Garbage Disposal

Bloody Garbage Disposal

Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish!

“Bitch!” The words stumbled across his teeth like clumsy elephants, sliding over his lips and struggling through sour bourbon breath.

She assumed the usual position: fetal, head covered, waiting for the blows. They came as sharp kicks to her ribs. She felt relieved that Frank was wearing his sneakers instead his pointed cowboy boots. She focused on peaceful thoughts as he kicked: sunny meadows, beaches, sunsets. It was a technique she had learned as a child when her parents were drunk and angry. Focus on a pleasant memory and dissolve into it. She often imagined that these escape mechanisms were visible to onlookers as gleaming glass globes in orbit around her head – beautiful scenes of tranquility playing inside each one for the world to behold.

“And get that garbage disposal fixed by the time I get home!” he said, delivering one last kick to her buttocks.

She closed her eyes and listened. She heard the apartment door slam. Then blam, blam, blam, blam, blam came the sound of his feet on the stairs outside. Then the jingle of the keys, the roar of the engine and the chirp of the tires as he gunned the big buick away down the street. She stayed still for a few minutes and then began to sob. Emotions boiled up from all directions, mingling together like a mad concoction from some chemist of misery – rage, humiliation, desperation, anger, with river of deep and profound sadness flowing through everything. A pool of tears collected around her cheek and formed a salty puddle on the cold linoleum floor. She stayed there for about an hour and then slowly pulled herself up, gingerly pressing on her ribs, assessing the extent of the damage. She shuffled to the kitchen counter, grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed her tear-stained face. She looked out the kitchen window and saw an enormous black raven perched on a wire. It stretched, extended large black wings and arched its beak skyward.

I’d give my soul for that kind of freedom she thought and felt a wave of jealousy wash over her. The black beast folded its wings back against its body, cocked its head to one side, and looked straight at her. Did it wink one eye? One gleaming red eye? She stepped back, startled, and the bird took flight in a flurry of black feathers. A moment later, the door buzzer screeched.

“Who are you?” she said, staring at the man in the doorway. He had black hair, a pointed goatee and swarthy skin, and his coveralls were pitch black. Dark eyes gleamed from within deep sockets, framed by thick black eyebrows. He grinned, showing perfect white teeth and when he spoke, his voice seemed to resonate from everywhere, deep and warm with an accent that was vaguely latin, but with a hint of german or nordic sprinkled throughout.

“I’m Sam, from Johnson Plumbing.” He smiled and lifted his toolkit, revealing the company logo.

“But, um, I didn’t call yet, I don’t think…” she said, managing a nervous smile.

“Is this not apartment 237 at 3477 North 33rd?” The man pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

She nodded. “Yes this is…”

“And are you, uh, Ta-ra Mag-nu-son?”

“Yes, but I…” she leaned in and looked at the paper.

“Well, according to my notes, you called yesterday for a garbage disposal repair. If this is a bad time I could…” Sam said and took a step back.

“Okay, well, I just don’t recall.” she shifted her gaze to the sink. “Wait, since you’re here, I actually do need my disposal fixed.”

“Perfect!” Sam smiled and walked past Tara to the sink. She smelled a hint of smoke as he passed. Not cigarette smoke, but some other smoke. Something more acrid, more complex. Sulfur?

“How much will this be?” Tara asked.

“How about you let me have a look and assess the damage. Then I’ll give you an estimate. Sound good?” Sam smiled. Did he just wink?

Uh, okay, I guess.” Tara glanced back out the window, looking for the giant raven but he was gone. When she looked back, Sam was on his hands and knees beneath the sink. She noticed something funny about his shoes. They had the wrong shape. Were the toes too wide? Or perhaps the heels were too narrow. There was also something strange about the way his coveralls fit his buttocks. It was as if there wasn’t a gap where there should have been. Instead, she noticed a small ridge
protruding from between his buttocks, as if he had a deformed tailbone, or maybe…

“Okay, ma’am, the bad news is I think your old unit’s done for.” Sam stood up, adjusted his coveralls and wiped his brow. “The good news is, I have a special on my top replacement unit, the Dispose-All 5000. It’s 50% off this week. The boss wants to clear the inventory and this baby’s got all the bells and whistles. Mountains of horsepower too so it can destroy everything you can feed it. And I mean EVERYTHING!”

“How much?” Tara stared at Sam’s shoes. They really were oddly shaped. The toes were too wide and they went up in the back in a strange manner.

“As much as you can feed it!” Sam smiled.

“No, I mean, how much does it cost, you know, with labor.” Tara massaged her bruised rib.

“Oh, yeah, lemme see. About an hour’s work plus parts, let’s just say $50 bucks.”

Tara’s face lit up. “50 dollars? Wow, is this replacement some cheap piece of…”

“Oh, no way, ma’am. The Dispose-All 5000 is one serious hunk of hardware. I mean, there’s nothing it can’t handle. Nothing at all on this earth.” Sam grinned and stroked his goatee.

“Is there some kind of warranty?” Tara crossed her arms.

“Well, you can add one for just five dollars. And that’s a life time warranty. Forever.”

“Forever, huh?” Tara grinned. “Ok, how long will it take?”

“Forever’s a mighty long time, ma’am.” Sam said, gazing out the window.

“No, I mean how long for the repairs?” Tara said.

“I’d say I’ll be out of here in hour. Now if you’ll just sign your name here, then we’ll be all set.” Sam pulled a black clipboard with a form attached from his toolkit. “It’s just for the, uh, warranty and the labor. Nothing special. Standard stuff but I do need a signature before I can start.”

“Ok.” Tara started to scrawl her signature on the black line near the bottom of the form. She paused. At the bottom of the page she noticed some extremely small print. It looked like something in another language, but it was too tiny to really understand.

“What’s this, Spanish?” Tara pointed to the almost microscopic text.

“Oh, no, that’s the warranty. The unit’s made in Germany so the warranty’s in german. You know, precision manufacturing and that kind of thing. Nothin’s made in the good ole’ USA anymore, right?”

“Yeah, really, everything’s Chinese.” She finished her signature and handed the clipboard back to Sam who smiled and placed it back in his toolkit.

“Allright, I’ve got laundry to do so if you need me, just holler.” Tara said and walked down the hallway to the laundry room. She could hear Sam’s tools clanking as he began the repairs. Was he humming a tune? What was that song? Something from an old movie?

Tara had just finished loading the washer with clothes when she heard a knock on the doorway behind her. She turned to find Sam, toolkit in hand.

“All done, ma’am.” Said Sam.

“Really?” Tara wrinkled her brow. “But it’s only been…” she looked at her watch. What the hell? An hour had passed yet it seemed like just five minutes. She grabbed her cell phone to verify. There it was, an hour later.

“I just need to show you a few operating tips before I go, If you don’t mind.” said Sam as he turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Ok.” said Tara, following behind. Those shoes really look weird, she mused.

“There’s just few things you need to know about this unit.” said Sam. “The first rule is ALWAYS run the water whenever you use the D-5000. You must run the tap to operate the blades.” Sam reached out and turned on the faucet. The water swirled and gurgled down the drain.

“Now the second thing is the MOST important rule. NEVER get near the D-5000 when it’s running. That’s why the switch is across the room.” Sam pointed to a red switch across the kitchen on the opposite wall, next to where Tara stood.

“Turn it on and wait until the blades finish grinding. You’ll be able to tell by the sound. Then turn it off. DO NOT go near the unit while it’s in operation. Got it?” Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Yes, I think so.” said Tara.

“Good. It’s very important that you follow these rules because this unit is extremely powerful. Safety must be observed at all times.” Sam picked up his toolkit and walked towards the door.

“And if anything doesn’t work, call me right away. You have a lifetime warranty that covers any problems.” Sam paused at the doorway. He smiled and handed Tara his card.

“Ok.” Tara said and put the card in her pocket. “Thanks. Oh wait, I almost forgot, here’s the check.” Tara handed Sam a check made out to seventy-five dollars.

“Well, that’s mighty thoughtful of you ma’am. Thank you very much!” said Sam as he walked through the doorway.

Tara watched Sam walk away down the hall. She could hear him humming that strange tune again. What was that song? A song from the sixties? The Stones perhaps? When he was gone, she locked the door and returned to the sink. OK, let’s try this thing out she thought and pulled a large plate of left-over chicken breasts from the fridge. She carried the plate to the sink and set it on the counter. She picked the largest hunk of chicken and dropped it into the disposal drain hole and turned on the water. Then she walked across the room to the switch. She stared back at the sink and flipped the power on. Immediately, the lights dimmed and the metallic whine of large spinning metal blades filled the room. A loud grinding sound rattled the cupboards. It shifted pitch for a half-second as the blades engaged the chicken and then returned to a smooth metallic whirring hum. Tara flipped the switch off and walked over to the sink. The chicken breast was gone. Not a trace remained in the sink.

Tara grinned and stuffed the rest of the meat into the drain. She left the plates in the sink and walked back to the red switch. Flick, grind, and grind and grind, louder and louder and then whirr. Tara flipped the switch off and walked back to the sink. Everything was gone. Even the plates had been sucked into the disposal and destroyed.

“Wow!” Tara said out loud. A flood of exhilaration filled her soul as she rushed to her boyfriend’s room and gathered a mountain of football trophies in both arms. She was giddy with revenge, sweet and diabolical, payback for all the beatings and abuse she had endured. She hurried back to the kitchen and dumped the gilded statues into the sink, piling them high, well beyond the capacity of the small stainless steel basin. Grinning, she flipped the switch. Instantly, a flurry of black metal mechanical arms encircled the mass of trophies, lifting and spinning them in the air like a robotic juggler, feeding all to a central array of circular blades which spun just above the drain. The arms manipulated and twisted the items, systematically sending each piece into the whirling slicers and then down the black drain hole which expanded and contracted, like a giant camera aperture, to accommodate the chunks as they fell. The Dispose-All 5000 consumed all of Frank’s trophies in about 5 seconds.

Tara clapped her hands in delight and hurried out of the kitchen. She returned dragging Frank’s Laz-E-Boy recliner across the linoleum kitchen floor. She squatted down and heaved the chair up onto the counter top, balancing it across the sink. With a gleam in her eye, she danced across the room to the switch. Flick, whirrrrr, grind and voila! Frank’s prized recliner was gone. No more “get me beer!” with legs up and a bag of chips on his lap. No more sleeping through the last innings of the Yankees game, snoring like a buzzsaw in the living room.

Tara stared down into the drain. It looked so normal, so unassuming. Slowly, the black cloud of an idea began to boil around her head. A way out. An escape from the abuse. She grabbed her keys and left the apartment. Her brain crackled with excitement. This was it. She had a way to put everything behind her. To start over. To erase a life of abuse that had started with her drunken father and a string of bad-decision boyfriends and ended with Frank. She practically danced down the stairs and out the door.

She waltzed through the oppressive heat and humidity of the New York City heatwave. She hurried across the street, weaving around the crowds along 33rd and ducked into Sal’s corner market at the end of the block. She grabbed a bag of ice and a six-pack of Frank’s favorite beer.

Back at the apartment, Tara dumped the ice into the sink and arranged the beer cans in a neat circle. Then, she sat down at the table and waited.

The sun had disappeared about an hour earlier when she finally heard Frank’s footsteps on the stairs outside. Then came the jingling of the keys and the clumsy attempts to unlock the door. Finally, Frank stumbled into the kitchen.

“Haaaey!” He slurred. She could smell his breath. It reeked of bourbon and Budweiser. “Man ammm I huungarrree!” he said, brushing past Tara. He opened the pantry, grabbed a bag of chips and ripped it open, spilling handfuls onto the floor as he stuffed the crunchy morsels into his mouth. “Aaay, wha’s in the siiink?” Frank lurched across the kitchen. Tara watched closely. She had to time this just right.

“Haaaaey! My flavorite!” Frank leaned over the sink and Tara jumped from her chair and flicked the red switch on the other side of the room.

Nothing happened. No whirling blades, no metal arms. Just silence. Frank plunged his hand deep into the icy basin and dug out a cold beer. He popped the tab and opened it, click, hisss.

“Ooooh yeah! Ice cold baby!” Frank said. “Bitch, I thought I tole you tah fix that disposal!” He clenched his fists and lurched toward Tara.

“I did! I did!” she said, recoiling.

Frank raised his arm to stike and Tara covered her head. From beneath her arms she heard the door buzzer.

Frank stopped, mid swing. “Git the damn door!” he slurred.

Tara un-crouched and scurried across the room. She opened the door. It was Sam, the plumber.

“Sam, what, what are you doing…” Tara fumbled with her words, trying to compose herself.

“Ms. Tara, I hope I’m not bothering you, but after I left, I remembered that I forgot to install an important part of the system.” said Sam, glancing past Tara at Frank, who lurched drunkenly toward the door.

“You the asshole that didn’t fix my disposal?” Frank’s words sprayed from his numb lips as he pointed at Sam.

Sam stepped into the apartment, toolbox in hand. “Why yes sir, I was here earlier and…”

“Shithead! You didn’t fix SHIT! What kine of moron plummer can’t fix a disposaaall.” Frank tilted the beer can back and drained the remaining portion. He crushed the can and tossed it to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir. I neglected to install a very important part. I assure you, I can have everything honky dory in 5 minutes.” said Sam, smiling.

“You are a shit plummer. You are as worthless as my shit bitch over there!” Frank pointed at Tara who was standing by the red dispose-all 5000 on/off switch.

Sam smiled and raised his hand above his head. He glanced at Tara and then snapped his fingers. “There, I fixed it. I just installed the kill switch.” said Sam.

Frank lurched across the kitchen, coming nose to nose with Sam. “What the hell are you talking about? You ain’t fixed shit, jack-ass!” Frank poked his index finger into Sam’s chest. “I wann a full refund of all my money, dickhead!”

Sam glanced at Tara. “Sir, why don’t you just go get another beer and let me show you how well your system works?”

Frank chuckled and staggered to the sink. “Okay, Mr. finger-snap plummer, I WILL get another one, but that doesn’t make you less of an ASSHOLE!” Frank thrust his hand deep into the chilled water of the sink.

Sam motioned to Tara who nodded and threw the switch. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the dispose-all roared into action. Metal cables tipped with black barbs shot up from beneath the icy water. One tore through Frank’s neck, one through his shoulder and another pierced his hand. Black blades emerged: whirling, synchronous metal meat grinders.

Frank screamed, pulling against the barbs as the cables tightened, drawing him closer to the spinning blades.

Sam smiled and walked over to Tara, her face was a mask of horror. She reached for the switch but Sam grabbed her wrist and shook his head.

Frank pulled back, straining against the cables, driving the barbs deeper into his flesh. Blood from the wounds dripped down, forming crimson puddles on the kitchen floor. He wimpered, one last pathetic plea, “help me!” before the cables pulled him into the blades.

Tara closed her eyes and clung to Sam. Blood and bone swirled into the air above the sink. It hung there for a moment, evolving like a cloud of gore. Then, with a loud swoosh, the blades devoured the fountain of red that was Frank, sucking it down the drain, leaving no trace of Frank behind. Even the blood on the floor was drawn up and into the disposal.

Sam flipped the switch to “off”. Tara released her embrace, trembling.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” her voice quavered.

Sam grinned. “No, not quite. Think a little lower, my dear Tara.”

Tara stepped back, horrified. “You mean?”

“Don’t worry.” Sam smiled. “I’m not here for you.” he said and pulled a handful of papers from his toolbox. “This is the contract you signed earlier.”

Tara gasped and put her hands to her mouth, “Oh no, oh god no!” she said, backing away.

“I told you, I’m not here for you. This is a release for Frank’s soul.” Sam smiled as he scanned the contract. “You’ve suffered enough in this world. I see no need to send you downstairs to my domain for more pain. Besides, your ex-boyfriend was wrong. I’m not an asshole, I’m just Satan. You know, the Devil. My job is to weed out the bad souls and get them off the market, so to speak. Plus, I can’t very well afford to behave like an asshole these days, what with all the social media scrutiny and everyone so damned connected. It would just destroy my brand. Of course, haters gonna hate, but I guess that’s a good thing given my line of work.”

Tara recoiled as Sam’s entire countenance transformed in that moment. His clothes dissolved, revealing black skin and matted ebony feathers. A long black tail curled from between his buttocks, twisting back and forth as he spoke. His shoes retracted, exposing black cloven hooves and his eyes glowed red like two embers in a dark fireplace. His grin revealed a forked tongue that darted between pointed white teeth – in stark contrast to his pitch black lips and mouth.

“Its not like in those stories you’ve read, either.” said Satan. “I only collect the souls that deserve eternal damnation. You know, the ones that are so bad they don’t get recycled. No second chances for them. Of course, I do provide a little guidance along the path. Some healthy temptations for those less disciplined individuals – a little hand-holding, if you will.” Satan said, smiling. “Take you, for instance. When push came to shove, you wanted to save captain douchebag. Even though he’d been stomping you senseless for the last two years. Your soul is without compromise. And then there’s ole’ Franky there.” He said, pointing to the sink. “I just whispered in his ear for one night while he slept and he was convinced that the broken garbage disposal was the most important item on his bucket list. I’ve always found that the simple minds are the most malleable. You know something? I don’t think an eternity of suffering is nearly enough for all those nice things he said about me. What do you think Tara?” said Sam.

Tara was petrified. She stared at Satan, unable to muster anything more than a half-shrug.

“Unfortunately, as you well know, all good things must inevitably end. So I wish you the best of luck, my dear. I am off to attend to more pressing engagements.” Sam raised his hand and snapped his fingers again. In a flurry of black feathers and sulfur, he was gone.

Tara stared at the spot where Satan had been. She began sobbing and slid down into a crouch on the kitchen floor. Slowly, the sobbing gave way to laughter. Uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. She felt a warm glow spread through her soul, as if her heart had become a miniature sun, spreading rays through her body, filling the room with a golden wash of warmth and hope. Tears of joy slid down her cheeks. She jumped to her feet, giggling, and ran into the bedroom. The imaginary glass globes returned, in orbit around her sunny head – filled with scenes of white beaches, green forests, sun drenched picnics and happy children. The thought orbs spun and glinted as she stuffed a suitcase with her favorite clothes and darted out the door.

She danced down the bustling sidewalk, humming the Devil’s tune she had heard earlier, oblivious to the crowds and the stifling New York heat. She skipped all the way to the transit depot and boarded the first bus she came upon, never once considering its destination. “Pleased to meet you!” she sang to the bus driver who smiled and closed the doors. As she twirled down the aisle, she whispered to herself: “I hope you guess my name!”

Road Work

Night Highway

If you would just stop and ask for directions…

The headlights of the blue BMW drilled into the night, illuminating the black tarmac that flowed like a river of madness through the Pennsylvania mountains.  A double yellow line split the road lengthwise from Tafton to Mountaintop – 26 miles of harrowing hairpin turns and wild camel humps –  a roller coaster ride through old-growth Pennsylvania forests.

Ken kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel – his eyes forward, scanning the shoulder of PA route 390, vigilant for suicidal deer hiding in the darkness between the trees who were more than eager to bound into the path of his speeding vehicle.

He toggled the high beams but they were no match for the darkness that sent it’s fingers through the trees, squeezing the road into a narrow blue tunnel through the woods.

Tanya stared out the passenger window.  She shook her head and tossed her bobbed black hair – releasing dim shimmers of blue in response to the cold dashboard illumination.

“You always do this.”  she sniped.

Ken adjusted his jaw from side to side.

“The traffic was stopped.

For twenty minutes.

I had to get off – I can’t just sit there like that.”

Tanya frowned.  “We’re lost.  You have no idea where we are, in a place that we have never been.”  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and sighed.  “AND we have no signal.  Of course – we have no signal.  We’re in the middle of NoSignalVania.”

Ken winced at every word.  Tanya’s shrill, nasal voice had evolved into a first class irritant as of late.  It was like a million sewing needles stabbing and gouging his eardrums with each sentence. He found himself drifting away during her monologues, staring off into space, dreaming of the days before marriage and wondering how he could have been duped into matrimony all those years ago.  How could he not have noticed that sputtering, insidious, acrid tongue?  A tongue that found him time and time again musing on just how to tear it out, to cease it’s wagging forever so that he might find peace. Instead, he soldiered on in silence, obedient to the stereotype of the henpecked husband.

“Why are they always doing construction in Pennsylvania.  Everywhere you turn, a lane is closed or an exit is under repair.  I hate this state.”  Tanya shook her head.

“We are not lost.  We’re just…temporarily confused.”

Tanya shook her head and scowled.  She glanced back at the road.  “Jesus!”  She braced her hands on the dashboard and dug her feet hard against the floor of the car.

Ken snapped his gaze back to the road in time to see a deer flash past the headlights.  He  jammed both feet onto the brake pedal as the car began to skid sideways.  Suddenly, another animal, this one thicker with dark gray and black streaks, sprang into the path of the sliding car.  It moved like a cat stalking prey, low to the ground and surprisingly agile for its bulk.

There was a moment that seemed an eternity.  It was filled with clenched teeth, white knuckles, squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber and hot brake shoes.  It swam slowly into focus and then WHAM!  The sickening thud of metal hitting flesh and the tinkle of shattered glass broke the spell.

The collision spun the car 90 degrees off the road and into a shallow swale on the right shoulder.  Thick ferns and mountain laurel cushioned the car to a shuddering stop.

“Oh my god.  Are you OK?”  Ken reached over and touched Tanya.

“I think I bit my lip.”  She dabbed her mouth and examined the bright red that coated her fingertips. “Yeah, I’m OK, I think.”

“What the hell did we hit?” Ken unbuckled his seatbelt.

“A deer.  I think I saw a deer.”

“No, we missed the deer.  Something came out of the woods after it.  Something bigger like a bear.”

Ken opened his door and circled around to the front of the car.  The grill was mangled and steam seeped from under the crumpled hood.  The right quarter panel was crushed and the right front tire was rotated at an impossible angle.  Thick black goo was smeared across the damaged areas.

“Shit, shit, shit.”  Ken kicked at the ferns.  “There goes my insurance.”  He turned and looked back down the road.  A dark mass lie motionless on the blacktop, partially blocking the right lane.

“I think you hit a bear.”  Tanya was standing next to him, dabbing her lip with a tissue. “Way to go Mario”.

“Just call Triple A.”  Ken began walking toward the shadowy shape.

Tanya fumbled for her cell phone. “Uh, can’t.  No signal.  Unbelievable.”

Ken slowed his steps as he neared the carcass.  A musty odor, somewhere between cat urine and vinegar, wafted through the night air.  Ken recognized more detail in the moonlight.  The entire creature was about five feet long and had four legs, the front ones longer than the hind and all four capped with five to six inch glossy black claws that looked as if hewn from obsidian.  It appeared to have a small amount of black fur on it’s back which was streaked with dark gray patches that mimicked forest shadows.  Overall, Ken thought it vaguely resembled some kind of deformed black bear mixed with a mountain lion.  The fur gave way to black velvety skin that concealed sinewy muscles throughout the body of the animal.  The shoulders were bulky and the head was elongated and wide, with an odd sloping forehead and two large eyes, shut tight into ten inch slits.  A twisted pair of foot long black horns jutted from just behind the creatures large pointed ears.  The most astonishing feature, however, was the nightmarish mouth of the beast.  It gaped slightly open, and was circled in a row of black teeth on the outside, and rows of similar fangs on the inside.  It was as if a shark’s mouth had been turned slightly inside out around the edges and painted gloss black.  A black forked tongue lolled from the open mouth, dripping with gooey dark saliva.

“What the hell IS that thing?”  Tanya had joined Ken.

“I have no idea.  Maybe a bear that was burned or something.  But it has horns, I think.

“Bears don’t have horns, moron.”  Tanya looked at her phone again.  “How the HELL are we going to get a tow truck.

“We’ll have to walk and get help”  Ken looked around at nothing but shadowy forest as far as the eye could see.

“I’ll bet that’s some kind of endangered animal.  I’ll bet this dumb-ass state is going to fine us on top of everything.”  Tanya started walking back toward the disabled BMW.  “And there’s no WE in this whole walking to find help thing.”

Ken shook his head.  “Seriously?  What the hell are are YOU going to do while I’m walking?”

Over his shoulder, a pair of headlights flickered their way through the winding darkness of the stoic trees, distant tires clinging to the blacktop, hissed through the curves like a mechanized serpent as the vehicle neared.

“Looks like someone just caught a lucky break.”  Tanya stood, hands on hips, a smirk writhing across her red lips.

Ken ran toward the approaching vehicle, arms waving.  Blinded by the headlights, he could make out the dark shape of a late model pick-up truck, slowing to a stop before the motionless body of the strange creature.

“Hey, hey!”  Ken waved his arms.  “We hit something and we need help.”

The driver opened the door and stepped out.  He walked past Ken in a flurry of flannel, scraggly beard and greasy hair, eyes fixed on the creature in the road, the scents of sweat, tobacco and body odor swirled about him in the night air.

“Hey, thanks for stopping, we…” Ken put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder.

The truck driver spun and pushed Ken away.  “Nacht Teufel!”  He hissed through broken teeth and began to back away toward his truck.

“What?”  Ken stumbled forward. “Hey, what the hell?  Where are you going?”

“Ein Junge Nacht Teufeufel!’, shouted the bearded stranger as he climbed back into his truck and gunned it in reverse.

“No, no, no!”  Ken sprinted after the truck as it sped away into the darkness.  He waved his arms and shouted until the tail lights disappeared into the night.  He hung his head and slowly turned back toward his wife.

“What the hell was that?”  Tanya raised her arms, palms toward the sky.  “Did he not speak English? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I don’t get it.  How could he just leave us here?”  Ken shook his head.

“I’m going to take a nap in the car.  Good luck on your walk.”  Tanya turned and headed back to the car.

“Seriously?  You’re gonna sleep while I walk alone on this ridiculous road?  In the middle of the night?” Ken spread his ams wide in disbelief.

“Good luck.”  Tanya climbed into the back seat of the disabled BMW and slammed the door.

Ken stood motionless, mouth open.  And then he heard it.  Low at first, but growing slowly louder.  A low growl rattled from the carcass on the road behind him.  He turned around and his legs buckled.

The creature’s claws made a rasping sound as they scraped the blacktop.  The eyes were wide open, luminous and green, and as big as pie plates with no visible pupils – just two organic headlights glowing in the thick night.  Slowly, it struggled upright, tilted its  chin into the night air and began to howl.  It was low and mournful at first but built quickly to an ear shattering crescendo that echoed through the black forest.

Ken clamped his hands over his ears and gathered his legs beneath him.  Gingerly, to avoid drawing attention to himself, he began to step backwards toward the safety of his car.  After a few steps he turned and broke into a run – his shoes clacking on the hard surface of the road.

The creature howled again and Ken quickened his pace.  Behind him, he could hear claws scuffling on the blacktop as it tried to regain it’s senses. He reached the car, grabbed the door handle and yanked.  It was locked.  He pounded on the window.  Inside, Tanya shook her head and extended her middle finger.

“Unlock it!” he yelled.  Tanya extended both middle fingers and lounged back down on the back seat.

“C’mon!” Ken bellowed and beat his fists bloody on the window until he was out of breath.  He paused and looked past the car into the dark forest.  Everything had gone silent.  All the katydids and crickets and tree frogs were suddenly mute.   The night seemed somehow darker as the soft rustle of the grass and the wind in the leaves coaxed a pair of giant luminous green eyes from between the trees. Ken’s blood ran cold and he felt light headed.  Slowly, a second creature, identical to but about twice the size of the injured one behind him, emerged from the shadows directly across the road from his disabled beamer.  It moved with careful determination, barely making a sound in the forest night, confirming it’s status as an evolved nocturnal predator.

Ken dropped to his knees and hid behind the car.  His heart pounded in his temples and his hand rested on his thighs where he felt something solid.  He fumbled in his pocket and pulled his cell phone and 2 receipts free before finding his car keys.  Warily, he stood back up and peered over the car.  The creature was gone.  He turned and looked behind him.

The larger creature was now tending to the injured smaller one, nuzzling and grooming it’s wounds with a giant black forked tongue.  Short chirps and whimpers drifted through the dark air as mother creature cared for her child.

Ken fumbled with his keys and dropped them, tinkling into the thick ferns.  “Shit!”  He bent down and began to rummage his fingers through the thick foliage.  Suddenly, he felt warm air on his neck and that acrid smell from before.  Before he could turn, giant, powerful jaws clamped around his torso, and bore down with unbelievable force.  His head felt as if it would burst from the mounting pressure. He felt his ribs snap and the blinding burn of his flesh tearing beneath the black razor teeth of the beast.  He was lifted above the car, sideways, his head slightly lower than his legs, which he could no longer feel as the pressure continued to increase to impossible levels.  He felt gushes of warm blood running up his back and coursing along his neck and chin.  His head swam – the pain was blinding and mounted to a crescendo of cracking bones and rending flesh followed by swirling blackness as he lost consciousness.

And then Ken was hovering above the entire scene.  He could see his limp body in the creature’s massive jaws, like a rag doll, flopping as the creature began to thrash from side to side.  After a few flicks, his body split in two, blood and entrails spilling onto the tarmac. But Ken felt at peace.  There was no pain.  In fact, no feeling at all. He looked down upon the creatures as they milled around the disabled vehicle.  Far away, he could hear his wife’s shrill screams as the mother creature pried the car doors open with giant black claws.

A white light opened up above him, drenching the night in a glorious glow of salvation.  It washed his floating spirit in joy and redemption and mitigated all earthly sounds and images, beckoning his weary soul to eternal bliss.

A feeling of unprecedented warmth and contentment flooded through Ken’s being.  He grinned and dove headfirst into the light, delighted by the realization that he was finally free of his wife’s acrid tongue forever.

Night Eyes

Here kitty, kitty…

Jerry SkullDug

Thanks for digging the dark

 

 

 

 

Greetings from the Poconos

Beware the forests of Pennsylvania. They’re dark but they’re watching you. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on end because you know that something is waiting in the darkness between the trees. Watching and waiting for you to turn your back. Just for a moment…

Go ahead, turn around...

Go ahead, turn around…

Short Story – The Floor Boy

FloorBoy2Phoebe Mason always had trouble sleeping. She was only a little girl, and, as was natural for little girls, she was prone to the nightmares that shook her from sleep in a 3 A.M. panic, leaving her defenseless in darkness, half-drowned in an ocean of sheets and sweat and tears. Even from infancy, she could scarcely get a wink without jolting upright and dropping open her mouth to scream for mommy.

To her father’s chagrin, she often demanded that her mother sleep with her so that she didn’t have to be alone. Every night for years, Phoebe’s mother spent the night with her, lulling her to sleep with sweet dreams in mind or soothing her when the nightmares shook her awake. But when Phoebe turned five, her father decided enough was enough.

“You’d think the kid would be able to make it through one night by now,” he had grumbled, walking past Phoebe’s bedroom, only to find her snuggled up with her mom.

Mrs. Mason was a patient woman, but her husband was right; it was time Phoebe learned to sleep on her own. As soon as Phoebe fell asleep that night, her mother slipped away, and the little girl was alone in the dark for the first time.

The Masons had moved into the house on Danby Drive only a few months before their daughter Phoebe was born. The house had not been lived in for years, and the last family before them had left suddenly. Mr. Mason had heard that they moved away because their young son went missing, but he thought it was unnecessary to mention it to his wife. Mrs. Mason, though patient and compassionate, had too many nervous tendencies, and to hear that a child went missing in this area would only worry her. Besides, it had been over a decade ago, and there were no such records since.

The first night Phoebe slept alone was the first night of anything unusual happening. She woke not from a nightmare but from the sound of something scratching from below. She did not jolt upright or gasp in terror. She didn’t even cry. She simply opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, listening close to the scraping beneath her bed.

A muffled voice broke through the silence, and it wasn’t Phoebe’s.

“Hello?” it said. It sounded to Phoebe like a little boy.

“Hello?” Phoebe whispered back.

“Who are you?” it asked, after a pause.

“Who are you?” Phoebe retorted.

“Marcus,” said the voice cheerily.

“I’m Phoebe. Are you real?”

“I think so. I feel real. Are you real?”

“Yes! Of course I am! Where are you?”

“I’m in the floor,” said Marcus.

When Phoebe took too long to reply, he changed the topic: “Do you want to be best friends?”

“Okay,” said Phoebe, and thus began a most peculiar friendship between a little girl and the invisible boy that lives under her bed.

The next night, Phoebe insisted that she sleep alone, and this continued for several days. Mr. Mason was happier than he had ever been, particularly in the last five years, and Mrs. Mason, though she missed her bonding night times with her daughter, was relieved that the little girl was finally starting to develop a sense of independence. There were no concerns until both of the Mason parents woke in the middle of the night to the sound of their daughter’s violent laughter.

Mrs. Mason rushed into the bedroom to find Phoebe giggling to herself, hands covering her rosy cheeks in an attempt to stifle the noise.

“What’s so funny?” asked Mrs. Mason, trying and failing to feign happiness through her exhaustion.

“My friend is telling jokes,” Phoebe replied, still giggling a little.

Mrs. Mason glanced around for a phone or a walkie-talkie, finding nothing of the sort. “Your friend? What friend?”

“Marcus. He lives under my bed.”

A sudden look of understanding passed over Mrs. Mason’s face, and this time her smile was genuine. “Marcus?” she asked, and she bent over to peer under the bed. “Ah, very nice! Hello, Marcus!” her comment was directed at the dust bunnies, for she saw nothing unusual under the little girl’s bed.

“He’s not there, mommy,” Phoebe whined. “He’s all the way under the floor.”

“Ah, I see. So then what does he look like?”

Phoebe shrugged. Then she crossed her arms and pouted. “Mommy, go away. Marcus won’t talk with you around.”

“Of course not. But doesn’t Marcus know it’s bedtime?”

“…I guess.”

“Tell Marcus he should sleep, too. His mommy and daddy probably want him to go to bed as much as your mommy and daddy do.”

“But mom-my! Marcus doesn’t have a mommy and a daddy. He said they left him here a long time ago, so he doesn’t have to do what they want.”

“Well, then I’ll be his new mommy, and I want him to go to sleep. You sleep well now, all right, Phoebe, baby?”

Phoebe uncrossed her arms, placed them at her sides, and sighed deeply. “Okay, mommy.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Mrs. Mason left, shutting the door behind her, leaving Phoebe in the dark with her “imaginary friend.” A few moments of total silence passed, in which there was no scratching, no wind-blowing, no laughing, no jokes. In those moments, Phoebe was afraid that her mother had broken some spell by finding out about her friend, and now he must be gone forever. Or worse, Phoebe had ruined her own imagination by revealing it. She would have cried if Marcus hadn’t spoken up.

“Your mommy sounds nice,” he said. “She’s gonna be my mommy.”

He began scratching again, a quiet, persistent pattern of fingernails running against rough wood.

“She’s a nice mommy,” Phoebe concurred. “But I like talking to you better.”

“Someday you should help me up so she can be my mommy.” He scratched harder, the grainy sound of friction growing stronger.

Phoebe thought about this. “But I like it this way.”

“I don’t. I want her to be my mommy. Can you help me up?” Marcus was scratching madly now, hard and sharp against the wood, and the noise thundered through Phoebe’s ears until she could scarcely breathe.

Mrs. Mason couldn’t fall asleep that night. Instead, she lay completely and totally awake, scanning the ceiling, biting her fingernails. Something about that conversation had struck her oddly, and it was nagging at her.

At around 2:30 A.M., she could no longer contain herself, so she woke her husband by shaking his shoulder rather aggressively.

“What? What is it? What do you want?” asked Mr. Mason dazedly, still half-asleep.

“This house. Who lived here before us?”

“It was empty.”

“Come on, Jim. It’s an old house. Someone must’ve lived here.”

“Uh… I don’t know, twenty years ago some people lived here.”

“Why did they leave?”

“I didn’t want to tell you.”

“What is it? What happened here?”

“Their kid went missing. He was Phoebe’s age.”

Mrs. Mason had a sudden pounding of her heart, a sudden nagging feeling in her chest. Her head throbbed with every quickening step toward her daughter’s room. When she got there, she threw the door open and turned on the light only to find that the bed had been pushed against the wall crookedly, blankets strewn everywhere, and Phoebe was sitting on the floor clawing ravenously at the floorboards. There were tears in her eyes, and her fingernails bled, leaving crimson streaks on the wooden floors, but there was unbridled glee in her voice while she giggled to herself madly.

“What’s wrong, Phoebe? What’s going on?” Mrs. Mason repeated shrilly, trying to pull her daughter away from a slightly darkened spot on the floor. “You stop that! Stop this right now!”

But Phoebe was persistent, and the wood chipped away under her nails, creating little holes and crevasses in the floor. Only darkness lay beneath them, but it was an open darkness, like the space underneath a porch, filled with a vast and empty sort of black.

Mrs. Mason dragged Phoebe away but crawled closer to the spot. Gingerly, she dug her fingernails into the wood and pulled, scraping away at it. One of the boards was just faintly the wrong shape; its edges peeled in some places, leaving narrow gaps in others. It was wrong for the house, like it had never meant to be there. That was the one Phoebe had dug at, and eventually Mrs. Mason pulled the board loose. She instinctively brought her arm up to cover her face when she saw what lay below.

There lay the missing child.

There lay the body of a boy abandoned, ignored, forgotten.

A little corpse, a little mummified boy with empty, hollowed eyes, all blackened by time and rot, lying in the space below. He was covered in spider webs and dust and dead flies and everything that had ever made Mrs. Mason want to vomit. And he almost seemed alive, for his hands were facing upward, his fingernails were rubbed raw, and the petrified skin was embedded with wooden splinters that looked far too fresh.

Little Miss Mad

Little Miss Mad

Our Skulls Runneth Over…

First of all, thanks to all you new subscribers and welcome to the LooksDark Blog.  I know it’s been a little while between posts, but I’ve been really busy digging up some rotted treasures for your enjoyment.  So let’s get right to it…I promised updates and behind the scenes information regarding what’s being exhumed here at SkullDug Films so here goes…

  • AreaZ – short subject
    • Log line:   A distraught widower, his son and a bungling neighbor embark upon a mission of revenge against a former place of employment only to expose a conspiracy far darker than they ever imagined.
    • In pre-production – research phase complete – currently on 3rd draft of script
    • Will be posting research material sneak peek in a week or so.
  • Dark90 – serial webisodes – A little slice of horror in 90 seconds or less.
    • First episode – “One Man’s Treasure”  – log line:  Criminals unearth a treasure chest in the forest but get more than they bargained for.
    • currently in storyboard phase – hope to post some sneak peeks this month.
DoorRenderTest

Please, stop that knocking, please!

  • Ravens – 2nd Poe re-imagining project
      • Log line:  A man, consumed by grief and books, is tormented by a visitor in a lonely, decayed steampunk apartment.
    • Currently in pre-production/production design phase.
    • Script in 2nd draft.

 

 

 

  • TeamZ:  Web series
    • log line:  Got zombies?  Call TeamZ for all your Living Dead Eradication Services – prices to suite any budget – all members licensed and bonded.
    • In pre-production.
  • Symbol14
    • Sorry, this one’s a secret!  But we are in production research stage – oh yeah, this will have a crowd sourcing component as well as some transmedia storytelling – my skull is humming!

Oh yes, I almost forgot – there’s a new SkullDug short story that I’ve just been putting the finishing touches on.  It’s part of a series called “Tales from the Boschard” and I hope to posting it in the next several days.

Dig The Dark,

JerrySkullDugSmall2PS.  Look for a SkullDug website redesign in the next month or so…

 

A review of Pan’s Labyrinth

Pan's Labyrinth movie graphic

A tree grows in a girl’s mind…

Pan’s Labyrinth (or, it’s original title, “El laberinto del fauno”) is a 2006 foreign fantasy/horror film directed by Guillermo del Toro, and it’s one of my favorite movies. Taking place in 1944, a few years after the Spanish Civil War, the film focuses in on a young girl fighting to cope with many changes and traumas that she has faced and is still facing as the story moves on. This dark fantasy also incorporates the reality of strife in post-Civil War Spain, tying it in with contrasting transitions.

The plot, with as few spoilers as I can manage, is as follows: A young girl named Ofelia moves in with her new stepfather, a ruthless military leader. In an overgrown, dilapidated labyrinth, she encounters a mythical creature – a Faun – who tells her that she is believed to be the princess of a forgotten world. However, she must prove that she is the princess by completing several tasks. But this is truly a dark fantasy, with realism tied in – a subplot involving Spanish rebels, the cruelty of Ofelia’s stepfather, and her mother’s declining health, all running parallel to Ofelia’s alternate world.

At first, it sounded fairly mild. I was lulled into a false sense of security by all this talk of princesses and fairies (although the dark coloration and lighting told me this was no lighthearted film). I admit, I was caught off-guard by the gruesome occurrences in both the reality and fantasy story lines. This really is a movie that can hold your attention, sometimes seizing it when you least expect it.

Pan's Bad Man

C’mon, help me find my contacts…

Full-bodied, detailed SFX makeup create fantastic creature designs, such as the Faun himself or perhaps the most terrifying antagonist, the Pale Man (both of whom are played by Doug Jones, who’s probably been in something else you’ve already seen). As the story progresses, most of the characters become more developed and fascinating, and you will either grow attached to them or hate them – either way, some emotion is invested, which is always a sign of a good character, protagonist and antagonist alike.

All in all, this movie has a captivating plot with subplots intertwined, all of which fall together at the end quite nicely. The final scene is fairly open-ended and can be interpreted to the watchers’ choosing – in short, it could either be a happy ending or a sad ending, depending on how you look at it. As a fantasy, it’s filled with beautiful images and modified versions of classic mythology. As a horror, it lacks the generic guts and gore that many horror fans seek, but it has plenty of little moments that will quench the blood thirst and several that will have you at the edge of your seat.

Little Miss Mad

Little Miss Mad

-@Little_Miss_Mad

Hellavator

There’s lots of stories in this ole’ skull of mine.  Quite frankly, too many to produce as media in my lifetime.  So I thought why not just write them down and share them.  So here goes.  Most of my recent writing has been in screenplay format, so going back to the old literature-what-is-the-character-thinking-feeling-etc format is a bit out of my comfort zone.  But hey, I’ve got stories and they got’s to come out so enjoy and bear with me while I get my short story chops back…Oh yeah, I forgot – I’m going to put links to more info throughout the stories and illustrations & perhaps animations (my own, of course) – isn’t it time that literature evolves with the information age?  Perhaps…I’m sure literature purists will wave their arms and accuse me of leading the witnesses…we shall see…let me know what you think…
JerrySkullDug
-SkullDug Jerry
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Hellavator

Elevator2

Frank stood motionless, eyes transfixed on the stainless steel doors.  Waiting.  He watched the numbers count down – 52, 51, 50.  He hated the word – E-L-E-V-A-T-O-R.  It was too symmetrical – same number of consonants as vowels – unnatural.  He had been trapped in an elevator for three hours when he was 7.  The old man he was trapped with spent the time doing unnatural things to him.  That was another word he hated – P-E-D-O-P-H-I-L-E.

He had managed to avoid this moment for nearly 40 years. He took the stairs, good for the heart – at first he would stop every 10 floors, but now he stopped every 5, burning legs, heaving chest.   Wasn’t exercise good for high cholesterol?  Dr. Smith said “you need more cardio, I don’t like these numbers”.  What was that medicine he had refused to take?

As he stared,  dread began to climb up his ankles, his legs, his buttocks and groin.  It slithered over his hips and wound it’s way around his spine.  Sweat trickled down his back. His neck and cheeks flushed.

Karma.  It was karma that had written this comedy of errors.  He had never cheated on his wife.  10 years of marriage, 2 beautiful children.  Straight arrow all the way.  But today he had broken his vows.  The new paralegal was just too willing, too persistent and too hot.  And now, there was Karma, grinning, laughing.  Karma had hired the crew to repaint the stairwells today – stretching that yellow tape across the doorways.  Karma had arranged his first trip in the metal box on a wire – the Otis death trap.  Karma was conducting this horrendous atonal symphony.

Dread was now holding Frank’s head in both hands, jamming it’s tongue down his throat like the paralegal had done 2 hours ago in his office.  He swallowed hard.  Dread was now swirling around in his stomach, making his head spin.  And then “ding! –  the elevator opened it’s jaws wide, an empty stainless steel and faux wood grain crypt.

“Grow up, be a man” he scolded himself.  He mustered every ounce of courage and stepped across the threshold.  He closed his eyes and the doors slid shut behind him.  He was alone in the box.  How many elevator accidents were there every year?

“There, you’re in.  Was that so horrible?”  He opened his eyes and watched the numbers count down. 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, and then BAM! It happened.  First there was a loud pop and then the sound of the cable whipping around in the elevator shaft.  The lights flickered and then went out – plunging the universe into darkness.  Emergency power clacked on and an eerie red light flickered to life – bathing the interior with a hellish glow.  Metal groaned, the floor shuddered and then another “BANG” and the elevator went into free fall.

“I’ll come clean if I survive this” he pleaded in his head.  “I’ll tell her the whole story and we’ll get past it all.  Just let me survive this – please!”  The floor dropped and a sickening weightlessness filled his chest.  A flurry of images swirled in his head – his mother, smiling, sending him alone to the corner grocery, the firm breasts of the paralegal, the horrid grin of the elevator pedophile – thick, dirty fingers unzipping his fly.

His heart pounded in his throat, a lightening bolt of pain radiated through his shoulder and down his arm.  He felt sick.  His stomach spasmed and he vomited.  It hung in the air for few seconds, victim to the same free fall and slowly draped itself across the walls.  The fall seemed to last forever.  How can four stories be such a long trip?

He remembered that someone somewhere said “if you jump just before impact, you will survive“.  He had to time this just right.  He watched the numbers dwindle – 40, 39, 38.  He crouched, ready to spring.  Down, down, the elevator plunged – 30, 29, 28, 27.  Faster and faster, the smell of hot metal and burning paint flooded the chamber. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4.

The pain in his arm intensified and he felt an unbearable weight upon his chest.  He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t move, his arm was on fire, his chest collapsing.  Through a haze he saw the numbers – 3,2,1.  The lights flickered and he tried to jump but his legs buckled.  Suddenly…

…everything stopped.  There was no crash, no twisted metal, no wrenching impact.  The lights flickered and everything was still.  The pain in his arm was gone.  His chest felt light.  His breathing was regular and he had stopped sweating.  He blinked and wiped his eyes.  He was OK.  He had survived.  “Ha!  Karma my ass! I am alive!”  He began to laugh.  He slumped down against the back wall and laughed like a giddy schoolgirl.  The lights flickered again and “ding” the doors opened.

Corridor2

He looked up and smiled.  Through the yawning doors he could see a dark corridor.  It was constructed from quarried stone blocks, each about 2 feet by 3 feet.  They were scarred and stained by centuries of wear.  Torches flickered a faint orange glow, intimidated by the darkness of the corridor.  White objects littered the stone block floor of the corridor.  He squinted and his smile disintegrated.  Is this the sub basement?  The smell of rotted meat and sulfur wafted into the elevator.  He closed his eyes and opened them again.

A dark figure was now standing before him.  Thick gloves covered meaty hands and he was dressed in a heavy coat and loose pants of a stiff fabric that appeared to be coated in soot.  A long, dark object dangled from his left hand and trailed along the floor.  His face was a mystery.  It was as if the area where his face should have been was bending the light around it – an ocular dead spot.  Must be an effect of the fall he thought.

Frank blinked again and rubbed his eyes.  “Hey –  you with the fire department?”  He straightened up and brushed dust from his sport coat.  “Man am I glad to see you!”

Silence.  The figure did not move.

“Boy, I’ve always hated those damn things.  I think I might need some medical assistance – that was quite a fall.”

The figure remained motionless and mute.

“Hell – o!  I said I think I might need some kind of medical check up…”

With a lightening flick of his wrist, the figure whipped the rusted chain through the darkness.  It struck Frank just below his jaw and wound around his neck 3 times.

He tried to scream, but his trachea was crushed by the chain.  He dropped to his knees and grabbed the links that continued to tighten, mangling his airway.  He sputtered and the warm thrill of blood painted his lips.

The figure jerked his arm and dropped his captive prone.  Slowly, the dark stranger began to drag Frank into the darkness of the corridor.

Frank tried to scream, but managed only a gurgle.  His writhing arms and legs disturbed the bits of bone and dried flesh strewn about on the floor.

He watched behind him as the elevator doors slowly closed, devouring all hope.  Above the door, illuminated numbers flickered for a moment – an upside down 4, a backwards 3 and an 11. He heard the breath of his captor rasping – or was it a low, whispered laugh.

elevatorNumbers

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Copyright SkullDugFilms – 2013

 

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Other SkullDug approved stories and poems:

http://www.burialday.com/short-fiction/kelpie

http://www.burialday.com/short-fiction/worm-house#more-630

http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/horrorindex.html