The Rotting House
by
Stephen A. Carter
Something woke Kyle Baker from his deep sleep. He had been dreaming about the abandoned, rotting house laced with moonlit shears that billowed in the breeze. The naked (beasties) beauties were there again, beckoning him to join. They were probably vampires, or succubi, or some other form of evil soul sucker but he (never got close enough to find out) sported a petrified woody regardless.
As an avid reader, he hated dream sequences. Felt they were nonsensical (bullshit) contrivances meant to seem clever, creative and insightful, but only served to pad word counts and derail stories. As a writer, his rule was: Never use them. Still...
He'd had the (nightmare) dream at least three times that week, his subconscious obviously trying to sell him something. Maybe it was destined to be in the novel he was (procrastinating) writing. He needed to think about it. Rules were made to be broken.
I’m-In-Trouble panic punched him in the stomach as the smell of brewing coffee notified him that he had overslept. It was the third time that week, and although his clock radio was less than a foot from his head, he had been too (drunk) tired to set it. At least he had set up the coffee maker.
He jumped out of bed, double-timing it to the bathroom to piss. Not a speedy process by any stretch, but at thirty-five he was way too young to be worried about (cancer) prostate issues. Even so, maybe it was time to visit the ass mechanic.
He flushed, stepped to the sink and brushed his teeth. He wet his hair, scrubbing it back, then swished and swallowed a mouthful of blue antiseptic kerosene to (hopefully) mask the bourbon and bile stench escaping his stomach like rising sewer gas.
Kyle skipped the deodorant process, he could not afford to get fired. He worked evening dispatch at Pack-n-Haul Trucking, which gave him the nights to (drink) write and the days to (recover) sleep. It was a sweet deal with benefits that deposited a regular paycheck into his account. Unemployment was not an option. Having no (booze) food was terrifying. So was living on the street. So far he’d managed to avoid it, but he was close. Too close.
He threw on yesterday's clothes and ran to his car, forgetting his coffee.
The drive to (Fuck-em-all) Pack-n-Haul was the usual obstacle course of douchebags and assholes. Housewives on cellphones with their SUVs full of (douchebags-in-training) spoiled kids changing lanes erratically so they’d be first in line everywhere all the time. Workers on their cell phones heading home, changing lanes erratically so they could be the first in line (everywhere all the time). Truckers on their tablets and cell phones hogging the passing lanes so they could be the first to drop off their loads. Driving during rush hour, even going against the grain, was a life-threatening, high-speed roller coaster ride without the safety features and souvenir photo.
The world had become a zoom past, cut you off, go fuck yourself, my time is more important than yours because I’m a self-entitled prick kind of world. Courtesy and common sense had been replaced with self-obsession and reckless endangerment. Speed limits were meaningless, brakes were used only when the accelerator wouldn’t serve, and horns came accessorized with a middle finger and an “Asshole!”. Every quarter mile a race, every driver Jeff Gordon, every vehicle vying for first place.
Kyle didn’t normally play the “I gotta be first (everywhere all the time)” game. He usually stayed in his lane, drove the limit and let the Flow (with a capital F) carry him where he needed to go. However, today was different. Today he was in a hurry— no, a big fucking hurry because he could not be late again. If he goosed his caboose he just might make it on time.
It was starting to sprinkle when he swung his silver ten-year-old Camry around a pink Jeep Wrangler with a sticker that read, SILLY BOYS, JEEPS ARE FOR GIRLS (outrageously witty post-feminist wordplay in some idiot’s mind). He passed two cars and slipped in front of a blue Malibu, drawing an accessorized horn blast as the two lanes rolled to a stop at a red light.
Well deserved, he thought, but fuck ‘em anyway. He had to get to work.
He turned his wipers on the lowest (annoying) intermittent setting and looked around. He could feel his pulse racing from the adrenaline rush. He had come in second (third if you counted the other lane). The car in front of him was a black Acura, the vehicle in the lane next to the Acura was a (pedophile wagon) cargo van. He knew the Acura would be quick off the line, he’d be able to pass the van, no problem. Then off to the races.
He gazed up at the light.
“Come on, come on, come on…” He tapped the wheel nervously, his balls tightening, his foot twitchy on the brake.
The light turned green and the Acura took off. Kyle raced after it in hot pursuit. He was beside the van almost immediately, then pulling ahead. The van driver took exception, speeding up to stay abreast.
“What fresh form of douche-baggery is this?” Kyle muttered, depressing the accelerator further.
He began to pull away, closing on the Acura. He was already ten miles over the (ignored) posted fifty-mile-per-hour speed limit, pushing toward fifteen. His rear bumper cleared the van’s front end, another few feet he’d have room to slide into the left lane.
The van accelerated, closing the gap.
“Asshole…” Kyle mashed the gas peddle and the Camry responding with prototypical Toyota giddy-up.
He shot into the opening on his left, forcing the van to brake, receiving his second accessorized horn toot. He lowered his window and returned the salute, his heart pounding in his chest.
Kyle looked ahead and saw open road.
He didn’t notice the changing stoplight until it was too late.
He slammed his brakes. The road was layered with a fresh, rain-activated oil-slick and his tires failed to grab, the Camry no longer under his control. He was hurtling at seventy-miles-an-hour toward a white Ford Escape already well into the intersection.
He stared into the wide blue eyes of a pretty blonde holding a cell phone, horror dawning on her face.
Kyle clawed at his forgotten seatbelt, but there was no time, no preventing the inevitable. Just before impact, he noticed the two toe-headed (angels) kids in the backseat watching a movie and profound sadness washed over him.
Contrary to the popular myth, time did not slow down. It sped up, slamming him into the side of the (No Escape) Ford Escape with a force that lifted his Camry and folded the SUV in half. He watched the (girl) mother’s face splatter crimson as he flew toward her, shattering her window as he blew through his own windshield face first. From the corner of his remaining eye he saw the (rag doll) child on the passenger side fly into her brother, their heads colliding, his smashing the window, both exploding in a wash of blood, bone and grey matter.
Mercifully, he saw no more.
*
The coroner was working on the young mother. Her face had been shredded and her skull pulverized but her torso was in tact so he’d started there. He’d work on the kids later, much later, after his dinner had digested. He looked up as the lead investigator entered, smearing Vicks Vaporub above her upper lip.
Detective Rivera was a seasoned veteran and had seen her share of violence and gore, but this one…
“Whattaya got, Doc?”
“I’m sure you can probably guess the cause of death.”
“I’m thinking extensive trauma suffered at the hands of an extensive asshole.”
“Pretty much.”
“Anything else?
“I know what you’re thinking and yes, he had been drinking at some point during the previous eight hours, but his blood-alcohol was within legal limits.”
“Okay,” the cop said. “All I needed, I guess…” She hovered, gazing at the small sheet-covered lumps on the tables behind the doctor. “Just a shame though. Just a goddamn shame.”
“Yeah,” the doctor agreed. “For what it’s worth, the son-of-a-bitch had advanced colon cancer. Probably woulda been dead in six months.”
“Too bad it didn’t get him first.”
The coroner nodded and returned to work.
*
Something woke Kyle from a deep sleep. He was inside the abandoned, rotting house laced with moonlit shears that billowed in the breeze. The naked beasties were there, beckoning him to join. They were definitely some form of evil soul sucker. He could smell the rot wafting from them like rising sewer gas. He could feel himself being drawn forward.
It took a moment to reconcile that the high-pitched screaming was his.
The End
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