Short Story: UNTITLED HORROR STORY (part 2 of 2) (Rated PG13)

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PART 2 OF 2
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I finally got a ride the next morning from an older couple in an ancient Lincoln. They looked very safe. Or so I thought. They did drive me into the next town but I had to endure an ear-splitting lecture on the state of my EVerlasting EE-ternal soul and how I must let JAY-sus into my heart to drive out SAYYYY-tan and his EEEvil carnal ways of the FLESHHHH which is the road STRAIGHT into EEE-ternal fire and damn-NAY-tion!

You would not believe these people. They were like something out of an old Twilight Zone episode. The lady had a hair-sprayed helmet of blue-silver hair that came directly from a bottle and a high lace collar that was so tight her neck wrinkles kinda spilled down and covered the lace in front like those hangy-down rubbery things on a turkey. And he was no better. Mr. Hell-Fire, with a neck so thick it was wider than his fat face, busting out of an old light blue leisure blue suit that looked about three sizes too small, driving so slowly I thought time had actually stopped. He kept thumping the steering wheel with his fist and shouting “AMEN” every time his wife said something Very Important, which was at least four times per run-on sentence.

Halleluiah, brother.

I think they thought I was a hooker or something. So I like lots of jewelry and tight jeans. And Mr. Potato-Face ripped my lace tank top to shreds. That doesn’t automatically make me some kind of slut.

I don’t know which was worse, the rape or the damn lecture. I least I knew what was going to happen with Potato-man. I think my ears rang for a week from all that self-sanctified and screeching sermonizing for my lost soul. I could have told them I wasn’t lost at all. I know exactly where my soul lives.

After they let me off in the next town (“Are you sure you’ll be okay, honey? We could take you home, get you cleaned up and give you a good hot meal…” All of a sudden they dropped the evangelical crap and wanted to play sweet old grandma and grandpa… no thanks!).

I hung around for a couple of hours, picked up some clothes from a Goodwill drop-box in a parking lot and watched the back of this Italian restaurant for when they threw out the leftovers. I saw some homeless people doing that in a movie once, so I thought what the hell? It was better than a steady diet of granola bars. Or apples. Bleah.

It’s perfectly good food. Nothing at all wrong with it. Lots of people do it. I even saw a couple of really filthy ragged homeless people and the skinniest, tallest man I have ever seen in a jogging suit scouting the same restaurant I did. I had no idea if the rag people were men or women under all those clothes and they skittered away when I said hi. The tall man just ignored me. Maybe he was deaf. He kind of strode after scoring his dinner, chewing up the sidewalk with his long, long legs and scooping half eaten ravioli into his mouth with his fingers, humming to himself and out of sight real fast.

Hey, stop looking so disgusted. Not everyone makes two hundred bucks an hour or whatever the state is paying you to listen to me. You sure don’t keep a straight face very well.

Anyway, I slept in the park that was in the middle of some sort of town square with an honest-to-god-bandstand gazebo. If it weren’t for those rag people and the garbage and graffiti in the alley behind the restaurant, I would have figured I had been transported straight to Mayberry.

I used Sponge-Bob for a pillow, wrapped myself in Mae’s yellow sweater and was quite cozy behind some hedges up against a retaining wall. There was even a drinking fountain and public restrooms that were not locked at night. Not a bad place to hole up for the night.

Oh please. I was not about to sleep on the floor of a public restroom! Eeeeeeew. I have SOME standards, lady!

The next morning I washed my hair with the handsoap from the dispensers in the restroom, splashed some water on my face and pits and changed into the Goodwill clothes. They fit pretty well, considering. The red striped skirt was hardly worn at all and was long enough so I wasn’t painfully reminded that the remnants of my only pair of underwear were decorating a bush in the desert every time I sat down. And the blue blouse was only missing one button. Not exactly Macy’s and I looked patriotic as hell, but hey, I wasn’t picky at that point.

I munched on a half eaten bagel I had found in a bakery bag lying next to a bench in the park, sat down wishing Mr. Potatoface would get His and watched the town wake up. You know, cars starting to drive by, businesses opening and a few people walking by and smiling at each other like old friends. That sort of thing.

Some guy in a truck stopped and filled the newspaper rack right in front of me in about two seconds. Man, he was fast! He spun out a little as he drove away, scattering some gravel up on the sidewalk and stinging my bare legs. I flipped him off, but I don’t think he saw me.

No, I didn’t take it personally. What, you think I am some sort of psycho? The guy probably had a lot of racks to fill, or maybe he had some church social to go to as soon as he was finished. I don’t know and I don’t care. Now YOU’RE getting off track, lady.

But that’s when I saw the headline. Or rather, the photo. Even though it was all busted and twisted to hell, I recognized that yellow Chevy and “JESUS SAVES” sticker on the dented bumper. It was that guy’s car, you know, Mr. Potato-man. The headline said something like “Life Insurance Potato-Head Salesman Rapist Slimeball Has Much Deserved Heart Attack Which Causes Ugly Yellow Car to Fly Off Cliff into Rocky Gorge –Car and Creepazoid Dead on Impact” or something like that.

Okay, so I editorialized the headline a little, but that was the jist.

So he had a heart attack and drove off a cliff. Here I was, I figure almost fifty miles away in mind-numbing Mayberry, munching on my day-old onion bagel, expecting Aunt Bea to come walking around a corner any second, minding my own business and WISHING he were dead, and here he is… dead.

Hmmm.

I did not wish my sister dead, and I figured my mother was already something of a walking corpse, but let’s make an accounting here. Gag-Dad, Nasty-Theo and Mr. Potatohead. I hated them all and they are now all dead. Maybe my magic is not immediate, maybe it takes time and circumstances roll around to MAKE them dead in their own personal pseudo-accidental way. Fate lending me a hand or something. You know, like those movies where everyone cheats death and then gets it anyway in really gruesome and imaginative ways. Like that old kid’s game, you know, Mouse Trap. On seriously messed up acid.

So I sat there on that park bench, flicked the bagel crumbs and gravel from my gaudy striped skirt and thought about it. Any other people I despised who eventually croaked?

It took me a few minutes to rewind my life, but once I started, they came fast and furious…

There was George Rather, the jerk in eighth grade who made my life hell nearly every day for weeks. He chased me home from school, almost always caught me and tripped or pushed me onto the sidewalk. Then he would kick me in the ribs and scatter my books and homework all over the place. I hid the black and blue marks from my mom, and I hated that kid with everything I had in my skinny little thirteen year old body. He was killed in a car accident right before Christmas that year. No one else in the car was hurt at all, just him.

Did I do that?

Then there was Davy Schmidt, who thought he was the best thing since cavemen invented toast. He cornered me behind the admin building in ninth grade, dropped his pants, grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face onto his wormy little penis. He ended up with some rare aggressive bone cancer and was dead within three months.

Was that me?

Mr. Branscomb stopped on the side of the road while driving me home from babysitting his kids and took my virginity when I was 14 and told me he would kill me and my little sister if I ever told. Two weeks later his wife found him in bed with a sixteen year old. She shot him. BAM. Dead.

Kyle Branson told all his friends I was a slut because I refused to go all the way with him. He hung himself in the rafters of his father’s garage over spring break. No note. Dead.

Morris McAffery keyed his mom’s car in the parking lot and told his parents that I did it. They believed their son over me, the lowly foster kid. They all treated me like dirt. I guess I wasn’t really all that mad at him, so he just ended up in a coma.

Mara Timney, a kid at the third foster home I was assigned to, stole my amethyst and garnet ring, the one thing I had of my mother’s. Choked on a jawbreaker. Dead.

Weird, huh? I never pieced it all together before. You have to admit, it sure looks like more than mere coincidence, doesn’t it? I wasn’t actually around any of these people when their… “accidents” happened, but I caused them. They all betrayed me and something in me killed them, pure and simple.

How many is that? Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Now that I think about it, the timing was interesting, don’t you think? These “accidents” all started after I found the... well. I guess you know already, it’s probably in your notes, so what’s the big deal? Everything, you know, all the people dropping dead practically at my feet, started happening right after I got my hands on the diamond. Well, Anne died before that, so I guess that really was an accident.

All that stuff I said before about my CookieLovin’Dad is all true, but he sure wasn’t the one who figured everything out. I am positive he was holding that map in his fist like it was the Holy Grail while he was sliced open and that somebody took it. Pried it from his cold, dead fingers.
Not me, silly. I didn’t need any old map.

You people are so provincial. Everyone was looking for that damned map. Theo-Creep-o and Cookie-Monster-Dad spent hours memorizing it, going out for days at a time and I was the one who deciphered it. At 13 years old, no less.

I bet those knife-guys who sliced Loser-Dad drove themselves crazy looking for the diamond, too. Well, here’s a secret for you: the map was nothing. A diversion. Total wild goose chase that ended nowhere. The real clues were on the metal case, you know the one that was stolen? I guess someone figured at least that part out eventually. Anyway, Mom thought the tube was interesting, so she put it on the shelf with her precious vase, right where I could get to it and read it. It wasn’t so hard, really. Once you got over the fact that the map wasn’t the main event, you just followed the dots, the engraved dots. I ditched school one day, took a bus, found the diamond and was back in time for supper. Who knew it would be so close? Then I hid it a couple of days later. I went back to visit it and changed locations every once on a while just to be safe.

Of course, when I went to Mae’s I brought it with me and hid it again. I never kept it on me for more than a day or so. It made me feel all twitchy when I wore it too much.

Before you go digging up Lewittsville, let me give you a clue. You won’t find it there!

So here I am, here talking to you, Dr. Ms. Dyed-Redhead Psychiatrist. Here in this mind-control free zone of a mental hospital. It is never boring, let me tell you! Some real interesting things have happened... First that pimple faced orderly with the nipple twisting fetish seems to be suddenly off the payroll and then… Well.

Tell me, what happened to the last doctor? I haven’t seen him around here for a while. I think Miss The-Air-Is-Filled-With-Invisible-Flying-Singing-Trout misses him, at least she won’t shut up about it in-between singing with airborne carp.

I sure as hell don’t. Miss him, I mean.

He was a real SOB behind those poindexter glasses. Pretending to care about me personally for weeks, trying to “talk me down” instead of drugging me, because of course, he knew he would get NOTHING if he drugged me. He already tried when I was first brought here. Apparently I need to be completely coherent and drug-free to talk about… you know. Even the tiniest bit of drugs and nada. Blank. Nobody’s home. I can’t even take aspirin; it all makes me go all wonky.

And when I go wonky, really bad things start to happen.

More on that later.

Anyway, eventually I told him about finding the diamond in one of my “what the hell” moods. Well. He must have gone to the police the minute our session was over because they were all over me like flies on three day-old manicotti the very next day, four guys in suits who probably never smiled in their entire LIVES, asking me all kinds of pointed questions. I thought whatever I said here was protected by that doctor-patient privilege thing. I guess he thought different. Or he just got greedy for that reward.

Oh stop. You know what I’m talking about, the reward for the diamond. You keep asking me about it and you don’t know there’s a reward? Pick up a newspaper, lady.

So, where is he, anyway? The old doctor. No, no reason. Just curious, you know? He was always lurking around here prying into everyone’s head, making a real nuisance of himself around here and suddenly… poof. Gone. I just wondered what happened to him.

No, I didn’t tell Dr. Poindexter where it was, I just told him that I knew where it was hidden and the first thing he does is call the cops or FBI or whatever. And now he’s gone. Gone… gone… gone… gone like a soldier in the civil war BANG BANG… Oh. Sorry. Just got a country song stuck in my head.

Am I smiling? Really? Hmmmm. Just having a little happy thought, that’s all.

Are you sure you don’t want to tell me where that doctor is? No? Really? Okay.

Well, I didn’t tell the cops where the diamond was, either. I can be pretty stubborn if I want to be. I just said some stuff to make them think I was crazy.

I’m not, you know. Really crazy, I mean. Hey, you shouldn’t look so skeptical, Doctor Red. It could upset the patients.

Anyway, I looked these cops up and down and asked very seriously why they all had yellow rose bushes growing out of their eye sockets when everyone knows that space smells jello and wearing live red cockroaches for pants was a SOOO last season and I know a four-foot purple and green firefly with fourteen tentacles from planet Vulcan – nanoo nanoo - who winks Morse code at me with his glowy butt and he told me the answer to the secret of the universe just last week. And the secret is… insert drumroll here… PIE. Yup, that’s the secret. Pie. ‘Cause, you know, everybody likes pie. Apple, cherry, pecan, pumpkin, blueberry, lemon… even cannibals would like pie made out of baby toes of you think about it… Plus you can top it all off with ice cream (any flavor), whipped cream, powdered sugar, meringue, dried dung beetle wings, whatever. After all the years of the greatest minds in human history looking, searching, thinking so hard their heads should have exploded and I finally found it! PIE! That’s the…

What? Oh. Off track again. Boy, you sure are getting anxious.

Say, do you have any kids? Oh, no reason. Just curious. I noticed your wedding ring, that’s all. Nice lady like you ought to have kids. You look like a real mom-type. Big house, green lawn, lots of flowers planted along the walkway and in two big terra cotta pots by the front door. I bet you have a nice green painted front door with a pretty frosted glass oval window… Do your kids like to play out front with the puppy or do they stay in the back yard with the swing-set?

Why are you so nervous all of a sudden? Geeze, it was just a friendly question!

Anyway, yeah, I know where the diamond is. All 62 and a half carats of sparkly sky blueness. It’s pretty spectacular, by the way. Really pretty. Did you know it is circled with about a hundred little rubies and some weird milky white stone the size of my pinky at the top of the setting? That’s something that wasn’t in the papers!

Ahhhh, finally! NOW you believe me! I can see it in your eyes.

Do you want me to tell you where it is? I know you do. I can tell. You sure are easy to read. You promise you won’t tell anyone or go looking for it? I’ll know if you’re lying, you know.

Of course, I do know this room is bugged, so maybe you can honestly say you would never tell; you wouldn’t need to.

So, why did they send you in here? Sympathetic mothering type, I know. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you look kinda like my Mom on a good day. Is that why you were chosen to be the sacrifice? Just in case all this killing people with my brain crap I keep telling you people turned out to be true? I know you really aren’t a doctor. You react too much. You guys must think I am really stupid. Were you supposed to get me to confide where I hid it? What is it about that blasted diamond that is so important? It’s pretty and all, but wouldn’t it end up in a museum anyway? Not like you would get to wear it. I wore it several times for a little while, but trust me, it wouldn’t look good with your coloring.

I just can’t believe they would risk sending anyone else in after Dr. Fakey-Smiley died. Yeah, I know he’s dead; I just don’t know exactly how. Hmmmm.

Something to do with fire, I bet. I had a dream about fire…

Hey, are you sweating? Is it hot in here? I hadn’t noticed.

So, tell me, haven’t I proven to be able to take care of myself and make sure everyone who hurts me pays in some way? Oh, I see… you don’t really quite believe me. Well, Dr. Fakey, you have everything scribbled down in that little black notebook of yours. Why don’t you take some time and check it out. Come to think of it, I told you way more than I ever told Dr. Melted-in-the-Fire. I guess that Mom look thing worked a little after all. Anyway, look it all up, all those names and how they all died. You’ll see. You’ll see I am not lying. I left some out, of course. Quite a few, actually. But that’s a good start.

Tell you what, come back in one week and I’ll tell you what happened to the infamous Case diamond if you tell me exactly how Dr. Smiley and all four of those Feds who questioned me last week died. They are all dead, you know. If not yet, then very soon.

I don’t need to calm down. I am perfectly calm. You look a little jumpy, though.

Still you don’t believe me? How about some predictions?

Hmmmmm… That nasty dyke nurse with the mean streak standing behind the door right there watching us through the window, she should get something going on pretty soon. And Ms. Flying Trout in the common room. All her yapping is really starting to bug me. Gotta shut her up. Oh, and that guy right there behind the one way glass in the white coat and granny glasses. Sanctimonious old fart. His PhD isn’t even real. He’ll get his. And hmmm… how about something with a little more distance? Would you like that? How about that old guy with the bad toupee on TV who sells those lame timeshares, you know, the one who used to be famous. What a loser. He should have had the class to die a long time ago. I’ll fix that.

And then there’s your son, Mica. And little Sara, too.

Awwww, have I said something to upset you? I’m sure they’re fine, playing ball in the front yard under the watchful eye of your nanny, Maureen. She just better make sure they don’t run into the street after that ball… you know how careless kids can be!

Oh, you’re crying. I guess that means this little session is just about over.

Well, hello there, Nurse Dyke. Nice needle you have there. And you other guys, wow, so many to handle one little girl.

Ow.

I guess I will have to take a little nap now, Dr. Mommy. Here’s something else for your little notebook, something else I never even told Dr. Extra-Crispy... Sometimes, especially when I am drugged – I told you I get all wonky when I am drugged, right? - I have the strangest dreams about people who have been mean to me and they always seem to come true… and they are always worse than my waking… you know the psychic snowballs… my dreams are always sooooo interesting… So many unusual… painful and weird ways… to die…

…but you just had to know… if the rumors were true… didn’t you… and now your pretty little family… is…

Mmm... I think will make… 51... 52… oh… and your… dog… a beagle, right? …does she count?

and all for a… sparkly… rock…

tell me… was it…

worth it…?


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(c) Susan Quinland-Stringer