout, middle-aged woman with a deep-brown complexion, bright brown eyes behind square-framed glasses, and graying hair in small, neat dreadlocks approached. Her clothes were modern, but the pink name tag was identical to the one I remembered, the name “Iris” plain as day.

“Back so soon?” she asked. Her smirk made me think that someone might be playing an elaborate prank on me.

“What’s…going on?”

“You’re about to ask me again how to get somewhere, and I’m going to tell you again, you can’t get there from here.” She sighed. “It always takes the new ones so long to figure out they ain’t lost.”

I decided I’d had enough of the nonsense and returned to my car. Less than a quarter of a tank remained. I pulled into the gas station and refilled. It wasn’t difficult to remember the way I’d come, as the main road ran straight through town.

I drove out of the town, ready to tackle the gravel logging road again to get back to where I’d come from. It didn’t take long for the road to turn into the narrow, winding track.

As I reached the peak, I sped up, taking the road at an unsafe speed. I just wanted to get back to someplace sane. Before I knew it, the road opened back up and I found myself heading back into the town…from the other side.

I hadn’t turned off the road at any point. There hadn’t been anywhere to turn off. Yet here I was again. There was a Hispanic man sitting outside the Starbuck’s with an open laptop. He reminded me of…no, he was…the barber that had been reading the paper. He watched me slow to a stop in the middle of the street and laughed.

After parking in the same space I’d been in before, the tank still reading full, I walked the town. I could feel all eyes on me. As I walked past the site of the former Woolworth’s, a small woman stepped out of the real estate office there and waved me in.

She had amber eyes with sun-touched, golden skin, long, straight, inky black hair and a wide smile. “Come in,” she said.

The interior of the office was what one would expect in a strip mall; cheap, industrial-grade brown carpet, beige walls, blue plastic chairs with chrome legs, and on the wall an Ohio state realtor’s license for one Victoria Yun.

She motioned to a chair in front of the single desk in the office. “Please, have a seat. I’m Victoria, and I have the perfect condo for you. It’s in a converted, turn-of-the-century three-story, just a couple of blocks from here.”

There was a small pile of paperwork on her desk, on top of which rested a house key on a Yun Realty keychain. I looked at the paperwork and the key and shook my head.

“What makes you think I want to rent or buy a condo here?” I asked.

“What makes you think you don’t?” she asked.

“I already have a home, and I just want to get back there.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Her eyes turned solid black as a scowl crossed her face. “You are here, and there is no more there for you.” Just as quickly as it had appeared, it was replaced with a warm smile and her bright, amber eyes.

“This is ridiculous! This whole town is nuts.” I stood to leave, and she grabbed my arm.

“You don’t want to leave now,” she said, “no one will let you in after dark.”

“If I can’t leave town to work, how can I pay rent or mortgage?” I checked my phone again, still no signal.

“That’s not something you need to worry about anymore.” She picked up the paperwork and key. “Let me at least show it to you before you make up your mind.”

“Fine.” I don’t know why I agreed, except that her surprisingly tight grip on my arm made me feel I had no choice.

We walked the two blocks to the old house, and she opened a side door with the key. Inside, the one-bedroom unit boasted top-of-the-line appliances, hardwood floors, and a spacious spa bath. The unit was fully furnished, including clothes…my clothes from home filled the closet.

I ran to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was my bottle of imported porter, waiting for my return home. I took it out, found my hand-forged bottle opener in the drawer where I would expect to have put it in this kitchen, and popped the top.

Without taking my eyes off her, I drank the entire bottle and put the empty on the counter. I returned to the fridge and opened it up to grab a snack. The bottle I’d taken was back there, full. I spun around, and the bottle that I’d set on the counter was gone.

“What the hell is this place?”

“It’s not hell,” Victoria said. She slid the paperwork toward me.

It was a deed of title in my name, with no mention of money anywhere. Her signature was already on her portion. She handed me a pen and pointed at the line on the last page. “Just sign here and we’re all set,” she said.

“What is this place?”

“We mostly just call it ‘The Town’, but I guess you could call it limbo? Maybe purgatory?” She shrugged. “Does it matter? This is where you live now, like it or not.”

“H—how long have you lived here?”

“I got here in 1925,” she said with a smile, “in the truck you parked next to…a former version of it, anyway. It’s nice when we get a new resident and things update.”

“Update how?”

“Everything you experienced helps shape the town. Or hadn’t you noticed? Luis got here in ’52, and you’re the first since then,” she said.

“If you say so. What happens if I don’t sign?”

“You’ll sleep in your car,” she said, “if you dare. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s already dark; I should’ve realized when the beer reset. We’ll have to stay the night here. You get the couch.” Without waiting for a reply, she went into the bedroom and locked the door behind her.

I opened the front door to the darkness that had fallen too fast for a normal sunset. The night was wrong. Fog rolled across the ground in a dense wave, smothering the town; it smelled of damp soil and decay. Some instinctual part of my mind cowered.

Dread gripped my heart, which thudded and skipped and threatened to jump out of my throat. Screams of something primal…something primeval…echoed in the distance. The sound of great, leathery wings flapping overhead, followed by a crash at the eaves three floors up, drove me back indoors.

I bolted the door behind me and retreated to the bathroom, where I curled up in the fetal position, hidden in the spa tub. Victoria woke me in the morning with a smile. “Ready to sign?” she asked.

Nodding meekly, I followed her into the kitchen and signed the paperwork. She handed me my copy and the key.

“You should move your car before tonight,” she said. “Iris lets me slide, but she might get mad if you leave yours there much longer.” She leaned in close and whispered, “And you really don’t want to see Iris mad. She’s been here eons, and she’s…seen things. She’s the only one brave enough to go out at night.”

I followed her back to the main street and got into my car and started it up; less than a quarter of a tank. I parked near my condo and looked up at the house. Large claw marks marred the eaves where something had perched the night before. The sound of the scream in the night echoed in my memory. This was my life…afterlife?…now, like it or not, and I resolved to never open the door after dark again.

Trunk Stories

If You Could Live Forever

prompt: Write about a vampire or werewolf who moves into a quiet suburban neighborhood….
available at Reedsy

After the old man across the street died, his house went up for sale. The sign came down after the first day.

For three weeks landscapers made the neglected lot respectable while crews toiled inside the house. Carpeting, drywall, and fixtures were hauled off as it was stripped to the studs. A steady stream of deliveries brought electrical and plumbing fixtures, wood flooring, appliances, drywall, and lumber.

Early in the morning the day after the crews left, a moving van arrived, followed by a short, muscular African American woman in jeans and a tight t-shirt. She organized the movers, telling them what went where. The furniture and boxes were in place by the late afternoon, and the van left. The woman was still in the house, no doubt arranging things.

Being the good neighbor I am, and not because I’m inveterately nosey, I carried over a bottle of wine to welcome her to the neighborhood. Before I could ring the bell, she opened the door and invited me in. “Well hello, neighbor! I saw you walking up.”

“Hi, I’m Adrian Delacroix,” I said. “I live across the street. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

A thin sheen of sweat played across her broad features, her skin a warm reddish-brown, hair up in large puff at the rear. She smiled a broad grin when she saw the wine bottle. “Come in and have a seat while I get us some glasses, neighbor Adrian. I’m Ivy.”

“Thank you.” I sat on the sofa in the renovated front room. Hardwood floors, colored walls with white trim, new stairs and bannister to the second floor, granite countertops, and tasteful everything. It looked more like a magazine ad than an actual house.

She set down two wine stems and pulled the cork on the wine.

“I can’t believe how quickly you turned this old house around. The previous owner didn’t take care of anything.”

She smiled as she poured the wine. “The bones were good, so my employer thought it would be worth bringing it back to life.”

“Oh, you’re not the new owner?” I asked.

“No, I’m her caretaker,” she said. “She’s arriving next week, so I’m getting everything ready.”

“So, what does a caretaker do?” I cleared my throat. “It’s just, this isn’t exactly the sort of neighborhood where people have live-in help, and I picture a caretaker as watching over an unoccupied mansion or something.”

She laughed. “Nothing like that. She has medical… needs. I play housekeeper, gardener, and nurse.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Does she have someone else as well?”

“No,” she said, “I’m it. She’s overseas with… family right now, though.”

“Ah. So…,” I foundered, trying to get the conversation on to a more comfortable topic, “are either of you from this area?”

“Moving up from California,” Ivy said, pouring more wine. “Katherine… Ms. Boyle, can’t be out in the sun much. She got tired of the heat, so Washington seemed like a good choice.”

We finished the bottle and I got a tour of the renovated house before I left. The upstairs had been turned into two large master suites with walk-in closets and massive bathrooms sandwiching an office with a dizzying array of computer equipment. Ivy told me that Katherine worked for a stock brokerage in the U.K., but the equipment seemed far beyond what that would require. I wanted to know more but I remained the good neighbor and didn’t press her.

As I work from home myself, I saw that Ivy got into a routine right away. An hour run around the neighborhood at 7:00 a.m., rain or shine, followed by yard work, then inside at 11:00, where I imagined she showered and took care of housework. I saw her every afternoon when the mail came as all the mailboxes were on her side of the street, and we both picked up our mail as soon as it was dropped off.

“Adrian, Ms. Boyle came in last night and said she’d like to meet you,” she said. “Dinner at 6:30?”

“Sure,” I said. “Should I bring anything? Some wine?”

“Nothing so formal,” she said. “We’re having burgers, so if you brought some beer, I’m sure she’d be delighted.”

“Sure thing, see you then.”

I arrived and Ivy opened the door as I approached. She took the six-pack of local microbrew and invited me to have a seat in the front room. The smell of grilled meat wafted through the house, making me salivate. I was studying the ornately carved bannister when I felt a presence above me.

Then I saw her, Katherine Boyle. She was short and slight but had an air of authority, making her seem far larger. Her skin was ghostly pale, her hair, including eyebrows and lashes was purest white, her lips had the faintest hint of color and her eyes were a pale pink.

She smiled and I felt myself torn between being taken in by her unexpected and unconventional beauty and being terrified of the air of dominion she radiated. Some part of me felt as though she would overwhelm me, consume me, reduce me to nothing.

“Welcome to my home, Adrian,” she said, lighting on the last step. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I pushed the terror down. I told myself it was just my own unconscious biases at play. She’s a beautiful woman and she’s just said hello, speak up, dummy. “Ah, uh, hello Ms. Boyle. Thank you for having me.”

She sat in one of the wing chairs. “Katherine, please. Ivy tells me you work from home as well?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m a digital marketing strategist.”

Katherine smiled. “I don’t know what that means, but let’s not discuss work. What do you do for fun around here?”

“Except for going to concerts once a month or so I’m mostly a homebody,” I said.

“I understand that. Home is where we feel most comfortable, after all.” She rose and offered her hand. “Come, dinner should be ready any moment.”

Her hand was cold but smooth and I felt a wash of relief when I took it and stood. I held her hand in a stupor for too long, then came to my senses. “Oh, excuse me, I kind of spaced out there.”

She smiled and led me to the dining room. The table was set with white linens, fancy plates, and far too much silver cutlery. The burger and fries on the plates, along with the bottles of beer seemed wholly out of place. I looked for a bottle opener on the table but there wasn’t one. Katherine took my bottle, placed the edge of the cap against the corner of the table, and opened it with a sharp rap.

“Neat trick. Reminds me of college,” I said.

Katherine laughed and opened her own bottle.

I woke in my bed with a pounding headache, weak and woozy. It was the first hangover I’d had in over a decade. I tried to remember the previous night. We’d had dinner, then talked about music over scotch. Katherine had roused me, helping me across the street and into my house. I couldn’t remember how I got undressed and into bed, but I remembered the way her cheeks and lips were flushed, and her hands warm as she helped me up the stairs.

There was a cup of hot tea sitting on the nightstand next to my bed. In front of it was a note. “That scotch can be a little brutal, here’s something to help you through the day. — Ivy”

She’d obviously been in here in just the last few minutes. Is that what woke me? I sniffed the tea. It smelled heady and floral. I could see Ivy walking back across the street. When she reached her yard, she turned and waved. I sipped the tea, letting the warmth spread through me as I watched Ivy work in the garden. Katherine stepped out in dark sunglasses, stood in the shade of the entryway, and spoke to her. Ivy nodded and Katherine looked my way and waved. I waved back and she smiled before going back inside.

After Ivy’s miracle tea I felt much better. Still a little weak, but the headache was gone. I later thought it might be a bug rather than a simple hangover, though, as over the next few days several neighbors complained of similar symptoms. When I ran into Ivy at the mailboxes again, I apologized for my behavior, and thanked her for the tea. I asked for the recipe and she gave me a bag of it instead.

Katherine texted me, inviting me over for dinner again. I didn’t remember exchanging numbers, but hers was in my phone with a picture of her, so I must have done so while drunk. Once again, I found myself approaching Katherine’s door with Ivy opening it as soon as I was near. “Come in, she’s expecting you in the back yard.”

She sat on a blanket under a large shade umbrella, a picnic laid out. I joined her there and noticed she seem weak. Rather than bring it up I felt it better to just be there for her.

We had a quiet dinner while the sun set. After dark Katherine poured us wine. “If you could live forever, what would you do?”

“I would probably invest,” I said, “spend a few decades building up wealth, maybe real estate, so I could have something that kept me funded on its own. Then I’d want to travel — everywhere.”

“And after that?”

“Well, there’s languages to learn, instruments to learn, there’s always something to learn.”

Katherine smiled. “I think we could be friends, for a very long time.”

“I’d like that.” As soon as I said it I realized it was true. There was something compelling about her, something I couldn’t ignore.

We began to spend more evenings together, usually at her place, sometimes at mine. I made a point of getting to know Ivy as well and began running with her in the mornings before work. Every passing day more and more of my waking (and sleeping) thoughts were centered on Katherine.

I ended up getting entirely too drunk with her on more than one occasion, but the tea always made it better in the morning. Whatever bug had gone around the neighborhood seemed to pass for a couple months before starting up again. Oddly, except for the occasional hangover that was solved with Ivy’s magic tea, I didn’t catch anything. Even during flu season, when I would usually end up sick for a week or more, I stayed healthier than ever.

Indeed, I grew stronger. My runs with Ivy, difficult to finish at first, were becoming a warm-up followed by lifting weights before work. The weights that had gathered dust since the previous Christmas were, very soon, light enough that I was doing sets of sixty or more repetitions of each exercise.

I noticed that while I had built some muscle definition, the faint lines I’d been developing around my eyes began to fade. Despite the hangovers, which were milder each time, I felt better in the days following each than I ever had. Perhaps the tea was magical.

“Remember when you mentioned real estate, if you were to live forever?” Katherine asked.

“Yeah.” We were drinking beer, the TV on mute. My poorly furnished living room in the drab, off-white rental house was worlds away from her place in terms of class, but she made it feel comfortable.

“It’s a wise choice,” she said. “The house behind mine just went up for sale and I bought it immediately.”

“Income property or just because?”

“Maybe some of each.”

“What will you do with it?” I asked.

“Same as my place.” She raised her beer and an eyebrow. “Tear it out to the studs and the subfloor and rebuild the interior.”

“So, you’re loaded.” No sooner had I said it than I wished I hadn’t.

She snorted and chugged her beer. “No, but I do have a pleasant buzz.”

I laughed. “I’d like to kiss you,” I said.

She leaned towards me. “Then do it.”

Her lips were soft and cool, and my heart hammered as the kiss that started off gentle turned passionate. I pulled away reluctantly and was mesmerized by her eyes, reflecting the light of the TV.

“If I asked you to go with me to Istanbul, what would you say?”

“When do we leave?”

“And what if I said tomorrow night?”

“I need to go pack and cancel the rent on my house.” I meant it, with everything I had and somehow, she knew.

“Good. That may happen.” She grabbed another beer and opened it on my belt buckle. Katherine knew more ways of opening a beer bottle than anyone I’d ever met, and she managed to make it both elegant, and in this case, erotic.

“If you could live forever, would you want to?”

“If you’re there,” I said.

“And leave everything else behind?” She held a soft, small hand against my cheek.

“Everything but you, yes.”

“How old do you think I am?”

I realized that she wanted an honest answer. “Twenty-eight, tops.”

“I was born in 1619,” she said with absolute seriousness. “I was not always this way.” She held her pale hand in front of my face. “It came with the change.”

“The change… to what?”

“To what I am now.” Katherine held my face with both hands. “I’m going to show you something. You’re ready for it.”

My gaze was drawn to her mouth, where her canine teeth extended into fangs. I looked into her eyes and I could see concern, perhaps for how I would react. “Y—you’re a vampire?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry.” She touched my forehead and said, “Remember.”

I closed my eyes and the memories poured in; drinks, pain as her fangs sunk into my neck, a rush of euphoria that seemed to last for hours; her strength as she carried me up the stairs and tucked me into bed, her figure next to mine as I slept.

I opened my eyes and met her gaze. Her eyes stayed locked to mine. “Is this a problem?”

It took me a few seconds to admit it, but the answer was, “No, it’s not. I love you.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Will you join me?”

I nodded, unable to speak. I leaned into her and presented my neck. Her teeth sunk in; the pain far less than I remembered but the same rush of euphoria. The world spun as my vision darkened. I felt her pull away, then warm and moist on my lips, a taste of copper and iron. I latched on, drawing it in; strength flowed throughout my body. She pulled away and my heart broke, until she scooped me up and carried me to my room.

“The change will be gradual, but you’ll need to feed in the next week.” She brushed my hair back. “I’ll help you.”

The only response I was capable of was a weak nod. I felt both stronger and weaker than I ever had; like Superman encased in kryptonite. She handed me a cup of tea I didn’t recall her making.

As I sipped the tea she said, “This will pass. The weakness will wane throughout the day.” Morning light poured through my window. I’d missed half the night. “I need to rest. Ivy will check on you. When you’re feeling better come see me. Don’t knock, just come in.”

Ivy woke me again a few hours later with another cup of tea. “Here you go, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Thank you, Ivy,” I said, “and please, just call me Adrian.”

She watched as I sipped the tea. “So, she was serious.”

“How’s that?”

“I knew Ms. Boyle fancied you, but I didn’t expect she’d…”

“Turn me?” I asked.

Ivy nodded. “I suppose you’ll be around even more now?”

“How do you mean? We spend most every waking minute we can together.”

“Did you know she sneaks over here while you’re sleeping to lie next to you?”

“I do now.” It didn’t bother me; in fact, I found it endearing. “Will she be upset with you sharing her secrets?”

“If she was, I’d already know.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I left it alone. “I’m feeling much better already,” I said. “Thank you again, Ivy.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “Should I set you a place for dessert?”

“Please.” I realized I smelled of sour sweat. “I’ll be over after I’ve had a chance to clean up.”

“See you then.”

I took my time in the shower, the water felt far hotter than normal, every drop traceable on my skin. My scalp tingled as I washed my hair and the smell of the shampoo was strong, as though the bottle was up my nose. I dressed up for the evening. The smells of cotton, leather, and linen mixed with the smell of lilies from the laundry detergent.

When I entered Katherine’s home, she was wearing an evening gown, and Ivy was setting desert on the table. I closed my eyes and savored the smells of coffee and chocolate, cream and cognac. She served tiramisu on silver-rimmed plates. For a change, Ivy joined us.

I took my time with it, savoring the flavors. The richness of the mascarpone and the bitter of the chocolate played off the sweet of the sugar and cognac. “This is the best tiramisu I’ve ever had.”

Katherine smiled. “It’s just the beginning,” she said.

We spent the rest of the evening lying in her back yard, watching the stars wheel through the sky. Katherine grabbed my hand, hers no longer felt cold to me. Still watching the stars, she asked, “Come with me to Istanbul?”