Damsels In Distress

"Impending Insanity" 

Melanie Morrow tugged at the restraints which bound her to the gurney. No matter how much she twisted about and pulled at her bindings, they refused to give way. Realizing that all of her feeble attempts at escape were futile, she suddenly went limp. A tear slowly began to trickle down her cheek as she recalled a long ago conversation.

Melanie had only been ten years old at the time, but she remembered every word with crystal clarity. Her mother, Georgia, stood behind her chair, absentmindedly running a comb through her hair. In the mirror before her, Melanie could see that her mom had a faraway look in her eyes. That usually occurred right before she had a relapse and ended up going into a mental institution.

“Sweetie,” Georgia whispered, “I’m starting to feel bad again. I might have to go away for a little while. But I’ll return one day, just like before. Don’t think I don’t love you, because I love you more than anything in this world.”

“Oh, no! Not again, mommy. Please, don’t leave me. I love you.”

“It’ll be okay. They’ll put you back into one of those orphanages.”

Melanie’s cheeks became wet with tears. “But I’m not an orphan. I don’t belong with those kids. I want to stay with you,” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry, but Mommy needs a rest. Someday, you’ll understand when it happens to you.”

“When what happens to me? What are you talking about?”

Georgia smiled sadly at her daughter. “Honey, insanity runs in our family. I inherited it from my mother and she inherited it from her mother. It’s a crazy gene that was passed along. You’ve got it, too, from me. One day, you’ll see it surfacing in the mirror.”

Melanie was struck with terror at her mother’s words. The thought of going insane filled her with a fear she’d never known. She vowed to check the mirror daily, for the rest of her life, for signs of impending insanity. A sense of doom and gloom settled over her. Melanie had felt so happy to live with her mom, although she’d known it wouldn’t last. Georgia just couldn’t function in normal society for very long.

She would do well at first, finding a job, buying a car, and renting an apartment for herself and her daughter. Georgia would even receive a number of gentlemen callers, asking for a date. She was an attractive woman, who could easily have her pick of men. Sometimes she’d select a boyfriend she deemed suitable for a mate. But he never hung around for more than a couple of months before taking off elsewhere.

Georgia always slipped into a deep depression, which was guaranteed to send her partner packing. Melanie often felt sad that her substitute dads had left, since she didn’t know who her real father was. But sometimes she was relieved when the men were gone. Some of those creeps slipped in her room at night and crawled into her bed, when Georgia was passed out from a night of drinking.

They did things to Melanie that she instinctively knew were wrong. But she felt so ashamed that she couldn’t tell her mom what was happening. Georgia had enough stress on her already and Melanie didn’t want to add more tension. She didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, not then and not now, twenty years later. Yet that was exactly how she felt as she lay strapped down in an asylum.

She glanced up hopefully, when she heard the sound of the door being unlocked. Her doctor walked in, accompanied by a nurse and two interns. They gathered around her, scrutinizing her as if she were some freak on display in a sideshow.

Well, she wasn’t some odd character who earned money by being gawked at by disgusted circus goers. She was a full-fledged movie star, with fans who adored her and a lifestyle some people only dreamed of.

“Let me out of here!” she yelled. “I’m not crazy. I had a nervous breakdown. But I’m better and I want to go home.”

The doctor shook his head doubtfully. “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for a while longer.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion by the doorway. Melanie’s husband, John, rushed into the room to her side. “Doctor Michaels, my wife is not insane. Undo her restraints right now and sign her release. I’m taking her home with me. And if you try to stop me, my attorney will bury you.”

The doctor nodded and the interns unfastened Melanie’s bindings. Without another word, John scooped her up into his arms and walked out of the building.

She clung to him for dear life, whispering, “Oh, thank God. This nightmare is finally over.”

***

"Bewitched By A Vixen"

The cards had been dealt. I, Detective Robert Malone, was officially bewitched by a flaxen-haired vixen, with emerald-green eyes. Lenora Lennox possessed the kind of irises that pierced right through to your soul, drawing you into a tangled web. What an intricate pattern she wove! Talk about a femme fatale. If I had my way, I’d teach her how to count to sixty-nine and nail her right on my desk.

“Please, find him. I’m so worried about my man,” she pleaded desperately.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll turn him up in no time,” I promised.

“Oh, thank you, Detective Malone. I just don’t know what I’d do without him,” she purred.

“He’s a lucky rascal,” I returned. “If anyone can sniff him out, I can.”   

As I watched her swaying hips retreating, I knew the next move would be up to me. There was a lot riding on my course of action. I could easily end up knee-deep in a reeking pile of manure. I smelled a rat and not the one I caught in a mousetrap earlier that day.

She showed up at my office three days ago, asking me to help locate her missing boyfriend. Deke “Dickie” Richardson was one of the town ruffians. He’d garnered a reputation for being fond of the ladies and given to tossing back hard liquor, until he forgot who was president.

Lenora’s beau was bound to pop up soon enough, after satiating himself with some devil delights. I’d spent the past few nights combing the sewers, talking to every low life scumbag this side of the Big Apple.

***

As I left the office, I thought I’d venture on down to Vista Boulevard. A couple of my sources told me I might pick up Dickie’s scent there. So off I went, to gather the breadcrumbs discarded on the trail. They don’t call me ‘Bloodhound Bob’ for nothing.

On my way, I stopped off at a local watering hole, for a couple shots of bourbon. It was one of those dingy, dimly-lit joints complete with pool sharks and tramps. I ignored the working girls, despite their attempts at pitching their merchandise. I wasn’t one to be suckered in easily and if I got any action, it wouldn’t be with the likes of these broads. I preferred dames who possessed class with their sass.

After I wet my throat at the bar, I headed for the exit. Bumping into ‘Slick’ Stevens, the town slush, I mumbled a hasty greeting. Then I asked, “Hey, you seen Dickie around, lately?”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied, scratching his greasy head absentmindedly. He grinned, displaying a row of semi-rotten teeth. “Why? He in trouble or something?”

“Nah, not that I’m aware of. His girl’s been to my office, wanting me to check on his whereabouts.”

“Oh, I get it. Well, I ain’t seen him. But if you find Dickie, tell him he owes me fifty bucks, will ya?”

“Sure thing, Slick. Say, drop by my office tomorrow. May have a job for ya. See you around.”

As I made my way to the door, I noticed one of the sharks giving me the eye. ‘Shifty’ Nickels was the biggest pool hustler and confidence man around. I’d recognize that flat-top anywhere.

Never one to shrug off a bad vibe, I approached the lion in his den. He glanced down at the table and bent over, pretending to ignore me, while he lined up his next pool shot.

“You got a problem wit me, Shifty?” I demanded. “I seen you throwin’ darts in my direction.”

He paused briefly, glaring up at me, with venom in his gaze. “Nah, I ain’t got no problem wit you, Bloodhound Bob. Now, do you mind? I got a game to run here,” he hissed impatiently.

“You seen Dickie recently, pal? His chick, Lenora, says he’s missing in action.”

“Hadn’t seen him and don’t care to,” Shifty spat out, dismissing me, as he returned to his shot.

***

Parking at the corner of Belton Avenue and Vista Boulevard, I slid out of my Packard. I stealthily began exploring the area Dickie was known to frequent. Passing street lamps and sauntering down dark alleyways, I went. I encountered the occasional punk kid and scruffy beggar. But other than that I was relatively undeterred in my mission.

I knocked on a few doors, asked some questions and flashed a photo of Dickie. The whole time, I swore I could feel someone’s eyes upon me. It felt eerie, making me more than a little nervous. I kept one hand in my pocket, firmly fastened around my snub-nosed revolver. I was on the ready to draw and fire at a moment’s notice.

Without warning, someone grabbed me from behind. I whisked my gun out and spun around, training it on the individual. I was surprised to see the face of none other than Dickie himself.

“Wait, don’t shoot! I mean you no harm,” he cried out, raising his hands up in the air.

Satisfied that he carried no weapon, I walked towards him cautiously. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

“I know. See, I had to hide out here. Shifty’s been after me. I owe him some money, from a rotten pool deal,” he explained.

“Looks like I just found ya,” Shifty yelled suddenly. “This wise guy unknowingly led me right to ya.”

He started firing bullets, as we both scrambled for cover. I returned the shots, until one of them struck Shifty in the chest. He landed on the pavement with a loud thud, groaning in agony. With one hand, I scooped him up by his collar and drug him to my Packard.

I figured I’d take him to the hospital, so they could patch him up. Then I’d deposit him at the station and drive Dickie home to his Lenora. Afterwards, I’d file a report at the office, before heading home to call it a night. Another case solved and squared away by Bloodhound Bob.

***

"Returning To Casa Del Mal"
 
 "Whoso rewardeth evil for good, evil shall not depart from his house". Proverbs 17:13

Once again, I had the dreary dream.  Walking slowly up the narrow lane, I come to a formidable Gothic mansion. It stands proud and majestic, yet haunted with ghosts from the past.

Reluctantly, I approach the white, picket fence which encircles the property. It was built to keep people out, but I always feel as though it were designed to capture me within its evil embrace.

Clouds of misty fog and hallways shrouded in darkness surround me. One single, dimly lit candle I hold illuminates the shadows, as I make my way along.

Behind each door, I know there is a clue. The trick to the game involves selecting the right room to enter; the one that contains the mysterious surprise I am seeking. If only I can find the answers to the questions I desperately yearn to discover. Painful memories take me back to days gone by.

As a child I lived and played in this house, a mere pawn of my parents. They constantly quarreled and placed me in the middle of their debates.

Growing up, I felt like a tug of war was being conducted, with me as the rope. I don't recall ever feeling loved or wanted by anyone. Instructions given to me were to be seen and not heard. So, I existed without a voice of my own, at the mercy of my tormenters.

From the time I was first brought to the house, I sensed an ominous atmosphere within its domain. At night, I swore I could hear children crying. There was also a woman weeping and an angry man shouting.

But I never made out exactly what he said. Moans would filter throughout the gloomy rooms. I lay awake in terror some nights, praying for God's protection from harm.

If only my father had been the kind of man who could love his family. He worked from dusk until dawn and came home exhausted. He used to yell at my mother and slap her around. Nothing was ever good enough for him. He just wouldn't be satisfied.

If only my mother had been the kind of woman who could be brave enough to run away. She could have taken me far from this place. Then my father would have found something else to do at midnight, when his lust burned a fire in his pants.

Once he finished with her, his footsteps used to sound in the hallway, coming towards my bedroom. I always hid underneath my covers, so frightened of what he would do to me next.

They say there are ghosts lurking inside this massive manor and I believe it. I saw and heard them when I lived here. One of them, Penelope, a little girl my own age, spoke to me regularly. She told me that her father hurt her and her mother, too. They used to live in the house decades before we moved here.

She said late one night her father murdered her mother, in a blind rage. Then he ravaged Penelope's young body one last time and put her into an eternal sleep. After that, he turned his own gun on himself.

I am returning to Casa Del Mal, the House of Evil. The truth is hidden amongst the debris and crumbling fortress walls. Somewhere within the ancient dwelling I will find myself. For there is a part of me which was lost long ago and I must locate it.

Lurking amidst the murky, dank mildew of despair is an innocent child. Trembling and terrified of the man whose boots stomp in anger; whose fists pound in fury; the monster whose male appendage doomed the once fruitful womb of his daughter.

Suddenly, I open my eyes and I am in my old home. I'm not sure how I arrived here so quickly. I didn't even travel by automobile. It is almost like I floated in a disembodied manner to my destination.

To my surprise, I encounter a new family, who is moving into this foreboding mansion. Why would anyone want to live here? There is so much grief and pain, so much misery. God, please save the souls here.

Whenever I attempt to warn the family, they ignore me, like I'm not even present. All at once, it dawns on me that they cannot see or hear me.

Realization seeps in slowly like the fog lifting from the sea. I am a ghost, one of many who haunt this creepy place. Penelope is with me. Her same tragic circumstances became my own. Instead of good, evil beget evil. I haven't been dreaming of my return. In fact, I never left this house at all.

Thirty years ago, my world ended when my family and I died here. I must warn this family or they will fall prey to a similar fate, beyond the white, picket fence.

***

"Romance On The High Seas (The Captain's Prize)"

It was in the 17th century, somewhere off the European coastline. I paced the deck restlessly as I waited for the Captain to make his appearance above deck. I was kidnapped by a band of pirates, along with a dozen other wenches. We were hauled aboard a huge Spanish-designed galleon.

The swashbucklers each selected a mate from amongst us. They carried the lovely lasses below deck, to their private cabins. From where I stood, I was able to hear the sounds of those lost in intimate adventures.

I felt very uneasy, for I had been selected to be the Captain’s own prize booty. I was considered the prime choice and as such, must be especially reserved for the man in charge of the ship.

Though I knew there was little I could do to escape, I considered the possibility. I could try to row away, but they’d catch up to me. If I jumped into the blue surf below, I might become the next meal of the sea creatures that swam about hungrily.

As I pictured in my mind’s eye what the captain might look like, the picture I painted wasn’t pretty. He was probably mean as a rattlesnake and ugly as a freak of nature.

Undoubtedly, he must have a hook for an arm and a stump for a leg, like many captains usually did. If his crew bore any indication, he couldn’t be too easy on the eyes. The other ship mates were hideous.

I didn’t know how my friends were able to stand the sight of them, much less be handled by them. But, I guess the other wenches had little choice except to comply with their wishes. Just like me, unfortunately.

A sense of dread filled me, for I knew soon my mate would be coming for me, too. He’d take me to places I didn’t want to go. He’d do things to me I didn’t want him to do. Why me, dear Lord? How could I avoid such a cruel fate?

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching me. I held my breath in anticipation and fear. As soon as I saw the pirate captain who came to stand before me, I relaxed considerably.

He was actually very handsome and all of his limbs were fully intact. What a pleasant surprise!

“Ahoy there, young lassie! I be Captain Barrett Jenkins. Here, lemme have a look at ya,” he requested.

The long-haired captain with dark-brown curls slowly circled me, carefully appraising. A smile of acceptance and admiration spread across his face as he studied me.

I swallowed anxiously and waited for him to invite me to speak. I knew this was a sign of respect.

“Ye be a mite pretty, me curvy wench. What name be ye called by?” he asked me.

“I answer to Millie Patton, Captain,” I responded.

“Millie, the wee filly,” he pronounced with a hearty chuckle. “Ye’ll do rather nicely. Come with me.”

He took my hand and led me along the deck, to a small set of stairs. We descended below deck, arriving at a narrow corridor. He opened one of the doors and ushered me inside. “This be Captain’s quarters. Ye’ll reside here with meself.”

I peered around, taking in the comfortable atmosphere. The lush furniture, sparkling jewels and a large table spread with a sumptuous feast. “Lovely room, sir. It suits my fancy greatly.”

He nodded, pleased with my approval. He pointed over to a treasure chest brimming with fine gems. Picking up a bunch of flowers, he handed them to me. “Me gift to ye, luv.”

His romantic nature appealed to me. I accepted them gratefully. I curtsied and replied, “Much obliged to ya. Mighty fine presents, indeed.”

All at once, the sounds of moaning could be heard. When the captain caught sight of my fearful expression, he smiled at me understandingly. “Not to worry, lassie. There be plenty o’ time for samplin’ each other’s wares. Me wanna get to know ye first.”

I relaxed visibly. “Right, sir. I thank thee kindly.”

 With that assurance, I returned his grin. I realized with the utmost delight I was going to like this unexpected romance on the high seas, after all.

***

"Walking Me Home (The Ghost Light)"
 

My name is Lorelei Jones. I have an incident I'd like to share with you. This is a frightening occurrence that happened to me when I was a girl of sixteen. The year was 1925. We had to walk to and from school in my community. There were no buses in my area to fetch kids and return them safely home.

Being an only child, I made the two-mile journey to and from the old schoolhouse by myself. Mainly because Papa left before dawn and didn't return until nightfall. He pulled long hours at the saw mill to support his family of three and one on the way.

Occasionally, Mama asked me to run an errand after class. When this happened, I was late getting home. The sun would be setting, as dusk crept in. I wasn't afraid because I felt comforted by the ghost light that appeared near the railroad tracks. It followed me from school, until I safely reached home, and then it disappeared.

Some said the unexplained light belonged to a young railroad worker named Timmy Taylor. He was murdered while working alone one night. He died five years before I was born. But, it seemed he watched over me every evening. It was as if, in a sense, he was walking me home.

I spoke to him and prayed to God out loud, as I made my journey homeward each day. There was a feeling of oneness between me, my ghostly protector and my Creator. Some people doubted Timmy's existence. They laughed and said there was no such thing as ghosts. Yet, I believed in him and I knew in my heart he walked with me.

Early one morning when I headed out for school, Mama handed me my paper sack lunch. She placed some money into the handmade satchel she'd sewn together for me.

"Honey, please be careful out there. That evil convict, Brutus Smith, escaped from prison last night. He might head for these parts. I couldn't bear for anything to happen to you," she cautioned me.

Nodding my head, I replied, "I'll be fine, Mama. Please, don't worry about me."

 Later that afternoon, when school dismissed, I made the trek over to Baker's general store for some grocery items. Mama wanted me to carry them over to her sister Ethel's house. My aunt was sick and couldn't go to the store. While there, I overheard people chatting about the escaped prisoner.

"Yeah, I hear Smith killed five men and two women," Harvey Dobson said to his buddies. "He's mean as a dang rattlesnake."

Leonard Vestus chimed in. "Why, he ain't nothing but a murderous thief. He'd just as soon kill you as look at you."

I shivered at those remarks, despite the fact that it was reasonably warm, fall weather. The line was particularly long, so I ended up having to wait a while. After gathering up my groceries, I ventured into the fresh, early evening air. It was just starting to grow dim.   

I stayed with my aunt Ethel for nearly an hour, listening to her complaints about not feeling well. She warned me, "You watch out for that convict on your way home."

"I will keep a look out, Auntie. Now, let me fix you something to eat," I suggested.

 I put her food up, and then prepared hot soup for her. She only ate a few bites before pushing it away. Once she fell soundly asleep, I left for home.   

I glanced around noticing how dark it had grown. I'd never been detained this late and felt anxious to get to the house. The talk of the prisoner made me a bit edgy. I kept peering from one side of the road to the other, to make sure no one lurked along the roadway.

I relaxed a little bit whenever I caught sight of the ghost light by the railroad tracks. It followed me while I walked, lugging my satchel on my shoulders.

For the first mile, things were relatively uneventful. The occasional car drove by or an animal, such as a rabbit or cat, shot across the road. During the second and final mile of my trip, I began to feel uneasy. I had the distinct sensation of being watched.

Thoughts of the bad man who broke out of prison came to my mind again. I hastened my steps a bit more. I tried to shake off my nervousness. But the feeling of being observed overwhelmed me.

I tried humming a tune to distract myself. I asked for Timmy's protection. I also prayed God would keep me safe from harm. I heard noises from somewhere behind me. My pace quickened with each forward motion. I wanted to break into a full run, yet I stifled the urge. Something told me to not invite a chase unless absolutely necessary.

The odd sounds drew nearer and I moved as swiftly as possible without sprinting along at a gallop. I was certain someone was back there, stalking me. My heart started pounding; my breathing increased. I had a premonition that the convict was closing in on me.

I prayed again loudly. I called out to Timmy's ghost once more. "God, please protect me. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

Suddenly, someone lunged at me from behind. I sidestepped the attack and spun to face my assailant. It was the escaped prisoner.

"Come here, little girl!" he hissed, through clenched teeth. "Give me all your money." He held out his grimy paws expectantly.

I backed as far away from him as I could. "I don't have any money."  

He advanced towards me. "I've been in the joint for five years. I need a woman." He reached for me again.

I screamed in horror and peeled off my satchel, then brought it down over his head. I quickly raced over by the railroad tracks, where the ghost light shone brightly. "Timmy, help me!" I pleaded desperately.

After recovering from the blow, Brutus gave chase, grabbing me from behind. He laughed wickedly. "You're mine!"

"Turn me loose!" I yelled, to no avail. I kicked and swung my fists, trying to break free from his iron grip.

 "Shut up, kid!" he ordered. He chuckled at my attempts to free myself. "You're not going anywhere."

 All of a sudden, the ghost light turned from white into a sunny yellow. I could see the outline of a man in its center.

"Brutus Smith, you murdered me twenty years ago and stole my money. But, you will not hurt Lorelei Jones. Let her go, now!" he commanded forcefully.

Brutus released his grip on me. When I turned to regard him, I saw him staggering around in a stupor. "Timmy Taylor," he mumbled. "You're dead. I killed you with my own hammer."

He swooned and keeled over, crumbling into a heap upon the ground. I knew that he was no longer living. I had just been saved by the ghost of a dead man.

"Thank you, Timmy. And thank you, God," I whispered into the night air. I resumed my walk home and tried to calm my frazzled nerves. I'd suffered a tremendous shock.

Soon, a car traveled along the road. I flagged it down and was relieved to find Papa behind the wheel.

As I slipped into the passenger seat, he looked at me with a worried expression. "Lorelei, what are you doing out here so late? Are you okay?"

I offered him a weak smile and replied, "I am now, Papa. Please, take me home."

The next day, Smith's body was recovered. They said he died of a massive heart attack. But, I knew better. He perished from fright of the ghostly light. I never saw it anymore after that incident. I guess Timmy could rest in peace once justice was served.

I'll always remember that terrifying experience. And I'll be forever grateful to Timmy and to God for sparing my life on that frightening night.

***

"An Unplanned Burial (Arsenic In Small Doses)"

As Clayton Moore patted dirt into place over the makeshift grave, he thought back over the last few days. He'd passed through town, a traveling salesman needing temporary shelter. Someone directed him to the home of Wilma and Sarah Applegate. They allowed businessmen to stay in a room for a small fee. They were very happy to welcome him into their house as a guest.

The two passive, elderly women doted on Clayton like he was their son. He was lonely from his travels and their attention touched his heart. He didn't notice anything peculiar about them right away. They appeared to be compassionate spinsters with hearts of gold. But, soon he observed how the other salesmen stopped in for a brief stay, only to disappear mysteriously.

Clayton recalled how they'd complained of feeling sick shortly before vanishing, without a trace. Even though it seemed odd, he didn't give it much thought. But before long, he started to feel the same way himself. For several days he had unusual spells of severe headaches, vomiting, and diarrhea. 

It was at that point when he realized how the two sisters encouraged the men to fill up on food and drink. The way they insisted on plying everyone with spirits and solids, was almost like pouring liquid down a funnel. The night before he planned to depart, he happened to overhear them plotting his demise. 

"Wilma, he's leaving us tomorrow. So, we must administer one final, fatal dose before he sets off. The power of arsenic will do the trick rather nicely, just like it did with all the others."

"Yes, it's such a shame, Sarah. He really is a nice man. It's too bad for him that he has to move on. Well, after the steady dosages we've been giving him, it won't take much."

After eavesdropping on their gruesome conversation, Clayton felt like his illusion was shattered. He realized the sisters were nothing but cold-blooded killers. So, he decided to beat them at their own game. He got up early and found their stash of arsenic. When they arose, he tricked them into drinking their own poison. Due to the massive dose he gave them, it only took 61 minutes for them to literally drop dead.

Afterwards, he cleaned up the mess and carried their bodies outside, to bury them with their victims. By exacting his own brand of revenge, he made sure that they wouldn't kill, rob and bury him, like they did the other men. They'd never commit their evil acts upon another human being again.

Now, standing by their graveside, he watched his hand slowly bleed from a cut. The tiny gash had been made by picking up a teacup with a broken handle. One of the women dropped it after ingesting the deadly brew. He sighed in revulsion over the events which transpired over the last couple of hours. He harbored mixed feelings about his actions. A part of him felt guilty for poisoning the elderly women. But in a way, they really had it coming for some time.

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. May He show mercy to us all on Judgment Day," he whispered.

Perhaps he was no better than they were, since he'd stooped to their level. But on the same token, he had rid the community of its two most manipulative and deadly residents. Somewhere out there were families wondering why their father, brother, or son hadn't come home yet. Thanks to Clayton, no one else would have to go through such an ordeal in the future. This fact gave him some measure of satisfaction, at least.

Wiping the crud of the mud from his shoes, he prepared to go somewhere far away. He walked to the front porch and grasped his suitcase. He whistled to himself as he headed toward his car and got inside. Before he skipped town, he mailed an anonymous letter to the police, informing them of the unmarked graves. He also advised them on the sisters' criminal activities. At last, his conscience felt clear before God and man. He knew that true justice had finally been served, because of an unplanned burial.

***

"Frightmare (Set Adrift On Memory Bliss)"

Driving home from work one evening, I feel a strange foreboding. The sensation is unusual and not what I typically experience. The unmistakable thickness of doom and gloom is in the air. If I were to reach out with a knife, I could almost slice through the layers.

I flip on the radio for a distraction. Instead of the soft rock music I love to listen to, I hear the latest news report blaring.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful. We have a savage serial killer in our midst. This perpetrator brandishes a sharp kitchen knife. He stabs the victims repeatedly. Take every caution when outside in the yard. Lock up when inside of the home. This killer loves to strike in either location with a blitz-style attack."

Sighing and shivering, I turn the radio off. I crank up the heater. The heavy rains barraging my city begin to pelt the windshield. I hurry to get home, because the report reminds me of my roommate, Lola.

She is at the house all alone, a perfect target for this maniac on the loose. I have known her for five years and would hate for something to happen to her.

Once I pull into the driveway, I release a pent-up breath. I am home at last. Now, I can relax. The stress of my job has proved too much for me lately. My boss always expects more of me than I can handle.

The pressure of being a secretary to a crooked attorney, who makes passes at me, doesn't sit too well. The position is tedious and dreadful. I want out of the dead-end occupation I slave away at.

I have been plagued by intense headaches for the past few months. They tend to come and go. They are accompanied by the furious beating of my heart and extreme difficulty breathing.

Even though I know I should go back to my therapist, Brock, I resist the urge. The prescription pills he gave me do little to curb the pain I experience on a regular basis.

Walking into the house, I start to relax considerably. "Ah, this is so much better!" I moan.

A hot soak in the tub and a bite to eat sounds so inviting to me. Setting my umbrella and purse down, I remove my raincoat. As I place it on the hook, I call out to Lola, concerned for her welfare.

"Lola? Where are you?" I ask her worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm in my room," she answers matter-of-factly, sounding slightly annoyed by my questions. "I'll be out later on."

I can hear her talking to someone else. She's on the phone talking to her boyfriend, Oliver, whom she stole from me. Probably doing her nails and picking out her skimpy outfit to wear on their next date. Such a perfect girl she is. The kind of eye candy any guy would want on his arm. With her tall, flawless figure and long, skinny legs. She loves showing off and taunting the men who admire her. She's so blonde and beautiful. She knows it full well.

I rummage in the kitchen, selecting a small can of tomato soup. I throw together a peanut butter sandwich as well, suddenly feeling ravenous. I devour both of them in about ten minutes. Then I head up to my bedroom to run a warm, sudsy bath for myself.

I feel one of those awful headaches coming on again, so I grab two pills and chug them down. They slide slowly down my throat, floating down on a river of water that follows them. I swear I can feel them swimming around in my stomach, bobbing like two corks.

Dismissing the notion altogether, I ease gently into the porcelain tub, until I'm almost completely submerged. A mountain of bubbles surrounds me in greeting, like a welcome friend. Without meaning to, I drift off into dreamland as my body and mind unwind.

While I travel through visions of puffy, white clouds and sail past suspended planets, I feel weightless. I float along without substance or depth. Like a scene from 'A Christmas Carol', I pause at various places, homes and businesses. I swoop down to enter the beckoning domains. One twist of a knob and I am there, searching through the dwellings. For what, I don't know.

I drift through my boss's house. He lives alone and keeps everything clean and spotless. The door to his study is ajar. I push it open and venture within. There he sits working, all pompous and pious at his desk, like a master of the universe.

No, wait a minute! He isn't moving. He's just sitting there staring straight ahead. I move in for a closer inspection. Oh, dear! He's not even breathing and his shirt is stained with blood. A butcher knife protrudes from his chest, piercing the heart he never seemed to have. His dead eyes appear to peer back at me accusingly. I cannot bear to look any longer, so I turn and float elsewhere.

This time, I arrive at the home of my roommate's boyfriend, Oliver. This is the man I once loved with every fiber of my being. Lola took him away from me and shattered my existence. That's when I began to despair of life itself and the headaches began to assail me relentlessly.

I sail from one room to another, settling in Oliver's kitchen. He's a chef and spends a great deal of time here. There he is, leaning over one of his latest and greatest creations. Apparently, he is slicing vegetables for stew. No, hold that thought! He isn't standing; he is slumped forward, but his eyes are upturned and seem to greet mine grudgingly.

Dear me! He's not budging from the spot. As I draw nearer, I see the butcher knife sticking out of his back. Just like he stabbed me in the back, when he chose Lola over me. I study the once handsome face of my beloved. His dull eyes seem to watch me in disbelief at his fate. He'll never betray me again with his infidelity.

Unable to view the sight of his demise a moment more, I fly away. While journeying further on, I come upon my own house. I travel into different rooms; spaces which are so familiar to me. At last, I come to a stop outside of Lola's door.

Once I have entered forbidden territory, I find her lying back on her bed resting. She wears a sheer, flimsy nightgown; much like the ones she wore to entice my Oliver. She reclines comfortably on the spot where she had sex with my man. She watches television and is so engrossed that she doesn't notice my approach.

No, I stand corrected! She is face-up on the plush bedding; her form is still and lifeless. She is white as a ghost and no movement is visible. I come closer to investigate. There is a butcher knife plunged into her flat stomach; that bare midriff she took pride in and loved to show off. I guess she'll never expose her finely sculpted abs again. Her dim eyes regard me quizzically, as if asking me why this happened to her.

Someone has gone and killed everyone who means something to me. Am I being stalked by an insane madman? Who would do this to me and my friends? I don't have to ponder this mystery for very long.

Suddenly, I awaken from my dream abruptly and find that I'm no longer in the bathtub. I am hovering by my roommate's bedside with a knife clutched firmly in my hand. She has just been brutally murdered by the crazed lunatic the police are searching for.

I glance at her crimson form, and then I take in the sight of my bloodstained hands. A startling revelation begins to dawn on me. My headache fades and a mental rolodex of memories plays before my eyes.

All those times I thought I was dreaming in the tub, I wasn't. My subconscious instead inspired me to go commit despicable acts against those who somehow wronged me. The individual who is prowling around claiming lives is me. I am the serial killer.

With that realization, I toss the knife aside and fall to my knees. "Lord, please forgive me," I cry out. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't even know what I was doing."

At that moment, I hear the front door burst open. Shoes clamber loudly down the hallway. I am quickly surrounded by the police and some people in white lab coats. They bind me in their contraptions and lead me out to their automobiles.

"Help me, please," I plead with them weakly, imploring them to understand. "I'm so sorry."

A doctor in a white jacket places a hand on my shoulder. He replies softly, "Meghan, I'm Brock, your therapist. You remember me, don't you?"

I nod affirmatively, so he continues. "I'm taking you someplace where you'll receive all of the help you need. We'll take good care of you."

"How did you know it was me? Who called you?" I ask, confusion making my brain feel fuzzy.

"You did, Meghan. You see, you suffer from multiple personality disorder. It was one of your other personalities who called and told me what you'd done," he answers kindly.

"Oh, I don't even recall dialing your number. Well, thank you," I respond breathlessly. I sense he is someone who understands my actions were driven by immense pain and deep-seated rage. With this knowledge, I relax and collapse against him with relief. Everything is going to be okay now.

***

Impressum

Texte: Melissa Monroe
Bildmaterialien: MSN/Bing
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.02.2012

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Dedicated to all mystery lovers.