Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror) Page 3

  Mackay didn’t respond.

  I give him credit for that.

  They made it upstairs and stood across from each other in Walter’s office. It seemed like only a few hours since Mackay had been there, and now another visit and another death. Walter wondered if he would need some kind of therapy. Or a lawyer.

  “Have a seat, Mackay. You want a drink?”

  “Not while on duty.”

  Walter poured a double and went to sit behind his desk but stopped halfway. He eyed the couch. The fucking couch that started everything.

  “You okay, Walter?”

  “Yeah. Just thought I’d try out my new couch.”

  He walked over and sat down.

  The moment he touched the fabric, hatred coursed through him. A hate so vile that living another moment was contrary to its existence. The anger rose inside him like a red rocket firing salvos into his consciousness.

  He downed his double whiskey in one long pull and glared at officer Mackay. He decided the fucking pig who had intruded in his home and in his life had to die.

  Fuck him and his badge. What the hell? Come into my house and want to interrogate me. Where’s my lawyer? Where’s my rights? Miranda, my ass. This guy was a fake and killing him is the best thing for everybody.

  Walter got up, opened the bottle of whiskey and shot three huge gulps straight from the tip.

  “Are you okay, Walter?” Mackay asked.

  He turned and tossed the half-empty bottle into the corner of his office where it rolled a few times, the rest of the alcohol spilling out.

  “Just fucking fine, asshole.”

  “Calm down,” the cop said, his hands in front of him. “You might want to watch how you’re talking to me. I’m here on official business as an officer of the law.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking pig,” Walter spat and lunged at him.

  Mackay wasn’t ready. Walter’s two hundred plus pounds smashed into the cop and both of them dropped onto Walter’s desk. The small of Mackay’s back bent awkwardly and twisted from all the weight. He screamed in pain, his ability to fight diminished.

  They rolled off the desk and hit the floor. Walter dug his thumb into the center of the cop’s throat and pressed. Mackay flailed at Walter but was no match for Walter’s hatred. It didn’t take more than a minute for the cop to stop twitching.

  “That halo over your head only needs to drop a few inches to become a noose, motherfucker,” Walter said as he stood over the dead cop. He spat in Mackay’s face.

  The fact that this guy’s body is even in my house makes me sick.

  Walter vomited. It hit his desk and splashed onto his office chair. He vomited again, this time making sure to aim for the cop’s face, covering him with stomach contents laced with bile.

  He couldn’t believe how bad his body felt. What was wrong with him?

  He half walked, half lurched to the corner and picked up the empty bottle of whiskey. He searched for another drop, found none, then walked over to the couch.

  What is it about this fucking couch?

  Ever since he had brought it into his somewhat normal life, people had died.

  He tried to pry the main cushion back. It wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to have to go all the way to the kitchen for a knife so he grabbed a letter opener off his desk and cut along the edge of the cushion.

  Why he was wrecking an antique in perfectly good condition was beyond him. All he knew, with some kind of certainty, was this thing had something to do with the day’s troubles.

  He got the side cut open and started working on the back.

  People entered his house on the main level. He heard them talking among themselves.

  “I’ll be right down,” he yelled.

  His cutting hand worked harder as his vision blurred.

  “Fucking whiskey,” he mumbled.

  He tossed the letter opener aside and stood with the help of the wall. As he went to lift the edge of the cushion, a voice stopped him.

  “Step away from the couch and put your hands in the air.”

  A cop stood in the door, legs spread, a gun pointed at Walter.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I said, step away and raise your hands.”

  “This is my fucking house. I do what I want to. Fuck you.” Walter pulled up the cushion.

  The gun’s report deafened him. Something smacked him in the neck. He staggered away from the couch, let the cushion go and bumped into the wall before falling. Blood covered his chest and arms. It flowed like an open hydrant in the street.

  His anger ebbed along with his life. He closed his eyes, relieved it was over. In the last moment of consciousness, he tried to apologize, but all that came out of his mouth was his wife’s name.

  Officer Johnson, shaking like a wet dog in December, stood over the man’s body.

  What have I done?

  He had only been on the force for eleven months and now he’d just shot a man in cold blood.

  Johnson looked at the sofa. What was the guy reaching for? He had probable cause. An officer was down, and this guy didn’t listen to him, twice. Then the guy reached to open a hidden compartment in the couch. How was he supposed to know whether the guy had weapons in there or not?

  Johnson pulled the cushion back. His jaw went slack. His knees weakened and he urinated in his uniform. He ran from the room, outside the house in seconds flat, only tripped once on the stairs.

  He collected himself enough to radio in another crime scene. He called in the special investigations unit because an officer was down and he’d fired his weapon.

  Nothing would erase the image of the skeletal remains hidden inside that sofa from his memory. It was alive, he was sure of it. The skull had smiled at him and a reddish light glowed behind its eyes.

  Crazy as it was, he could still see the smile and the evil behind those eyes.

  He deliberated a moment, then ran back into the house and raced upstairs. When he entered the office, both bodies were still lying as they were when he left.

  He pulled out his gun and emptied it into the couch.

  He went through the drawers of the desk until he came upon a lighter. He paid little attention to the vomit spewed across the top of the desk and the chair.

  With the lighter in hand he ran over and placed it just below the edge of the couch and flicked the switch.

  The fabric caught quickly. Soon the end of the sofa was engulfed in flames. He swore he heard a high-pitched scream like that of a mouse being squished in a cat’s teeth.

  He ran downstairs and outside.

  “I need an extinguisher,” he yelled at the ambulance guy closest to him. A moment later, extinguisher in hand, he bolted for the house. Other officers entered behind him.

  By the time they got to the office on the second floor, most of the room was engulfed in flames. Johnson stepped up close to the door and peered in. The couch was covered in righteous fire. He knew it was destroyed. Whatever that thing was, it was never coming back.

  Someone pulled on his arm and told him to get out. He allowed them to pull him back to the stairs where he turned around and walked out of the house, leaving the fire for the fire department to deal with.

  His job was done. He felt it. After touching the couch, a piece of it had possessed him, like being touched by Lucifer. He had felt the presence of hell. Instead of understanding life and creation, he felt death and how to cause it. Bestowed upon him was an understanding of the day’s events and how whoever touched or sat on the couch were destined for a quick release from this life.

  Burning it was the only answer. Destroying the deadly sofa was the only way.

  He turned to his supervisor who asked question after question.

  “I don’t know what happened. The guy reached for the sofa, opened a lid of some sort, like he was going for a weapon, and I fired. After I shot him, he pulled out a lighter and set the couch on fire. That’s when I ran for the extinguisher …”

  The Elem
ents

  John Stevenson stood at the cabin window and stared out at the snowflakes descending and wondered if he would die out here. He sipped coffee from his mug and watched the snow accumulate on his property, burying the cabin deeper.

  The weather caused his leg to ache. The cabin got colder by the hour, the ache in his leg increasing along with it.

  The last piece of wood in the fireplace had been reduced to ash with the rest of the firewood covered in snow outside on the front deck. John had figured last night that he had enough wood to get him through until he left today. But now he may be stuck at the cabin another night.

  He turned to the empty cabin and walked over to the sofa where he sat and considered his options. Being alone in the mountains concerned him. After preparing the cabin to be closed, he’d gotten his knapsack ready, checked the fireplace to make sure it was completely out, and started for the door.

  That was where the snow had stopped him.

  He took the last sip of his coffee and set the cup down just as the satellite phone rang. There was nothing like his Global Star GSP 1700 for a remote cabin. Regular cell coverage stopped over twenty miles away.

  He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “May I speak with John Stevenson please?”

  “You got him. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Doctor Morganson. I’m going to have to ask you to come to Liberty Memorial Hospital as soon as you can. There’s been an accident.”

  He thought of his daughters, his wife, and leaned back on the sofa, his free hand on his forehead. He stared up at the wooden roof, the thick beams holding up the weight of the snow.

  “What kind of accident?” he asked.

  “I can give you more details when you come in. How long will it take you to get here?”

  He checked his watch. “It’s two o’clock now. I could be there by dinner time or a little later.”

  “That long? Isn’t there any way you could come quicker, Mr. Stevenson? The police need your help.”

  The police?

  “My help?” John asked. He leaned forward. “What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

  The doctor hesitated. John was about to ask if the doctor was still there, but then the man spoke.

  “I can’t tell you much over the phone, but the more you know, the better. You need to prepare yourself.”

  John got up from the couch and moved around the coffee table. The news he was about to hear would probably shatter him. Something in the doctor’s voice told him to prepare to be decimated by the news.

  He stopped pacing and glanced at the door. He should have left the cabin hours ago. He could’ve gotten to his car already, but not now. He was stuck deep in the mountains with one of the worst blizzards he had ever seen in the area covering everything in a deep, thick white.

  The last of his candles dripped wax as it burned by the door, casting a soft glow in that area. The snow continued to fall outside, the sky a blanket of gray and white. Inside the cabin, it was already getting dark. He thought of omens and wondered if the early dark was a premonition of things to come.

  “It’s your wife and child, sir,” the doctor said. “They were in a terrible accident on icy roads. Your wife’s SUV couldn’t stop in time to avoid the pileup. I’m sorry.”

  “Are they okay?” he asked as he began pacing again. “Tell me that at least. They’re alive, right?”

  “Your daughter will pull through. She was in a child seat that was mounted properly. Her injuries are bruises and a number of scratches. I’m afraid it’s your wife, sir.”

  “What happened to Tera?” He paused, then rephrased the question. “How bad?”

  “We’re still not sure.”

  “Look, I’m in a remote cabin over twenty miles from civilization.” John’s words rushed from his mouth like an auctioneer. “It’s accessed by snowmobile only. I’m two hours from my car in the best conditions. My car is parked in a heated garage I rent from a farmer. From there, it’ll take me a half hour to get to Liberty Memorial, depending on road conditions.”

  “Just hurry.”

  The line went dead. John set the phone down on the couch and rubbed his face.

  At least my daughters are fine.

  Whatever happened to his wife would be healed over time. She was a fighter. She’d pull through.

  Shit, what was that part about the police?

  He grabbed his knapsack, dropped the satellite phone in his jacket pocket, and then limped across the wooden floor. He blew the candle out by the door with a soft puff of breath. The only illumination came through the main window from the glow of the fresh snow.

  The knapsack felt reasonably light as he threaded his arms through the straps and placed it on his back. When he opened the door, the snow had crawled its way to knee height already. The wind buffeted him and the bitter cold began to work on his face almost instantly.

  His eyes watered, making him feel like crying. How could he do anything for his family from the cabin? How could he help his wife, his children?

  “You can’t,” a voice whispered behind him.

  He pivoted and ducked at the voice, his hands up in a defensive posture.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  The silence in the cabin taunted him, the shadows deepening in the corners. The breeze from outside rushed past him, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck.

  “Hello?” he shouted.

  No one’s here. Must’ve been the wind. I’ve been here all weekend and I’m alone.

  He turned back to the blizzard and stepped outside. The wind was relentless. It hit him hard, a gust blowing snow into his face. He squeezed his eyes closed until it passed and then turned to secure the door with his key.

  The trudge through the snow was long and hard with his bad leg. With each step, all he could think about was his family.

  I’m coming for you.

  His skidoo was half submerged. He pulled gloves out of his jacket pockets, slipped them on and brushed the skidoo’s seat off. With a long exaggerated kick, he mounted the seat and was just about to fire it up when he saw an indentation in the snow to the right of the machine. It looked like the snow had melted in that specific area. He leaned down to get a closer look when the smell of gas hit him. A closer examination revealed the gas tank had leaked again. He sat upright and stared at the gauge.

  Empty.

  He shouted his wife’s name and punched the top of the tank as he swore. Pain shot up his arm instantly. He looked down at the curved tank and realized he’d hit it at an angle, possibly breaking a knuckle. He ripped off his glove and inspected the injury, but failed to see the source of the pain.

  I have to get to the hospital … to my family.

  He got off the skidoo and started for the cabin’s front door, retracing his previous holes in the snow, limping along the way as the ache in his leg worsened. Nearing the front door, he stopped. Through the front window he detected someone inside the cabin, watching him—a woman in a long black dress, her face darkened in shadow, eyes rimmed a deep red. He reeled back at the sight of her, startled.

  She floated away from the window and disappeared from view behind the wall by the front door.

  “Hey!” John shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the wind. “What are you doing in my cabin?”

  As fast as he could, his hand aching from punching the skidoo, John fished out the cabin’s key without dropping it in the snow, and unlocked the door.

  He barged in and scanned the interior.

  “Hello? Hey, I already saw you. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  He turned sideways and listened. If someone was walking around his small, two-roomed cabin, he was pretty sure he would hear them.

  “Okay, you want me to come looking for you? Fine, have it your way.”

  He moved away from the door, turned to slam it shut and, with what little light he still had, walked across to the fireplace where his axe leaned against the wall.

 
“Don’t!”

  He gasped and faltered on his feet, landing awkwardly on his bad leg. Balance became a struggle for a brief second. He bumped the wall with his shoulder and smacked his sore hand into the handle of the axe.

  “Who the fuck is here?” he shouted. “Where are you?”