Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror Read online

  Garrett sat cross-legged atop the table, tucking his legs and feet in close to his body and every so often craning his neck, looking upwards, making sure no more creepy crawlers were descending upon him. He began to come up with excuses for his whereabouts, first his wife. It would require some damage to his car, but with the bump on his head, it would work. He’d hit a tree, head-on; say he’d swerved avoiding a deer. The bump was on the back of his head, but he’d say it wasn’t the accident that knocked him out, it was the fall he took getting out of his car. He’d say he woke up in the grass, got back in his car and drove home, perfect.

  Garrett had tried staying awake, slapping himself, thinking of spiders, but hunger and weariness overtook him. He managed to lay down in a fetal position where he eventually nodded off.

  Garrett awoke, sitting up immediately, disoriented. The lump on his head reminded him where he was. He could barely see across the room. The sun had all but vanished. Where the hell was Beth? She must not have been able to get away, maybe even fell asleep. Garrett pressed the illumination button on his watch. The soft light was almost blinding, he squinted. It was 7 p.m., Beth must be up. It was time to leave.

  Garrett climbed off the table, took a step forward, jumping back quickly and bashing his hip into the workbench. The pain was hard, like he’d been hit by a hammer. A web had touched his nose and Garrett was hysterically brushing himself off, wiping his face, running his fingers through his hair and checking his chest area. Any webs that may have been on him were off, along with any spider that made it, but the sticky sensation, like an invisible string, was still with him. He told himself it was only a phantom feeling, nothing was there. Garrett crawled back onto the table, deciding to wait, where it was safe. His right hip throbbed, but it was nothing to fuss over.

  The cellar was quiet, the air musty and his vacant stomach growled as it churned in its own acids. Two more hours had passed when Garrett looked at his watch again. He found it harder and harder to stay sane. 9 p.m. was the limit, he couldn’t take it anymore. His wife would now have the police involved, and even though he wasn’t missing for 24 hours, they’d at least keep a look out for his car. For all he knew, his wife had seen it down the street if she’d gone that way. She’d surely contacted his work numerous times, making them worried too.

  He’d come back late from deliveries before and had been reprimanded for it. It was the customers, his loyalists, whom shopped religiously every week, and demanded no one else deliver groceries. Garrett always delivered everything as requested, and with the new Super Center going in a few miles from town, G-Mart needed to please its customers. Garrett needn’t worry about his job so much as his wife. He needed to get out, call the police, see if his wife was looking for him, give him a feel if his plan could work.

  Garrett decided he’d go up the cellar stairs and listen for any evidence of people. From there, he’d assess his situation and make a move. Using the light from his watch he walked cautiously across the room, stopping only when he bumped into another string. This time it was heavier and didn’t have that sticky feeling to it. A pull-string dangled from a light fixture, bulb included. The temptation to pull was overwhelming, as if his life depended on it. He began to have a tug of war with himself. A quick pull and his darkness problem would vanish. The fear of someone, Harold, seeing the light was too great. Maybe he could tug the string, look around and absorb his surroundings, check for webs in his path. He would only need a few seconds. No, he couldn’t. Any amount of light, especially a flash of light, could attract Harold to his presence. He had no way of knowing where the man was. In the kitchen? Outside? In the bedroom? Taking a crap? If only Garrett had looked around more, earlier, when the sun was still shining, maybe one of the boxes had a flashlight in it. He wasn’t about to go prodding amongst them now, his watch’s light would have to do. Garrett proceeded toward the stairs.

  He climbed each step slowly, using the foundation as a guide. The rickety steps hardly concerned him. Thirst and hunger had jumped to his highest priority. It almost seemed like getting caught was a secondary, maybe even a thirdly concern. He kept his composure, allowing his mind to control his actions, not his emotions.

  The same blackness engulfing the basement, filled the top of the staircase, the kitchen lights were off. He’d hoped for a sliver of light, a glow from beneath the door, something he could use for hope. He kept on nonetheless.

  At the top step, he bent low, putting his ear by the bottom of the door. A cool breeze, fresh air, flowed across his face, revitalizing him. Silence, however, filled his ears.

  Garrett reached up, found the doorknob, turned it and pushed. He closed his eyes. “Please, please, just open,” he whispered and tried again. The door was locked. Garrett’s hand fell hard to the step. Defeated, he wanted to cry.

  Composing himself, Garrett stood up, anger overtaking him. It was time for action. The door was thick, but enough bashing would bring it down. Who cares if he’s caught, he had to live. Garrett took a step back, put his hands against the walls and brought his leg back. He was about to bash the door down when a roar of thunder erupted from the cellar. Someone was opening the storm doors. Two consecutive screeches, one, a pause, then the other, like two banshees screaming in the night.

  Garrett inched his way down a few stairs, crawling on his chest, his feet behind him. He peered around the corner, where the sheetrock wall ended. Intense light poured in from the outside through the open storm doors. Garrett lay protected in shadow.

  Harold came down the storm door steps, a huge black bag, plastic in appearance, slung over his right shoulder. Garrett could hear a car’s engine running. The light must be from a vehicle’s headlights.

  Harold walked to where the string for the light was, and clicked it on. The bulb did its job, engulfing the entire room, like a tiny sun. Garrett squinted against the blinding light as Harold strode over to one of the shelves, grabbed a piece of the support and pulled. The entire shelf came away from the wall, opening like a door. The items on the shelf hadn’t moved an inched, as if they’d been glued in place. A shiny metallic door with a key pad attached, stood where the shelf had been. A small red LED emanated above the pad, indicating it was locked.

  Garrett watched, frozen in place, like a tongue to a flagpole on a frosty winter eve. Harold punched a sequence of numbers. Garrett couldn’t quite make them out, but noticed a pattern, the number 7. The red LED became green, followed by a sharp beep, like a microwave’s at the end of its countdown. Harold went in, leaving the door slightly ajar. He came out a few minutes later, bag free, shut both hidden doors before clicking the light off and left the way he came. The light from outside disappeared as Harold drove off.

  Garrett came down the stairs, the cellar as dark as ever, like the inside of a bat’s wing at midnight. Using the light from his watch, Garrett found his way over to the shelf-door. The metal was warm where Harold had touched it. Garrett tried pulling, but the shelf remained where it was. He tried again, still nothing. Frustrated, he felt around until he came across a button. It was on the inside of the shelf-door’s handle. Garrett pressed the button with his forefinger and pulled. The shelf came away from the wall, exposing the menacing red LED light. He tried the key pad, using the pattern he’d noticed, 4, 1, 2, 3, 6, 9. The door beeped and the red LED was replace by a friendlier green one. The heavy, vault-like door popped open, like an airtight refrigerator releasing its suction. Garrett went in.

  The place was spotless, air-conditioned, and resembled a sterile operating room. The room was lit by overhead track lighting. A large, stainless steel operating table, complete with straps at the top and bottom, stood in the center of the room. Large halogen lights floated above it.

  A long counter ran along the back wall, above it were cabinets. Bone saws, rib spreaders, hacksaws, ice-picks, hammers of various shapes and sizes, a sickle, a number of scalpels, and other surgical and not so surgical implements lined the counter, and all new in appearance as if the owner polished them regula
rly.

  Garrett walked over to one of the cabinets and opened it. The room seemed to spin as his stomach cramped up, getting ready to vomit. Jars and cube shaped containers, each one filled with separate items, surrounded by a golden fluid, filled his vision. Some had eyeballs, others teeth and ears. One box had what appeared to be scrotums, another penises, the one next to it, vaginas. Others had toes and fingers.

  Garrett closed the cabinet and backed away. He looked around for the black bag Harold had carried in. It was in a corner, folded neatly, each side seemingly even in length, next to a large freezer-like storage container.

  Garrett walked over to the container. It reminded him of the ice-cream cooler at work. He opened it.

  Frigid air chilled his lungs making him cough. He had to back away, as if excusing himself, before returning. Garrett waved away the frothy air, revealing a woman’s foot, the toenails painted candy apple red. He pulled his hand away and watched as the rest of the figure came into view.

  The body was naked, except for the head which had a ski-mask over it; canary blonde hair shown from beneath it. Garrett was relieved it wasn’t Beth. For a minute he’d thought maybe Harold had suspected she was cheating and killed her. Looking closer, he noticed a tattoo below the navel, causing him to lose his breath. The number 8 with a rose entwined within it.

  “It can’t be,” Garrett gasped, quickly yanking off the mask. He trembled, staring into his dead wife’s lifeless eyes. They stared accusingly back at him. It was Garrett’s fault his wife was dead.

  “You think I didn’t know?” a voice said from behind.

  Garrett spun around. Harold stood in the doorway holding Beth’s severed head by the hair, a huge hunting knife in the other. The knife’s blade was stilling dripping with blood. Harold tossed the head towards Garrett. It rolled awkwardly like a log with nubs, flopping and bouncing towards Garrett, stopping inches from his feet. Beth’s head was reduced to a tangled heap of brunette hair leaving only the raw fleshy neck exposed.

  “You can have her,” Harold said, before pulling a gun from his pants and shooting Garrett. The gun was quiet, letting out a soft splatting sound. Garrett fell into darkness.

  He awoke sometime later, naked and strapped to the cold stainless steel operating table, a gag filling his mouth. Standing above him was Harold, holding a scalpel, dressed in a surgeon’s garb, face mask and all.

  “Glad you’re finally awake.”

  Garrett tried speaking, but the gag made his words intelligible.

  “You’re going to scream a lot and I hate that.” Harold lowered the scalpel to Garrett’s stomach. Garrett tried pleading through his gag. Harold paused, taking the scalpel away. “I can’t understand what you’re saying, but I suppose you want to know what I’m going to do?” Garrett mumbled something inaudible. “I’m going to remove small pieces of you, skin, bone, organs, building to bigger, more significant parts, and see how long I can keep you alive while doing it.” Garrett tried speaking again. Harold shook his head. “My record is ten hours, I’m hoping to improve that with you.” Harold lowered the scalpel and began cutting.

  Garrett screamed for the next twelve hours.

  Comes with Baggage

  Corbin Ray couldn’t use a straw or speak clearly, certain words ripped from his vernacular. He lay in his hospital bed, listening as the physicians and surgeons spoke. He’d heard all of it before, numerous times, but formalities were part of the process.

  The procedure had only been performed on a handful of patients within the last four years, each one with set backs, rejection and infection the most prevalent, but ultimately all had succeeded.

  Corbin was given a list and told about the plethora of drugs he’d have to take for the rest of his life, immune suppressants the most crucial. There was also the chance of his body rejecting the transplant, leaving him more scarred and disfigured than he already was.

  “How much worse could I look?” he joked, to the crowded room, drool oozing down his chin. Everywhere he went people gawked or turned away, disgusted. In his mind, there was no downside.

  After the pre-op question and answer session, Corbin picked up the handheld mirror. The image staring back at him was grotesque. No amount of time would get him used to himself. It had taken him months, numerous visits to psychologists and anti-anxiety drugs, to build up the courage to look at himself. A day didn’t pass without that nightmarish day ripping through him like a chainsaw.

  He’d been on vacation, surfing off the coast of Malibu when a Great White shark sunk its teeth into Corbin’s face, ripping it off before swimming away as if the flesh had tasted rotten. His upper lip, nose, right cheek, ear and part of his jaw had been taken, including nerves and the ability to smell. The worst thing of all for Corbin had been his inability to smile. Something he’d taken for granted, but loved doing.

  He’d lost his fiancée, job, and many friends, even shutting out the ones who’d stuck by him.

  He lived alone in his downtown Poughkeepsie apartment, almost never leaving. He worked on projects from his home, doing interior design jobs for companies and took a position as an online customer service representative, using chat as the form of communication.

  Groceries, DVD’s, magazines, were all delivered, always left outside his door. He had become a recluse, only speaking with his mother on occasion. His only friends became internet chat buddies and ones without the use of a video camera.

  The operation took twenty hours. The doctors replaced bone, nerves, before finally placing the new face over his gutted old one.

  Corbin was in and out of consciousness, supplied intravenously with pain medicine, for hours after the surgery, his mother by his side the entire time.

  When he awoke, fully, the reality of the procedure hit home like a baseball bat, his face feeling as if thousands of needles were being driven into his skull.

  Recovery was a bitch, but the nurses made sure he did what he was supposed to do, including taking walks up and down the hallway, using his breathing device to expand his lung function, and always making sure he took his meds. It took months of recovery and loads of pain medications before the soreness and swelling were gone completely.

  A year went by, the physical therapy proving itself as Corbin gained the use of ninety percent of his facial muscles. He could smile again, the most important thing for him to be able to accomplish. The right side of his upper lip and right ear remained numb, the nerves shot.

  Eventually, Corbin had gotten his life back, reuniting with old friends. He’d apologized for shutting them out, they understood.

  Throughout his recovery a few news stations and newspapers wanted to do stories on him, but he refused, simply saying, “I just want to live a normal life.”

  It took a while for his mother to get used to her son having someone else’s face, her joy at his happiness and return to a normal life easily trumped her uneasiness about his looks. It was her boy on the inside.

  “You may look different,” she told him, “but you’re more your old self than you’ve been in some time. I’m so happy for you.”

  Corbin applied for jobs in the interior design field and landed one quickly, his reputation on work he’d done preceding him. He’d even met a woman in the logistics department and they began dating. Life was turning out well for Corbin, things falling into place, until the blackouts and nightmares started and changed everything.

  Corbin dreamed of a little girl, dressed in a black sun dress crying over a grave. A woman, also dressed in black, stood beside her, tears streaming down her face.

  He’d tried saying hello, but they didn’t see him. The name on the tombstone was blurry as if he needed glasses, but everything else was crystal clear.

  Each night, he had a different dream, but always with the sad little girl and woman being a part it. He’d awake crying, breathing rapidly as if he’d sprinted a mile. The sleepless nights began taking a toll, he became increasingly irritable. Maybe it was the drugs? His doctor had changed them rece
ntly, hadn’t he? He’d make an appointment when he got to his office the next day.

  The following morning, after another horrible night’s sleep, Corbin ate a hearty breakfast, scrambled eggs, sausage, toast with butter and downed a large cup of black coffee. He left the house and was about to get in his car when he woke up on his living room couch. He must have been dreaming, but when he looked at himself he saw that he was dressed for work, briefcase on its side on the floor.

  He went to the kitchen, the clock read three p.m. He must have blacked out. Maybe he had felt dizzy and had to lie down. Possibly he was having a side effect to the new meds. He’d never had any before. He called the office, told them he was terribly sick last night and had slept in.

  That night Corbin dreamed, but not of the little girl and her mother. He was in his car driving across town and stopped in front of a large white house in Cedar Grove Estates. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his new face, something that had never happened before. On occasion at seeing himself in a dream, it was always his original face that starred back at him. His brain being the only part of him rejecting the transplant.

  He got out of the car and stood staring up at a large white Victorian, with black shudders and neatly trimmed hedges. The name on the mailbox read, Weatherly. He got back in his car, slammed the door shut and woke up.

  He thought nothing of the dream and was grateful to not have to see the little girl and her mother.

  The remainder of the week flew by with no unsettling dreams, replaced with good nights of sleep. Corbin had put the troublesome time behind him until the following Monday.

  He was getting ready for work when he blacked out again, awaking a few hours later. Overwrought and unsure of what was happening, he made a doctor appointment and was seen immediately. His transplant making him a priority.