Kaiju

Akemi sat on the swing and stared down at the sand beneath her feet. The sand was a light tan speckled with little dots of black. Often, she liked to imagine that the black flecks were pieces of ancient stone crafted by some long-ago kaiju. She dug the toes of her shoes into the sand and began to push herself back and forth in an aimless fashion. As usual, she was alone.

She continued to pretend to be staring at the sand, but she could see Stacy and Mercedes from the corner of her eye. They were standing by the old bent tree and whispering to each other. The sound of their giggles floated in the air. She knew they were talking about her. How she hated them!

Once, Akemi had told okasama how she felt about Stacy and Mercedes and okasama had told her this story:

Long ago, in ancient times, there was an oni named Amanojaku who put everyone into a deep sleep. While the humans slept, the oni placed a magical kaiju inside their bodies. This kaiju had the ability to be born again inside each generation. Now, inside each human, there waits a sleeping kaiju. If we give into our anger, or hatred, the kaiju will awaken and come out.

Akemi didn't want to wake the kaiju, but she couldn't stop hating Stacy and Mercedes. They had perfect skin and long yellow hair. They made fun of her slanted eyes. They tripped her in the hallway when she was carrying her books to class. They knocked her food tray out of her hands at lunch time. They laughed at her accented English. Everyone here hated her because she was not like them, but she hated them too.

Oh, how she wanted to watch their mocking smiles curdle into grimaces of pain and see their perfect teeth broken into ragged splinters! She wanted to see their cold eyes burn hot with terror and their blood soaking into the ground. The sight of their beautiful hair burnt to charred ashes and smelling like a rotting swamp would be wonderful!

Each night she prayed that just such a thing would happen to them and all their hateful friends. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't make herself care enough to stop. She hid her thoughts from okasama and plodded grimly through each horrible day. The only thing that kept her going was the thought that one day she would be free of those spiteful girls. Somehow, she would make herself free!

One night, something strange happened to Akemi. She came out of herself and went to her bedroom window. Parting the curtains, she slipped out into the night. She stood outside in the dark with only the moon and the stars for light. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were no longer human hands. Her fingers were tipped with razor sharp claws and her hands were covered with a soft fur that went all the way up her arms and over the rest of her body. She saw her reflection in a puddle of water nearby. Her mouth was filled with glistening pointed teeth that dripped with venom and her eyes, large and round, glowed like blood-red jewels.

She smiled as she raised her arms high above her head and closed her eyes. The moonlight caressed her, as if it were giving her a silent blessing. The night seemed alive with an ancient dark magic. The time had come. She surrendered to her emotions at long last and raced away into the night. Finally, she would be free!

Written by: E. Foshee

Story idea: E. Foshee

Have an idea for a spooky short story you'd like to read? Let me know in the comment section below. You could see your idea used in my next story with YOUR name in the credits!

Isabelle Washington

Though I am called Isabelle Washington, that is not my name. I am writing this memoir because I feel compelled to. Despite the fact that I have lived in more cities than I can remember, two things are always the same. The shining beacon of light and the dark heart thrives in every city.

During the day, I am surrounded by the sound of paper rustling, the hum of the copy machine, the distant burr of telephones, the clack of fingers on keyboards, the creaking of chairs, the smell of coffee mingling with the scent of printer ink, and the quiet murmur of conversation in other cubicles similar to mine. This is the background music of life in these great cities. The civilized side. Order in the chaos.

At night, there is the heavy pounding of drums, the dazzling flash of colored lights, and the scent of sweat and booze. The air is so ripe with charged sexuality, that it flickers across the skin like electricity. People dance to this feast of music, their bodies rubbing together in a frenzy of lust. In their faces I see pleasure, pain, joy, anger, excitement, and danger. This is the embodiment of the city. The dark heart. The time for the hunt. Who will be caught?

As usual, I was working when I heard about the upcoming change in management. Changes in management are always an unpleasant surprise for us. There are plenty of horror stories about staff cuts, harassment, and power plays under new tyrannical dictators posing as upper management. Were our jobs now at stake? Who was the new manager and what would they be like?

Strangely, the office grapevine was unable to get the smallest scrap of information about our newest manager. There were rumors flying all over the office. But it was all speculation. Nobody seemed to know anything. Everyone was in the dark and being in the dark makes people nervous.

Voices were louder than usual. Files were dropped more often. Faxes were sent to the wrong places. Information was typed into the computers incorrectly. The coffee was too strong. Nobody had an appetite and the doughnuts in the break-room were left to grow stale. Conversations were often fragmented and made no sense. I stopped listening to the office gossip because I grew tired of trying to decipher all the nonsense that came out of people’s mouths.

A few days later, I was in my cubicle typing up a report, when I sensed a presence. I looked up from my screen. There was a man standing at the opening to my cubicle. He had thick, salt and pepper hair. He was handsome, in a severe way, with chiseled features and striking grey eyes. There was an air of danger about him, like a tom cat that has grown old but still knows how to hunt and kill. Immediately I was on my guard, at the same time, I felt instantly attracted to him. My heart raced and my mouth went dry. Never had I felt this way around a man before. My interest was piqued. His posture was relaxed, yet there was a strength coiled beneath, like a cat ready to pounce.

"Can I help you?" I asked, annoyed with how breathless I sounded.

He straightened up and stepped forward, offering his hand. "Hello Miss Washington. My name is Birch Calloway. I'm the new manager here." The timber of his voice was deep and somehow dark. It made me think of the feel of silk against skin. Surprised and flustered, I stood up and shook his hand politely.

"Oh, uh, it's nice to finally meet you Mr. Calloway!" I flushed with embarrassment at my less than politic reply. He seemed not to notice. He was still holding my hand in his when he smiled at me. The severity of his features relaxed, giving him an almost boyish appearance. I still felt as if something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

"Nice to meet you too Miss Washington. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

I felt hot and cold at the same time. I'd never had a reaction like this. I found it unnerving. I tried to focus on what he was saying and managed to give him a polite smile of agreement. His amused expression seemed to say that he knew exactly what was going through my mind. He offered a slight bow and let go of my hand.

"Well, I've got work to do. We can talk more later." Mr. Calloway said. With that, he turned and walked away. I stood there looking after him thoughtfully. Something was off about the whole situation, but I still couldn't put my finger on what it might be. Things took an even stranger turn as I listened to my co-workers talking about him.

Everyone saw him differently. Kitty, one of the secretaries, described Birch Calloway as a portly, but handsome, man in his fifties. James, from the mail room, portrayed him as a red-headed man with a thick beard. Paul, from accounting, said he was a tall black man. No two descriptions were alike. The only thing that was the same in every description was his name.

I returned home that evening feeling intrigued by the day's events. A mystery to brighten my day. I took a long hot shower and dressed in my favorite red silk nightgown. While I made dinner, I continued to ponder the matter. It was obvious, to me at least, that he was something I hadn’t encountered before. But what was he? At the same time, I felt the breath of foolish hope, like a wind blowing through my heart. I had been alone for so long. So awfully long.

After dinner, I retired to my room with a glass of Chardonnay and a battered paperback book. After reading a few chapters, I put the book on the nightstand, turned out the light, and waited. I have always trusted my instincts. They have served me well time and time again.

It was almost midnight when I heard a sound in the darkness of the bedroom. I sat up and fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. Just as the lamp came on, I felt the weight of a body landing on mine, forcing me down against the bed. The sheets twisted around us as we fought. A rough, leathery clawed hand gripped my throat. I felt his heated breath against my ear as he spoke.

“Hello again Miss Washington.”

Still gripping me by the throat, he sat up, pulling me with him. I now had the opportunity to see my attacker. His leathery skin had a faint golden tinge, but it was the horns that spiraled out from his forehead that caught my attention. They were thick and ridged, ending in a tight curl. There was a hint of folded wings down the line of his back. I knew then that he had to be an incubus! Even in this form, I recognized the man who had introduced himself to me as Birch Calloway.

His eyes were completely black. His smile was rich with triumph and full of pointed teeth. "I told you we'd have plenty of time to get acquainted." He said in a mocking tone.

He trailed one claw along my skin, down to the neckline of my gown. Then in one quick motion, he ripped through the material, scratching the skin beneath. I let out a gasp of pain. His eyes traveled leisurely over my naked body. He let go of my throat and clamped one hand over my breast. With his other hand he pushed my legs open.

I began to smile. This is what I had been waiting for. I slid my hands up to his shoulders. His black gaze switched from my body to my face. When he did not see the terror he expected, his eyes widened with disbelief. I gave him no chance to react. Quickly, I curled my legs around his hips and pulled him toward me. His lust was his weakness, and he could not stop what he had started.

Still smiling, I moved one hand to cup the back of his neck. My other hand slid down to take him as I changed to my true form. I am a succubus. He uttered a cry of shock and tried to pull away, but my legs held him tightly. Even in his shock, his lust was still very apparent. I laughed softly and pulled him inside me. He felt so good, filling me. I pulled him in deeper, arching my hips and using my legs. He groaned helplessly and I knew that he was impossibly trapped by his own need. His terror was absolute, and I reveled in it. He was magnificent in his subjugation.

"Now, fuck me until you die!" I commanded.

He had no choice, for I ruled his lust. We writhed together on the bed for an unknown length of time. I felt his sweat against my skin as he thrust again and again, unable to stop. His skin began to crack and fade in color. His body became more insubstantial with each thrust as I sucked away his life force. Soon there was nothing left of him and I lay there fully sated for the first time in many years. But once again I was without hope.

Is there anyone who can withstand the passions of a lonely succubus?

Written by: E. Foshee

Story idea: E. Foshee

Have an idea for a spooky short story you'd like to read? Let me know in the comment section below. You could see your idea used in my next story with YOUR name in the credits!

 

The Music Box

     Ten-year-old Cindy was sitting quietly in the pew at the back of the church watching mom and dad cry in front of Grandma Mae’s coffin. Grandma Mae had been Cindy’s favorite person in all the world and now she was gone. A heart attack and now there would be no more stories or warm chocolate chip cookies with milk after school. It was over.

    Out of nowhere, a person dressed all in black glided up the isle and stopped at Cindy’s pew. “Hello Cindy.”

    Cindy looked at the person. It was an old woman. She wore a black hat with a delicate lace covering that obscured most of her features, and a long black dress that draped all the way to the floor. Her hands were covered in black velvet gloves. The old woman was holding a black leather purse with gold clasps.

    “How did you know my name?” She asked the old woman. 

    There was a hint of a smile beneath the lace and the gloved hands moved to open the purse. She reached inside and pulled out a breathtakingly beautiful music box. It looked heavy even though it was small. It was barely three inches across and two inches wide. There were tiny golden birds, flowers and trees embedded in the porcelain lid and sides. Golden filigree decorated all of the corners. It looked magical and mysterious.

    Cindy stared at the music box with fascination until the old woman spoke.

    “A gift for you. Use it with care.” The old woman held out the music box. After a slight hesitation, Cindy took it. It did feel as heavy as it looked but yet it was so delicate. The tiny box fit perfectly in her hand. She stroked it with one finger, feeling the texture of the gold and porcelain. After a moment, Cindy looked up to thank the old woman, but she was gone.

    Later that night, she lay in bed, looking at the music box. Grandma Mae would have loved it. She had a collection of porcelains. They were all packed away now. But mom had given her one of Grandma Mae’s pieces. It was a woman holding a small child. Cindy had placed the music box next to the figurine. They were both on the nightstand beside her bed. The soft light from the lamp shown down on the items, bathing them in a gentle glow.

    Cindy sat up and picked up the music box. Gently she opened it. Inside, on the left, were some metal gears that looked old and delicate. The gears were attached to three metallic buttons.  On the right side was a tiny ballerina, arms up and one leg out, poised to dance. Cindy pushed one of the buttons, curious to see what would happen. The metal gears began to move and strains of Chopin’s Nocturns began to tinkle out of the music box, the notes playing eerily in the still room. The ballerina began to turn slowly, dancing to the music.

    She began to cry. She missed Grandma Mae so much! “Oh, Grandma Mae! I wish you were alive again!” she sobbed mournfully.

    To her surprise, the tiny music box began to glow. Cindy stopped crying and stared with wide eyes. Beautiful golden light tones swam through the porcelain as the song played. The ballerina continued to dance. After a few minutes, the glow died down and the ballerina finished her revolutions. The music stopped and the box returned to normal.

    The next morning, Cindy was sitting on the back steps turning the music box in her hands. What had happened last night? Was it really magic?

Suddenly, she was distracted from her thoughts by a weird noise.

Thud! Chsssss! Thud! Chsssss!

It sounded like something, scraping in the dirt around the side of the house.

Thud! Chsssss! Thud! Chsssss!

The sound was moving closer. The hair on the back of her neck rose and she stood up, her eyes glued to the corner.

Thud! Chsssss! Thud! Chsssss!

She felt a chill go down her spine and her stomach seemed to be filled with ice cubes.

Thud! Chsssss! Thud! Chsssss!

A shadow began to emerge from the corner of the house.

Thud! Chsssss! Thud! Chsssss!

    The shadow elongated. Cindy’s heart was pounding out of her chest and her eyes were wide. Then Grandma Mae came around the corner, still in her funereal clothes. Her eyes were hollow and empty as she shuffled forward. Her mouth hung open in a sagging gape, as if she were perpetually surprised. One of her shoes was missing. Her hands were dark with mud and dirt, as if she had dug her way out of the earth. She came to a halt, swaying a little from side to side, staring blankly at nothing.

    “Oh no.” Cindy whispered as she took a step back, shaking her head from side to side, clutching the music box to her chest. “This is all wrong!” She had to fix Grandma Mae.

    She opened the music box. The first button was still depressed, but the second one wasn’t. She pushed it. Once again, the gears began to move, and strains of Beethoven’s 9^th began to play. Cindy noticed that the ballerina looked older now. As if it had aged overnight. The colors were slightly faded on the ballerina’s costume and the painted face looked worn. It began to turn, dancing to the music.

    “I wish Grandma Mae was really here and could talk to me!” Cindy said in a trembling voice.

    The music box began to glow. It was even more eerie to watch in broad daylight. After a few moments, the music faded and the ballerina once again slowed its dance, coming to a final, graceful halt. Cindy looked up from the music box to see if her wish had worked.

    Grandma Mae blinked a few times, and her gaze went from empty to aware. She looked around at the yard and then focused on Cindy.

    “Cindy? Why am I here?” Her face crumpled into a pained expression. “I was talking with Joe. I was so happy.”

    Cindy knew that Grandpa Joe had died several years ago, before she was born. Grandma Mae took a slow shuffling step forward. Then something changed in her eyes. “I’m… hungry.”

    Cindy saw an eerie reddish light flash behind Grandma Mae’s eyes. She backed up another step. This was not what she had expected.

    “I’m… so hungry.” Grandma Mae focused even more intently on Cindy. She licked her lips as if she were anticipating a snack. “Hungry!” She began to shuffle forward again, a look of greed swimming into her eyes.

    Cindy gasped and backed up against the door. This was even worse than before! She had to fix it! Once more she looked into the box. There was only one button left. She quickly pushed it.

    The gears began to move once more. The ballerina now looked as if it would fall into dust. As if it were thousands of years old, but it still began to dance as strains of Mozart’s Requiem began to play, filling the air. Grandma Mae shuffled forward another step.

“I wish Grandma Mae wasn’t hungry anymore!” Cindy gasped out as she cringed against the back door.

    The music box began to glow again, the ballerina spinning faster than before. The glow grew brighter and brighter. Cindy shielded her eyes from the light and cried out. When the glow finally faded, the music box was gone.

    “No!” Cindy cried out in distress. She fell to her hands and knees, searching for it on the small porch. Maybe she had dropped it. Then she heard movement. She whipped her head up, seeking the source of the sound.

    Grandma Mae was shuffling forward again. But there was still something wrong. Rage had replaced hunger. “You took me away from Joe! My Joe!” Her eyes were glowing even brighter. She took another step forward.

    “No! I’m sorry Grandma Mae! I didn’t mean it!” Cindy shouted fearfully, scooting backwards into the door.

    Grandma Mae took another shambling step forward. “I hate you!” She growled.

    “No! Don’t say that! Please!” Cindy sobbed. Her vision blurred. She was shaking with terror and crying as she pulled herself up and groped for the door handle.

    Grandma Mae took another step forward. “Want to kill you!” She growled louder. “Kill!”

    This couldn’t be her real Grandma Mae! This was something bad. Something evil.

    Frantically, her fingers searched for the doorknob. Then she found it. She grabbed the handle and slammed open the door, rushing inside, heading for her room. As she pounded up the stairs, she could hear Grandma Mae shuffling across the threshold.

    “Kill you!” The corpse screamed in her dead voice.

    Cindy burst into her bedroom, looking for a place to hide. Suddenly, her eyes fell on the porcelain figurine. She could hear Grandma Mae, slowly shuffling up the stairs.

    “Hate you!” Step. Step.

    She ran over to the figurine and snatched it up in both hands. Then she fell to her knees, huddling against the bed, sobbing and clutching it to her chest.

    “Kill! Want to Kill!” Another step.

    “I’m sorry Grandma Mae!” She screamed. “Please! I’m sorry! It was all a mistake! I wish you could be back where you belong with Grandpa Joe!”

    She stayed there, against the bed, shaking and crying as she waited for the end.

    But there was only silence. Cautiously, she listened, wiping tears from her eyes. She strained to hear, but there was nothing.

    Still clinging to the figurine, she moved quietly out of her room to the landing at the top of the stairs. Grandma Mae was gone. She looked down at the figurine in her hand. It was cracked slightly, and the colors were a bit faded.

Cindy carefully set it back on the nightstand.

Written by: efoshee.

Story idea: Em Daydream

Have an idea for a spooky short story you'd like to read? Let me know in the comment section below. You could see your idea used in my next story with YOUR name in the credits!

The Wreath

It all started with the Christmas wreath.

Timothy McDougal was at the office Christmas party when his co-worker, Jordan, gave him the Christmas wreath and wished him happy Holidays. Timothy knew he should feel a bit of Christmas cheer at the sight of the colorful wreath, but he hated it. He wondered what was wrong with him as he gave Jordan a false smile and made the appropriate noises of gratitude.

He carried the wreath to his office and set it on the desk while he looked around for some tacks. He didn't like touching it. There was the feeling of revulsion when he touched the wreath. As if he was not actually touching a circle of prettily decorated plastic leaves, but instead handling the moldering carcass of some animal found dead by the side of the road. Just touching it made him feel as if he had somehow been contaminated. Rationally, he knew that it was just a wreath, but he couldn't shake the feeling.

He found a box of tacks in the back of his desk drawer. When he took a tack from the box, he accidently pricked himself with it. Dropping the tack and cursing under his breath, he examined the bead of blood that appeared on his index finger. It didn't look too bad. He used a tissue to blot the small wound. The wreath lay on the desk, blameless and yet mocking somehow. With a sigh he tossed the tissue in the trash and picked up the wreath.

He opened his office door and hung the wreath on it. Wiping his hands on his pants without thinking, he stepped back to appraise his work. The wreath hung just below his name plate on the door. It looked menacing rather than merry. At least the damn thing wasn't crooked. He wouldn't have to touch it again. He frowned and shook his head. Obviously, he was more stressed than he'd previously thought. He decided to leave the Christmas party early. Clearly, he wasn’t in a festive mood for some reason. He went back into his office to get his coat.

As was reaching for his coat, he suddenly had the feeling of being watched. He looked around. Nothing. Grabbing his coat, he stepped out into the hall. Talk and laughter drifted from the lunchroom where the Christmas party was taking place. Otherwise, the place was deserted. Looking around uneasily, he closed and locked his office door. The feeling grew stronger as he walked toward the exit.

Finally, unable to resist the urge to look behind him, he turned and looked back the way he'd come. All he could see was his office door with the wreath hanging on it. What was wrong with him today? Why was he so damn jumpy all of the sudden? Facing forward again, he continued to the exit. He did not look back.

In the morning when Timothy opened his front door, he was treated to a view of a winter wonderland. Smiling, he rescued the morning paper from the front step. It was soggy with melted snow. He probably wouldn't even be able to read it. Maybe that was a good thing. These days all the newspapers seemed to carry nothing but bad news.

He turned to go back inside and stopped. Melting snow from the paper made the front of his bathrobe damp and dripped onto the toes of his slippers. He didn't notice. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide with disbelief. The wreath was hanging on his front door.

This was clearly the same wreath he had hung on his office door last night. It was even pinned to his front door with the same yellow tack. How had it gotten here? Timothy felt a sudden attack of superstitious dread before rationality reasserted itself. Someone must be playing a joke on him.

During the drive to work, Timothy came to the conclusion that Jordan had to be the prankster. Sometimes his sense of humor was downright juvenile. Just last year Jordan put a laxative in the manager's coffee and then bragged to his co-workers about it. The poor woman spent most of the day in the office lavatory.

Everyone was shocked, but Jordan had laughed about it. He acted like it was the funniest thing he'd ever done. It was a miracle he hadn't been fired. Timothy decided that if he found out for certain that Jordan was the prankster, he would tell the man to grow up and stop playing games with people. When he drove into the parking lot, he knew that confrontation would have to wait.

A dozen police cars, lights flashing, were parked in front of the office building. Police officers were milling in and out of the building. Two men in wool coats stood near one of the squad cars talking and smoking. As Timothy parked his car, he saw an officer approach the two men and speak to them. A moment later the trio went inside the building.

Timothy sat in the car thinking. He looked over at the passenger seat where he had placed the wreath. It lay there innocently. Yet Timothy had the feeling it had some ominous connection to all the activity going on in front of the office building. He shook his head. That was just nonsense. The wreath was just a Christmas decoration. He got out and locked the door. There would be time to come back for the wreath later. Right now, he wanted to find out what was going on.

Several of his co-workers were standing together in a group and watching the activity. Some were smoking and chatting. Others stood rigidly, with anxious expressions on their faces. Ignoring the knot in his stomach, Timothy walked toward the gathering. He stood with the others and listened to the muted conversations.

"--body was found--"

"--hasn't been identified yet--"

"Whoever it was--"

"The police won't say how--"

Pretty soon it became apparent that someone had been found dead in the building. Whoever it was had not yet been identified by the police and the cause of death was unknown. Jordan arrived and joined the throng, blowing on his hands to warm them. Timothy continued to stare at the building as Jordan chatted with several of the others.

Everyone fell silent as a hearse pulled up in front of the building. Two men came out carrying a stretcher. There was a covered body on the gurney. Timothy watched as the body was loaded into the back of the morgue wagon. He wondered who had died and if the death had been natural causes or something worse.

Two days later, details of incident began to circulate through the office grape vine. According to the detective on the case, Selena Rogers had been found dead in the hallway. She had been stabbed to death. Timothy was as shocked as everyone else. He couldn't believe that someone would murder Selena. Once, he had asked her out for coffee. She had been a decent supervisor and a nice lady.

There was a small memorial for Selena in the lunchroom. After the ceremony, Timothy returned to his office to finish the Cullen report. He had been working on it for the last couple of weeks and it was due tomorrow. The wreath was back up on his office door where he had returned it on the day Selena's body had been found. There had been no more pranks since then. 

It was late in the evening and he was deeply engrossed in the Cullen report when there was a knock on his office door. He looked up to see a man with salt and pepper hair standing on the threshold. It was Detective Leydecker, the detective assigned to investigate Selena's murder.

"May I come in?" He asked.

Timothy set the report aside and nodded. "Yes, of course. Is there something I can do for you?"

Timothy stood to shake hands with Leydecker. Then both men seated themselves before continuing.  The detective seemed to be relaxed and at the same time ready to spring into action. Looking at him, Timothy felt a shiver of apprehension. But what could he possibly have to fear from this man?

"Hard at work even on Christmas Eve?" The detective gestured toward the paperwork spread across Timothy's desk.

"Yes, I have to get the report done tonight." Just thinking about all the work he still had to do, Timothy felt impatient to get back to work. Leydecker had not closed the door when he had entered the office and Timothy could see the wreath hanging on the door. It seemed to be looking at him over the detective's shoulder. Timothy's inexplicable dread increased. Something was wrong. He returned his attention to the detective.

"What's happened? Something must have happened or you wouldn't be here."

Leydecker nodded. "Jordan Bynes is dead. His body was found dumped into a garbage bin. He was shot in the head."

Timothy gasped with shock and straightened in his chair. "What? But he can't be dead! I saw him at the memorial for Selena just this morning!"

The detective was nodding. "Yes, several co-workers confirmed that he was last seen at Selena's memorial."

Leydecker reached into his jacket and pulled out an evidence baggie. Inside the baggie was a letter opener. There was dried blood on it. He put the baggie on the desk. Timothy stared at in horrified fascination.

"I had the lab run tests on this. It is the weapon that was used to kill Selena. She was stabbed multiple times with it." Timothy could not tear his eyes from the blood on the letter opener. The detective continued, as if oblivious to Timothy's reaction. "At first it was summarized that Mr. Bynes killed Selena in a fit of rage. It was the only thing that explained the brutality of the attack."

Timothy closed his eyes. He could easily picture the letter opener. The metal gleaming in the light as it plunged again and again. Hot blood spraying in all directions.

"Four hours ago, a call was made to 911. Someone heard a shot being fired. Apparently after the service, Mr. Bynes left the office and went home. He collected his gun and then drove to the alley where he climbed into the dumpster before shooting himself in the head."

Timothy felt sick. "Stop. Can't you please stop."

Leydecker continued as if Timothy hadn't spoken. "I suppose by killing himself in the garbage bin he was trying to say that he thought he was a piece of human garbage. But there was something that bothered me about the death of Mr. Bynes. With instant death the body doesn't bleed much. If the heart stops instantly it doesn't have time to pump the blood out. But there isn't any blood or brain matter in the dumpster. On a hunch, I had CSI check the entire alley. They found blood and brains just three feet away from the trash bin."

The detective fell silent and stared at wall, his eyes were far away. Perhaps he was seeing the crime scene all over again in his mind's eye. Timothy felt nauseated. He leaned his elbows on the desk and put his forehead into his hands. His mind was spinning. He tried taking deep slow breaths to calm down.

Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Leydecker. "Why are you telling me all this detective?" His stomach churned and his bowels quivered. He lowered his trembling hands to the desk.

Leydecker turned his head to look at Timothy. Surprisingly, there was understanding in his eyes. Worse, he saw pity in that gaze. If the detective had glared accusingly at Timothy, it would have been easier to accept the horrifying truth.

"Mr. McDougal, did you know that there are people that have a rare disorder called Dissociative Identity Disorder?" Timothy just stared at him mutely. He felt as if he were a statue. He fervently wished that he were made of stone like a statue.

"People with this disorder sometimes do things they don't remember doing later because they are under the control of a second personality. They do things they would never do if they were fully in control of themselves. Stress usually triggers the disorder."

Timothy's hands had tightened into fists. He stared straight ahead, looking past the Detective to the Christmas wreath hanging on the door. The decoration seemed to radiate a terrible evil.

"I got a call from the lab just this afternoon. This letter opener was found in Mr. Bynes' office, but it has your fingerprints on it."

Timothy closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the hateful thing. He had been projecting his feelings onto the wreath because he didn't want to face the terrible truth. In the darkness behind his eyelids a memory began to unfold.

He was returning to the office. The Christmas party was over and the building was empty. At least he had thought the building was empty. Selena approached him just as he was removing the wreath from his office door. She was angry and wanted him to stop asking her out. Then the scene changed.

Selena backing away from him. Terror filled her eyes as they followed the arc of the letter opener. The weapon came down and plunged into her neck before she could scream. She fell to the floor clutching her throat. Then he was on her, slashing and stabbing. Angry with her. Hating himself for what he was doing, yet compelled to continue. Finding bitter satisfaction in hurting her worse than she had hurt him.

"On a hunch, I also checked the gun that Mr. Bynes allegedly killed himself with. Your fingerprints are on the gun."

Timothy gasped and doubled over in his chair. Nausea roiled through him. He gagged as memory returned with hideous clarity. Jordan is on his knees in the filthy alley. Timothy is standing over him. He is shouting at Jordan. Claiming that Selena was his until Jordan stole her from him. He grabs Jordan by the hair and puts the gun to his temple. Jordan is crying and shaking. Pleading for his life. The gun goes off. 

When Timothy felt a hand on his shoulder he looked up. Leydecker was standing next to him. Timothy spoke in a shaky voice. "What am I going to do now? I'm out of control!"

"I have to place you under arrest now Mr. McDougal. But I'll see to it that you get help. Will you trust me?"

Tears ran down Timothy's cheeks. He nodded. Leydecker helped him to his feet. Timothy was handcuffed. Then, taking his elbow, the detective guided Timothy out of the office and down to the waiting patrol car.

Written by efoshee. 

Story idea efoshee.

Have an idea for a spooky short story you'd like to read? Let me know in the comment section below. You could see your idea used in my next story with YOUR name in the credits!