Hey! This is for BigBadBear's Black Horror Contest! It ends August 30 so if I could get some critiques telling me what to change or whatever needs to be fixed up before then, that would be great! I'll probably add onto this before the deadline, but...
Prologue
Somewhere in the barren wasteland of New Mexico, a man strolled quietly through a deserted road; hands in his pocket, whistling a haunting tune.
Behind him, the sun sank beneath the horizon, making the rolling hills an eerie orange shade.
In the town of Santa Fe, a little boy looked out his window and shuddered, not knowing why. A few towns away from that, a woman stopped dead in her tracks and dropped her groceries on the cement concrete of her driveway and gasped. Neither the boy nor the woman knew why they had done this; it had been something about the hills, the way the sun hung half suspended over them, like a red eye that watched them.
The man continued his way down the path, still whistling.
The man had no name. He had no family, he had no friends. He drifted from town to town, reeking havoc among the citizens that dwelled therein. He had never been caught; he was too good for that.
He was God.
He was Lucifer.
No one could stop him; ever.
Babies leapt in their mothers wombs at the mention of his very existence. Children’s souls were gripped in perilous doom with just the thought of him. Shudders ran down the spines of grown men, terror struck.
The man stopped his whistling and evilly cackled. He put his arms out to his side and looked up to the sky. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed its neon white in the black sky above, as his feet began to leave the ground. He hung suspended in the air for a few moments, and then he dropped back down, shoved his hands back in his pockets, and continued to whistle the eerie tune.
He cackled once again and rain came down in sheets as he continued on his way.
Part One
Jeremy takes a car ride.
“Fine!” she screamed, throwing yet another high heeled shoe at his face. This time he dodged it. “Leave!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She looked pathetic.
In two great strides Jeremy was standing right in front of her. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. “Don’t be like that!” he roared. He let go of her and slung his backpack over his shoulder and picked up his guitar case. “I’ll be back to get the rest of my stuff in a few weeks.”
“I hope you die!” she whispered, letting out another huge, pathetic sob.
He opened the front door and walked outside. He could hear her crying still. He slammed the door and got inside his car, starting the engine.
He sat there for a moment, head resting against the wheel, hands clutching it on both sides. He sat up and started to drive away.
He pulled onto the main road and hit the dash board of the car. She was a stupid hag.
A tear trickled down his face and he quickly wiped it away. Stop crying! He screamed at himself inside his head.
He pulled onto the freeway and started to head towards Arizona. He planned to go to Seattle and play his guitar downtown for a bit until someone discovered him and offered him a contract. Sure, like that was ever going to happen.
The highway was deserted. Not a car but his in sight; and it was only nine thirty. He shuddered and turned on the heat, to scare away the cold that had somehow seeped inside of him. The heat didn’t help.
He could see something in the distance. Or was that someone? He slowed down once he started to reach that someone; he stopped completely once that someone was standing less than five feet in front of his car. He got out and slammed the car door.
“What’s your problem? Huh, man?” he shouted. The man cackled and just stood there, face shaded under his cowboy hat.
“You think that’s funny?” Jeremy shouted. He laughed and started to walk back to his car. “Very funny!”
He got in and slammed the car door, shoving his keys back into the ignition and revving his engine. The man cackled again, this time sending shivers down Jeremy’s back.
He started to roll his car slowly towards the man, hoping to scare him so he would move. No such luck.
The man shot out his arm and Jeremy could see some sort of static electricity building there. Before he could even stop the car, it was thrown back ten yards, landing on its hood.
Jeremy hung suspended by his seatbelt, blood dripping from his right temple, airbag deployed. Before he blacked out he heard cowboy boots clicking slowly towards him and the man cackling louder than before.
The man stopped in front of the car. “Passed out?” he whispered. “That dampers my fun just a bit.”
He cackled and ripped the car door from his hinges and threw it behind him. He crouched and looked at Jeremy’s body hanging from the seat. He undid the seatbelt and watched the limp body fall and crack its head open on the hood of the car.
He dragged him out and pulled a knife from the pocket of his jean jacket. He slit the stomach open, and watched the blood flow out crimson red and soak through the blue cotton of Jeremy’s shirt.
Jeremy’s eyes flew open and he started to cough blood. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” the man laughed. Jeremy’s eyes widened as the knife was raised to his throat. The man slit it open and Jeremy coughed his last breath. The man ripped off the corpse’s shirt and dipped his fingers in the growing pool of blood. He wrote something on Jeremy’s chest, wiped his hands on his jeans, and shoved his hands into his pocket, admiring his work.
He turned around and started to whistle, continuing on his way.
* * *
The next morning, around 3 am, three boys in a car pulled up to the undiscovered accident on the side of the road.
One of them called 911 as soon as he saw the cold body lying on the hard cement, as he tried to hold back the barf he could feel rising at the back of his throat.
The police found no finger prints that could lead them to the killer. The only clue given to them were the words written with dried blood across Jeremy’s chest; I hate my life. Besides that the killer had left no trace at all.
The corpse was loaded into an ambulance and taken to the Santa Fe hospital, five minutes off the freeway.
The already dead corpse of Jeremy Johnson was pronounced dead at 3:51 am.
Part Two
Alice takes a shower.
Alice slipped out of her silk nightgown and stepped into the warm steam of her shower. Today was going to be a big day. She had a huge meeting at work in which she would present an idea that she thought would make the company better. Who was she kidding? Her presentation sucked.
She heard boot heals clicking on the linoleum tiles of her bathroom floor. She clicked off the shower knob and listened carefully.
“Manny?” she called. “Manny is that you?”
She grabbed her towel that hung over the glass door of the shower and wrapped it around her before stepping out of the shower.
“Manny?” she called again. “Manny, babe, this isn’t funny! If you’re there please answer me.”
She heard a man laugh inside her bedroom and relaxed. She walked in to see Manny lying on her bed.
“Babe, you scared me. I’m going to be late.”
“Get back in the shower,” he told her, standing up and hugging her. “I wouldn’t want that.”
She laughed and kissed him.
“I just came to wish you luck today,” he whispered in her ear.
“How thoughtful,” she replied. “I’m going to go now.”
“Have fun!” he called from the hallway.
“I’ll try,” she laughed.
She went back into the bathroom and started the shower again. She and Manny had been going out for five months now. She’d been waiting for him to pop the question, but he showed no signs. She was fine with that, just as long as she could be his.
The bathroom door opened and again she heard cowboy boots clicking across the floor.
This time she didn’t bother to put her towel on, she just opened the shower door to see what he wanted.
“Manny…” she started, and the screamed. It wasn’t Manny. She grabbed her towel and quickly covered herself.
“Who are you?” she shouted. “I’ll call the cops… I’ll… Manny!” she screamed, but the man grabbed her mouth and took her from the still running shower into her bedroom. He shoved her on the bed and grabbed a knife from his jean jacket pocket.
“Get off!” she screamed as he bent over her to rip her throat open. “Get off of…” but her words were cut short by the ripping open of her throat. She gasped and blood spurted out of her mouth. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she stopped breathing.
The man chuckled and put the knife back in his pocket, dipping his fingers in her blood. He wrote something on her chest, picked up her towel, wiped his fingers off on it, and climbed silently out of the one story window.
He tipped his cowboy hat at her through the glass before strolling off.
* * *
Manny sat in his red Volkswagen, slowly running his finger over the black velvet of the box that contained Alice’s ring.
But what if she says no?
She’s not going to say no!
Yeah, you’re right.
Just march right in there, kneel down in front of her, and say “Alice Janelle Larson, will you marry me?”
He shut off his car and slowly walked up to the house, taking deep breaths. He crept up the carpeted floors and could hear the shower still running. He smiled and walked into the bathroom. The shower door was hanging wide open, faucet still running, but Alice wasn’t inside. He turned it off and headed to her room.
The door was closed. He knocked. No answer.
“Alice?” he called through the closed door. “Alice?”
He opened the door and peeked inside. He dropped the velvet box and screamed. Lying on the bed, throat slit, was Alice with the words not ready for commitment written in fresh blood across her snow white chest.
Manny ran for the phone and dialed 911.
Part Three
Nancy closes up.
“That’s all right Bill,” Nancy laughed. “I don’t plan on being out of here for a while anyway.” She said, flipping the neon light of the open sign off.
Bill laughed and took another drink from his beer bottle. “Thanks.”
“It’s no sweat; I get lonely closing up around here anyway.”
She went around, wiping off the tables, and putting the chairs up.
“How’s the wife?” she asked.
“Doing better, the doctors say she’ll live another ten years at the least.”
“And the kids?”
“Bill’s law firm is doing well, and Annie’s expecting her fifth child,” he told her, finishing up his beer.
“Fifth, eh?” she laughed. “And look at me, no kids, and I’m ten years older.”
Nancy was in her late thirties, and grey was already starting to streak her bright red hair. She’d worked at Fitzpatrick’s Scottish Pub for the last twenty three years. It was good pay for a woman living on her own, and she met lots of new people from all around every day.
Bill laughed and drained the last bit of beer from the bottom of the bottle.
Nancy finished wiping up the tables and went over to wipe the glasses on the counter dry. She opened another two bottles of beer and slid one down the counter to Bill. “This one’s on the house.”
She raised her bottle up. “To friends,” she said, and they toasted.
She finished wiping the glasses while they talked, and stacked them in neat rows in the bars counter cupboards.
“I’m going to go lock up,” she said.
“Can I get a ride home? I’m not very sober,” he laughed.
“Sure, Big Bill,” she laughed.
He made his way through the maze of tables and chairs and exited the bar’s back door.
“See you in a bit,” he called.
“I should be out in five minutes.”
Nancy walked through the pub, securing the windows and entrance door, making sure everything was in order for the next day. She slung her big purple snake skin purse over her shoulder and grabbed her leather jacket.
“Oops,” she laughed. “Almost took this apron home.”
She untied it and was going to put it on the hook behind the counter, when a hand grabbed her shoulder. She screamed and the hand wheeled her around to face its owner.
“How do’ya do?” a man in a black cowboy hat asked, laughing.
“Who are you?” she asked. “You better get out of my pub right this second,” she warned. The man just laughed and spit sunflower seed shells all over the floor. “I just mopped!” she yelled at him.
“I just mopped,” he mimicked and spat some more out all over her, a couple falling into her blouse.
He flipped a knife out of his pocket and Nancy calmly put her hands out above her head. “Take the money, whatever you want. Please, just leave me alone,” she whispered.
The man cackled and ran the knife along her jawbone. “That’s just the problem, baby girl, I want you,” he whispered in his ear. She backed up to one of the tables and grabbed a stool.
“Best put that down, lil’ missy,” he laughed. Nancy still gripped the stool. “No?” he asked. He stuck out his hand and blew away the stool. It landed against the back wall and broke into a million pieces.
Nancy gasped and started to run for the back door. The door locked by itself and the man laughed again. He came up behind her and slit her throat. She slid to the ground.
“Nancy?” Bill asked, knocking on the front window. His hand stopped mid knock when he saw the man crouched over Nancy. The man looked behind his shoulder and saw Bill frozen in the window.
Bill started to run down the street. The glass shattered in the window behind him and the man jumped out the window and ran after him.
“You best stop, mister!” the man shouted towards Bill. He leapt and landed on Bill’s back, forcing him to the ground. He slit his throat, stood up, and walked away.
He’d never been that close to being caught before.
* * *
The next morning police found Nancy in the back of the pub, purse still slung over her shoulder and leather jacket still on. The shirt underneath had been ripped open and the words I quit were smeared with blood across her bare chest.
Two blocks down the street Bill was found, eyes wide open in terror and throat slit also, lying dead in the middle of the street. Nothing was written on him.
Part Four
Matt hears the voices.
Matthew Sullivan had been diagnosed with chronic schizophrenia when he was ten years old. He’d flushed his pills down the toilet for the last ten years though, the voices had told him to, so he obeyed.
Tonight the voices were talking to him again. They made him laugh sometimes, but mostly they made him hurt. Tonight they were making him laugh.
A new voice was talking to him tonight. He said his name was Drifter.
“That’s a funny name,” Matt said aloud.
“Funny?” Drifter laughed. “I like it.”
“No, I like it too,” said Matt. “Don’t get me wrong.”
“You’re a cool guy,” Drifter said to him. “I like you.”
“Don’t tell the others, but I like you the best.”
“You’re secret’s safe with me, son,” replied Drifter. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Matt said, cheerily.
“Get me a coke?” asked Drifter.
“Sure!” Matt said, getting up from his chair by the window. He grabbed two coca-colas from the ice box and cracked one.
“I changed my mind, I want you to do something else for me,” said Drifter.
Matt put the other coke back in the fridge and shut it. “Okay.”
“Slit your wrists,” Drifter said.
“But…” Matt started but screamed. His leg felt like it was on fire. “Okay! Okay!” he screamed. “Okay!”
“Good boy,” Drifter cackled.
Matt walked into the kitchen and pulled open the knife drawer.
“Get the biggest one!” Drifter exclaimed.
Matt pulled out the biggest one and held it to his wrist. He pressed and blood trickled out in one spot. He clenched his teeth and pushed harder until blood was flowing fast.
“Now write ‘because the voices told me to,’ on the wall over by the window,” Drifter cackled.
Matt did as he was told and sat back down in his recliner chair, nursing his wound.
“Good boy,” Drifter said, but Drifter wasn’t in his head anymore, it sounded like Drifter was behind him.
Matt turned around to see a man in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots leaning against his living room wall, arms folded, and evil smirk stretched across his face.
Matt stood up. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m insulted,” the man said, taking a step closer to him. “I’m Drifter.”
“You’re not Drifter!” Matt said.
“Jump out the window!” the man screamed.
“No!” Matt shouted. The man drew nearer and Matt backed up, inching closer to the window. He kept backing up until his back hit the cold glass. He looked down to see the city streets hundreds of feet below him.
“Jump!”
“No!”
The man pushed him, and Matt flew out the window. He fell threw the air, and then landed with a sickening splat on the concrete below.
The man laughed, went into the kitchen, and found a small pool of blood. He put some on the tip of his finger and walked back over to the window, drawing an arrow towards the shattered glass of the window.
* * *
Ray Donovan, a taxi driver for the last thirty-one years, saw Matt fall from the window. The landing was not a pretty sight to see.
Due to the writing on the wall, and Sullivan’s condition, the death was considered suicide.
He was buried the next day.
Epilogue
The man with the cowboy boots and cowboy hat neared the Arizona border. His hands still tucked in his pocket, the haunting tune still leaking slowly form his lips.
Up ahead he saw a giant sign with the words ‘Welcome to Arizona’ written on it.
He cackled and looked up into the sky. It was a nice day.
He reached the sign and ran a finger across the boiling metal’s surface.
“New Mexico wasn’t that interesting,” he sighed. “Don’t let me down.”
And with that he stepped over the border of New Mexico into Arizona, where his next few victims waited unexpectedly.
Tee hee.
