Twisted Endings: 5 Disturbing Stories (3 page)

She adjusted her glasses to where they were halfway down her nose. “That word, young man, is ‘obituary’.”

“IS THIS supposed to be a true story?” Mark asked with a smile.

“That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

“The librarian would have hung Joseph Walker for writing in the newspapers.”

Johnson smirked. “Perhaps.”

“Also, it’s unlikely that child molestation arrests were printed back then.”

Johnson nodded. “Well done, Mr. Walton. All valid points. You’ll recall that I said he wasn’t liked by everyone. But to others, perhaps like the librarian, he was a hero. You should also know that Lake Heron, Cone Valley and a number of the smaller surrounding cities have always had a strong moral bond. Our number one priority is to protect the children.”

Mark nodded absently and sucked on his empty mug.

“David!”

Heavy footsteps clamored up from the basement again. David entered the room and took their mugs without a word. He nodded at Johnson as he disappeared from the room.

“Better than maid service,” Mark joked. He kept the napkin in his hand and squeezed it for warmth.

“Yes, David can be most helpful. I worry about him sometimes, though. He can be a little too trusting. Someone could take advantage of him.”

Mark cleared his throat. “Are you sure the heat's on? It still feels like I'm outside.”
Or inside of a refrigerator.

“Oh, sure. It's getting warmer. Hope you don't have a fever from being out there.”

Mark felt his forehead. It did feel warm.

“David!”

He appeared in the doorway.

“You checked the heat, right?”

“You bet. Should be toasty warm. Soap's almost ready, by the way.”

“Good, we're just about finished,” Johnson said. “Why don't you stay and hear the rest of the story?"

David hesitated, but closed the office door before he took a seat next to Mark.

Mark smiled at him, but David turned his eyes away. Mark scratched his arms. Something didn't feel right. “My arms feel like they're on fire.”

“Don't worry,” David said, “the soap chemicals can have that effect. Trust me, I know. The itching sensation shouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes.”

Mark shook his head. “You still haven’t told me how you got started in this business,” he reminded Johnson.

“Give me one more chance,” Johnson pleaded. “It will all come together.”

“WHERE HAVE you been, Petey? I was afraid I’d to have to have some fun without you.” Joseph picked up a small stone and threw it at a beer bottle near the bottom of the sand hill, missing by several feet.

Petey didn't answer at first. He climbed the hill like an eager ant and sat next to Joseph. “Do ya do bad things to people?”

Joseph sat still. “What do you think?”

“No.” Petey stared at his feet.

“Okay then,” Joseph reassured him.

“My Pa does, though.” He kicked the sand in front of him, then shielded his eyes when tiny specks flew back into his face.

“I know.”

“Ya know?”

“Yes. But not for much longer.” Joseph picked up another stone and threw it as hard as he could.

“But why were ya lookin’ at them papers?”

Joseph stopped and put an arm around Petey. “There are a lot of people who do bad things. I'm here to try to fix that.”

“But how?”

Joseph gave him a thoughtful glance. He reached for his suitcase and placed it next to him. “By cleaning up the neighborhood.” He opened the suitcase, disappeared behind it, and pulled out a square object.

Petey chuckled. “With soap?”

“Can you think of a better way to get clean?”

“I spose not.” Petey reached for the enticing bar in Joseph's hand.

Joseph yanked his hand away. “No, Petey. You must never touch this soap. Not without gloves.”

Petey slid a couple of inches away. “Sorry. Is it expensive?"

“No, no, nothing like that. Listen, can you help me again tomorrow? It'll be the last time.”

“You leavin’?”

“Not for a few more days, but tomorrow I'll be going back to some of the places we’ve already been. Got some unfinished business to take care of.”

Petey shrugged. “Okay.”

Joseph smiled, picked up one last stone, threw it at the bottle below, and watched the glass shatter into a million pieces.

Early the next morning, Joseph walked to Petey's house with a noisy suitcase. Several glass jars clanged against each other inside of it.

Petey ran to him. “Mr. Walker! Somethin' s the matter with my pa! He don't look so good!”

“I know.”

“It’s his skin. Somethin’s wrong. I don’t know what to do. He's mad as a hornet's nest!”

“It'll all be over soon. Wait here. I'll take care of him.”

Joseph walked into the house to find Petey's father lying on the couch. He was covered in moist cloths from head to toe. “Good day, Sir.”

He looked up. “What have ya done to me?” He tried to stand. The cloth covering his chest fell off. Drops of blood seeped through his skin and dripped like gooey slime to the floor.

Joseph was silent.

“Why don't ya answer me?!”

Joseph waited a moment. “I know what you are. I know what you do to your child. To your neighbors' children. And God knows who else.” He paused for a moment then sat in the rocking chair across from the man.

“What? What ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I had a drink in Cone Valley a few days ago. Ran into an old friend of yours. Bob Daly. Funny thing, a drunk man will tell you everything you want to know.”

“Good for ya! Gonna help me or not?”

Joseph stared at him, deep in thought. “There is one thing. Have you heard the parable of bitter water?”

The man shook his head.

“Of course not. That would require reading.” The man opened his mouth but Joseph held out his hand. “A woman drinks this ‘bitter water’ when her husband suspects her of adultery. If the woman is innocent, she conceives a beautiful child from her husband. If not, her belly blows up and she dies. If the woman accepts a divorce, though, she can walk away from the test.” He studied the man’s face. “Do you understand what I'm offering you?”

“Bitter water? What ya talkin’ ‘bout? What's in that soap?”

Joseph shook his head. He was giving the man one last chance to repent. To walk away from his evil life. The man would never understand. “I made it myself. It's made from lye, well, lots of lye, glycerin, and a few of my own secret ingredients.”

Joseph set his suitcase down and opened it, once again disappearing behind its vastness, but this time reappearing with a large glass jar. He walked over to the man and grabbed him by the arm. “I know what you are,” he repeated. “We must all pay for our sins.”

The man screamed as the pulp of his flesh liquefied into a cocktail of blood and mucus. “Oh, God! I'm sorry! Why? Why?!”

“Because I'm a soap salesman, Sir. I've come to clean up the neighborhood.”

Joseph managed to catch a pint of the red slimy ooze in his jar. The rest fell to the floor and evaporated in a smelly stack of smoke. He put the jar back into the suitcase, closed it and started to walk out.

Petey stood at the door, speechless.

“Sit down, Petey.”

The boy collapsed on the front porch and stared up at the sky. “I seen what ya did.”

“How does it make you feel?” He was searching for any hint in Petey's eyes that he would carry on his work.

Petey stood back up and looked down at the suitcase. “Why? Why’d ya do it?”

Joseph sighed. “My father was just like yours. I couldn’t allow him to hurt you anymore. Or any of the other children. There are many more like you and me, Petey. Many more. Someone has to fight for them.”

Petey wiped his eyes, then said, “He got what he deserved.”

“That's a good boy. Sit back down, Petey.” He waited for Petey to sit before kneeling and opening the suitcase. He removed the glass jars and pointed to the bars of soap that were left. “Soap that heals,” he said, pointing to one side, nearly empty. “Soap that kills,” he said, pointing to the other side.

Petey didn't respond.

“I don't have much time left. I can teach you everything I know, but only if you want to learn.”

“I want to learn.”

“Good. Now let me tell you about bitter water.”

“THAT’S CRAZY,” Mark huffed. “Who would ask a child to do such a thing?"

“There are worse things,” Johnson said, lowering his head.

“Why would you make up something like that?”

“This story isn’t made up,” David said with an amused look. “The story’s not even over.”

“Actually,” Johnson interrupted, “that's the end of that part of the story.”

“I see the moral lesson. But why would anyone keep a jar of blood and guts?” Mark swallowed hard. He knew the Nazis had used the fat from Jews to make soap.

“I know what you're thinking,” Johnson said, “and I assure you, it's nothing like that. Joseph was a man of honor. The jar and all of its contents served as a type of memorial. They say Joseph kept a stash of these jars that was a mile wide. No one's ever been able to find them.”

“Of course not! Because they don’t exist! It’s an interesting story, Johnson. But I hope you don’t go around telling it to all your customers. It’s no wonder the store’s empty.”

Johnson chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Go ahead and tell him, David.”

“Tell me what?”

"Why did you move here, Mr. Walton?" David asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

David furled his eyebrows. “Just answer the question.”

“Ok. Job offer at the post office, as you know.”

“Right, right,” Johnson interrupted again. “Tiny Lake Heron has been in desperate need of a postmaster for some time now. Only problem is, we don't have a post office.”

“But the letter...the phone call...the living arrangements....” Mark couldn't move. He felt colder than he had ever felt before.

David got up and stood in front of Mark, facing him. He stared into his eyes. “I know what you are. I should look familiar to you. I was home alone one day when a new mailman stopped by. Said he had a special delivery.”

Mark couldn't breathe.
David. David Monroe. I remember now.

“I vowed that one day I would find you. I tracked you down after ten years. Watching as you moved from one post office to another. After all these years, you still like boys.”

Mark sensed the sweat pouring down the side of his face. “David, I never meant to hurt you. I swear.”

“Shut up, you dirty old man!”

“I should go.”

“You're not going anywhere,” David said.

“All of the doors are locked,” Johnson reminded him.

Mark tried to stand, but found he couldn't move.

"I think you've had too much coffee,” David said, laughing.

"Or maybe there were just too many drugs in his coffee,” Johnson added as he joined in the laughter.

Mark looked down at the red napkin in his hand. David never brought Johnson a napkin.
It was marked. The mug was marked.
He felt moisture around his arms and looked at them to see tiny, bright drops of blood dripping to the floor.

“Since you mentioned it, it is pretty cold in here,” Johnson said. He reached beneath his desk and pulled out two fur jackets. He handed one to David and put one on himself. “Joseph's formula had a few problems I had to correct. This particular one is my favorite. It will only work in extremely cold temperatures.” He shivered and zipped his jacket. “Helps keep the whole event private.”

“Johnson,” Mark pleaded, “bitter water. I understand. I'll never do it again. Just give me the antidote.”

“It's not my call. It's David's and he's not as compassionate as me.”

“That’s what you were making, right?” Mark asked David. “The antidote? It should be ready now. Please, David. I know it is. Get it.”

David knelt before Mark. “The pain becomes so intense that you can't move, can't scream, can't breathe. All you can do is pray that death comes quickly. But it won't.”

“David, would you do the honors?” Johnson asked. He pulled a jar out from under the desk.

“Wait a minute” Mark said, struggling to point at David. He couldn’t breathe. “You can’t do this. This man is crazy. Don’t listen to him.”

“I’m not crazy,” Johnson said. “I’m just here to clean up the neighborhood.”

“You’re...you’re Joseph Walker?”

Johnson and David laughed.

“Joseph Walker? He’s been dead for a long time.” Johnson walked over to Mark and whispered in his ear, “But just between you and me, you can call me Petey.”

Neighborhood Watch

WE HAD three robberies on First Street last month. Two on McFarland. Old man Jeeters almost got himself shot while trying to protect his family at one of 'em. The cops had been unreliable. That's when we decided to take matters into our own hands and formed a neighborhood watch.

Home base was set up in my house. I didn't mind it It gave me the opportunity to exercise some power in controlling these ridiculous times.

“What exactly are those, Rob?” asked old man Jeeters at our last meeting.

“What do they look like?” I glanced around the circle of my peers, sitting in small plastic chairs like kindergartners — men in their twenties and thirties — maybe a dozen of 'em in all. Most of the guys chuckled but I stood up and snapped my fingers. That shut 'em up.

“They’re upgrades, Jeeters.” I picked one up and admired it. “Automatics.”

“Rob,” Jeeters started, “the police won't like this. It’s only going to make things worse.”

“Jeeters, my man, the police are worthless pigs. What have they ever done for you?”

He fidgeted in his chair. “We're not vigilantes. All we can do is go to work every day and hope to come home to safety.”

I searched the rough faces in the room. “Anyone else feel the same way?”

“Heck no!” Mark Richie shouted. “We're sick of living in fear. I say it's time for some street justice.”

Everyone nodded in agreement — everyone except old man Jeeters.

“You with us?” I had to ask him.