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by Henry Sheperd 11 months ago in fiction

A Gothic Collection of Short Stories

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4.

"How'd it go?"

She shifted in her seat as if the question made her uncomfortable. I waited patiently for her answer.

"It was... It was very informal. He got up to say goodbye to me but he didn't... he didn't even look at me."

I knew she was hiding behind the Armani sunglasses she wore so I couldn't see the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

"It was a very strange departure. I mean he's-he's never done that before."

I continued driving.

"Do you think maybe he's in some sort of trouble?"

She stared out the window trying to come up with an an answer that would satisfy her.

"I think maybe he's going somewhere."

I looked at her through the visor as she fiddled with her hair. She had the prettiest nose.

"Where do you think he's going?"

Christine cleared her throat. She didn't want anything to do with that question, it was too scathing.

"Do you think we can talk about something else? I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling well."

I knew I had said something wrong.

"Sure."

I gripped the steering wheel harder. My knuckles began to turn white. I wanted to take her somewhere.

"Stewart?"

My heart lit up when she said my name.

"Yeah?"

She cleared her throat again and took off her shades. I remember how pretty her eyes were.

"Do you think we can stop by the hotel? I need to pick up a few things."

I knew she wanted to say something else, but I lied anyways.

"Of course."

She smiled.

"Thanks."

We arrived at the hotel around 5. We got drinks and talked for about an hour. I dumped her body around back and drove off into the night.

5.

"Hey, where are you?"

Carrie answered the phone frantically. It had been nearly nine hours since she had last heard from him and she wasn't sure how she felt about it anymore. At 23, it was hard enough finding someone to trust let alone love, and lately she was feeling this half on and half off kind of sickness towards it.

"Fuck."

Carrie slumped down on her four poster bed and plugged her phone into its charger. She needed a drink and there wasn't a bottle of vodka anywhere in sight. It was nearly 2 in the morning and the liquor store down the block stopped selling booze at midnight—basically she was fucked.

"My life sucks."

Carrie decided it was probably for the better. Every time she got drunk she ended up ordering a bunch of needless shoes she never wore online. There had to be something she could do to get rid of this feeling, she thought. Just then, as she decided she would try her hand at writing the paper she'd been putting off all weekend, there was a knock at the door. So faint at first Carrie couldn't be sure if she hearing things or not. On the fifth knock, she was sure she wasn't imagining things and quickly grabbed her pocket knife she kept hidden on her inner thigh. Who the fuck would be at her front door this late? Carrie quietly crept down the steps, mentally scanning her surroundings in case she needed to make a quick escape, and that's a big if...

"Wh-Who's there?"

Nothing but silence. Fuck! This is the last thing Carrie needed, some weirdo probably cracked out of his mind going around knocking on people's doors just to freak them out... at least that's what she hoped it was.

"I said who's there?!"

Again nothing but silence. Carrie was starting to get a bit peeved more so than frightened so she slumped down the stairs two at a time and stuck her head against the door, listening for anything... out of the ordinary.

"Look, fuck face, whoever it is, it isn't funny anymore. I have a gun!"

Absolutely nothing. Carrie let out a sigh of relief, maybe her brain was just playing tricks on her? And with that, she turned to head back upstairs when she heard it, a faint chuckling that sent chills up her spine. She'd heard it before... all those years ago when he kidnapped her and beat her every night...

"No!"

The front door exploded into a million shards of burnt wood sending Carrie flying onto her back. Her head felt like it had split in two and the ringing in her eyes caused disorientation and motion sickness. Was this it?

"Get up. Get up. Get up now!" her inner voice screamed at her. Carrie whipped herself onto her feet and faced her tormentor face to face for the first time in 15 years.

"At longggg last, we meet again, my sweet."

His breath was as sickening as she remembered, and his eyes... his fucking eyes, red as blood just as they'd been in her nightmares all those years she'd tried to forget him.

"How did you find me?"

The way she whispered it must have set him off because he bent down in laughter and surprise, as if she should already know the answer to that.

"Don't you see? I've always been with you my sweets! I never left!"

It all made sense now. All the sleepless nights, all the constant looking over her shoulder... Carrie was leaving a trail of bread crumbs he was following all this time, just taunting her, fucking with her mind.

"What are you going to do to me?"

Another dumbfounded laugh, obviously she must know the answer to that as well. Otherwise why would it be so funny?

"My sweets, at least put up a fight! You're making it too easy!"

There were those teeth again, gnarled and decayed with all the flesh and blood of his victims that had succumbed to his games.

"Is it going to end now?"

Carrie asks with quiet desperation. She already knew the answer but she thought she'd ask anyways. She was stalling to mentally come up with a plan. Her cell phone was upstairs and they were down stairs, with tension and sexually devious frustration in between the both of them. What could she do? Or... what did she want to do?

"Shall we begin?"

He lunged at her, his finger nails fashioned into knives so he could easily cut her head open and get to what he most desired, her brains, her thoughts... her soul.

"No."

Carrie wasn't sure what happened next. In fact, she wasn't sure if anything happened at all. She blacked out and awoke several hours later on her boyfriend's bedroom floor, bottle of vodka in hand. She sits upright and sighs.

"Fuck, not again."

Sure of what was awaiting her, Carrie started for the bathroom where most of her transgressions ended up. And sure enough there he was, dead as a fickle. Carrie's boyfriend laid motionless in the bathtub, most of his organs removed with the pocket knife she kept handy on her inner thigh. His face was nearly torn off from the struggle and his jaw nearly removed from the force she'd hit him with her hand. No wonder why it stung so much. She looked over to see her mangled knuckles and bruised wrist—it was probably broken. Carrie needed to get to work and fast. It was nearly morning and she needed to transfer the organs fast if she wanted any chance of getting her cut this time.

"I really need to stop drinking," Carrie muttered aloud as she cleaned up her mess. His body wouldn't be found until later that night.

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Henry Sheperd

Just a simple dude wishing to love and be loved. 

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