There’s Something About Anne
By: Mike Irace
Anne Sullivan went missing.
One normal morning, in late September, her husband, John Sullivan, woke up next to her as he’d done countless times, kissed her on the forehead, made himself breakfast, then left for the office. When he returned on this particular September day however, Anne was nowhere to be seen.
He didn’t panic at first, knowing there had to be an explanation. She was probably grabbing dinner with her girlfriends or visiting her mother. It wasn’t until he entered their bedroom, and saw the sheets still tossed about from the previous night, that he called the police.
The next few days for John were a blur. The police said they’d find her, but he knew, deep down, that he may never see his wife again. Each waking minute was pain, and he felt as though life wasn’t worth living. The only thing that motivated him to get through each day was the chance of receiving the call that they found her alive and well, but each day his hopes grew smaller and smaller.
The neighbors, one by one stopped by and gave John their well wishes and condolences, but that only made him feel worse. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he could barely survive without Anne. He thought he had lost the love of his life forever.
Until she came back.
About a week and a half after disappearing, Anne Sullivan was seen walking through main street. John was in his living room at the time, listening to their song on the radio and cradling their cat Mitzie, when he heard a knock at the door.
Anne, the woman he’d loved since sophomore year of high school, stood before him once again. All his grief disappeared, and he wanted to squeeze her tight and never let her go, but her appearance caused him to hesitate, his worry and confusion reinstated.
Anne’s hair was all knotted and frizzed, her clothes torn and stained, and her skin dry and chapped, yet moist and reflective at the same time. She had dark circles around her eyes, and though she looked at John, he swore she was staring right through him.
John tried to ask where she’d been and what’d happened to her, but her only response was how tired she was.
The two went to bed, Anne sleeping in John’s arms, where he noticed immediately how cold she was. It was still the best night of sleep John Sullivan ever had.
The alarm clock sounded bright and early the next morning, though John had no intentions of going to work that morning, he wanted to make Anne her favorite breakfast: French toast and hash browns, with maybe a little bacon for himself.
As he got up, he leaned over and gave Anne her morning kiss. Her skin was still cold, but now thin and ripe, almost like a freshly healed blister. She also had the unmistakable stench of low tide. It didn’t bother John however, she’d been gone for over a week with no shower, it’d be weird if she didn’t smell bad. Of course… a shower upon arriving home would have made sense.
John was about halfway through breakfast when Anne slowly creeped into the kitchen. John cheerfully greeted her and told her he had breakfast on the way. He said he wanted to talk about where she’d been and what had happened to her, as she scooped the purring Mitze off the floor. Anne examined the cat for a few seconds, then bit off her head. She chewed loudly, her teeth clashing with the bones in Mitzie’s skull.
John stared at his wife, and his now decapitated cat, and smiled.
“You always were more of a dog person, Honey!”
Pendulum
By: Mike Irace
It’s a feeling like no other, digging into the cold hard dirt on a winter’s night. I always find myself in a zone where I can think about absolutely anything; a form of meditation is what it is. Whatever problem or predicament I’m in always has a way of resorting itself once I begin my descent to a casket.
“Hey!”
A hushed shout pulled me back into reality. I could’ve ignored the voice and continued with my, already three foot deep, hole, but I may have had to do some explaining. A man was standing a couple feet away from me, his clothes stained with what I hoped was dirt, and an eyebrow raised. I could feel his superiority complex immediately. A brief couple seconds passed with neither of us saying anything, just staring. Given that it wasn’t a cop, I decided to forget about the strange man and began to dig again, until he called to me once more.
“Come with me.”
This got my attention. I stuck my shovel in the dirt and climbed out of the hole, hoping my height would scare him away. As I guessed, he was only about 5’6.
“What the fuck do you want?”
The man wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.
“I found something I think you’d be interested in. Just up the hill.”
He then turns and points to the hill about 20 feet away which just barley blocked the moon.
“Not interested.”
Once again, I was as intimidating as I could possibly be, but it just wasn’t enough for this little man.
“I know this is strange, but if you help me open a door, I’ll give you half of what’s inside.”
“You can’t get the lid off?”
“I didn’t say a lid…”
He turned and began to walk up the hill. Had he said anything else I would’ve let him go, but the bastard had me. I grabbed my shovel, just in case, and began to walk after him.
The Mockingbird Heights cemetery is not only one of the biggest in the country, but the oldest, established in the late 1600s. Half of the headstones are deteriorated and nothing more than stumps of granite in the dirt. Although people are still being buried in it to this day, the maintenance is awful, leaving vandals and people like me to take advantage. Unfortunately it’s a 50/50 chance the casket you’ve spent the past 2 hours digging up has already been raided, in which case the nights unprofitable, but like I said, I enjoy the journey over than the reward.
We reached the very top of the hill, and the view was eerily beautiful. Headstones spawned as far as the eye could see down below, in every direction, with the moonlight quilted over it all.
I cautiously stepped up to the hole and shined my flashlight inside. He was right. Instead of a casket, I was met with a square slab of marble which resembled a door.
“I wouldn’t have asked for your help but I had no choice… and I just HAVE to see what was inside. This is the find of the century!”
“I know what you mean.”
We jumped inside, standing on the 3-foot patch of matted dirt next to the door. His craftsmanship on the hole was quite impressive to be perfectly honest. We each grabbed the handle and on the count of 3, pulled as hard as we could.
It didn’t budge.
We took a couple second break then tried again, feeling it slightly give. We tried again after clearing some access dirt off the top and finally opened it enough to slip our fingers underneath and force it open. This happens all the time, coffin lids aren’t exactly light.
The first thing we noticed was the atrocious smell, which although expected, was way worse than anticipated.
“Good lord!”
The man pulled his shirt up and covered his nose, gaging briefly. Wasn’t so cocky anymore.
He flicked on his flashlight and aimed it down, revealing a set of cement stairs half hidden by cobwebs and some of the biggest spiders I had ever seen.
“This isn’t going to be fun. You first?”
“Wait a minute…”
My hair stood on end.
“What?”
“Turn your flashlight off for a second.”
He did, and after our eyes adjusted, we looked at each other in straight confusion. At the bottom of the stairs, a small beam of light was visible.
“How’s that possible? The grave said 1831, there’s no one down there.”
I didn’t respond, I just swabbed the spiders away with my shovel and began my descent down the steepest stairs I’d ever climbed, the man following close behind me.
Our eyes weren’t deceiving us. At the bottom of the stairs was a closed wooden door; yellow light seeped through the bottom. The smell was god awful at this point, and almost unbearable.
We both gave the door one fluent shoulder and it flew open, which revealed the room spanning about 12 feet in every direction. It was completely bare besides a single torch lit on each wall, and a cement table in the very center. The strangest part of all however, a wooden doll laying across the top of the table. It was 3 feet tall, and had absolutely no features to it, not even a face. It strongly resembled a wooden figure one would use to pose and draw, but much bigger.
The man was upset to say the least.
“Are you kidding me? All this for a fucking doll? This is fucking horseshit! The find of the century completely out the ruined!”
It was incredibly underwhelming.
“We got here too late. We were beat.”
“Fuck that! All this fucking work we put in, and this is how I’m repaid? I’m sick of this shit, every time I get a lead it all goes completely out the window and six feet under, buried with this stupid broom stick here!”
The man ripped the shovel out of my hand and before I could react, swung it at the wooden doll, chopping it’s arm clean off.
Then, oddly enough, the doll began to bleed.
Not anything tacky or cliché like green or blue liquid, it was deep red blood. Everyone knows the difference between stage and genuine blood, and believe me when I tell you it was human blood pouring from the dolls wound.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. Neither of us knew what to say, or do, so I simply took my shovel back and climbed back up the narrow stairs, nearly stumbling backwards several times. It was a bust. In this line of work you gotta know how to handle disappointment. To end on a positive note however, that first hole I dug had a $15,000 payday.
THE END
The Addict
By: Mike Irace
Chester Middleton III had everything lined up perfectly. He was to attend his first year of Harvard Law School in three months, he acquired the funds for his own studio apartment, and things with his girlfriend had never been better. There was this one thing however… this one insignificant thing that began to take a toll on Chester, and although unsure how to handle it, he had to before it spiraled out of control.
Going to Harvard obviously had positives, but one negative was the stress induced insomnia that began June 1st. The last thing he wanted was an addiction to Xanax, as he’d seen too many of his friends fall down that rabbit hole. Instead, he decided to take nightly walks around town, hoping the atmosphere and exercise would make him sleepy. He typically stayed within a 2-mile radius, but one night, he decided to walk to the neighborhood cemetery located about 4 miles down the road. To his surprise, upon reaching the top of the cemetery’s highest hill, he let out a deep, loud yawn. As spontaneously as ideas can come, he decided to sit down for a while, rather than rush all the way home just to be disappointed and lay awake. That’s the last thing he remembered before waking up the following morning in the middle of a funeral service.
This became a nightly ordeal for Chester. Although unsure why, he knew the only place on the entire planet he could sleep was the Mockingbird Heights Cemetery. Things stayed this way for about two weeks. That is, until one morning at about 3am, when he awoke to the sound of shovels. He peeked around a grave and saw two men at the bottom of the hill, digging up one of the graves. Chester approached them and after some conversation, he became partners with them in the art of graverobbing, becoming an almost instant natural. However, with just about a month before school started, something happened.
He went out solo one night, and after robbing five coffins, he decided one more would do it. For this one however, he wanted to hit the jackpot, so he went over to the historic side of the cemetery, and chose a stone marked 1754. He dug it up as normal and snapped the lock with his shovel, but upon opening the lid, an unexpected puff of deteriorated human flesh and bone powder wafted up and entered his naval cavity. He lurched back against the dirt, coughing wildly and on the verge of vomiting… until he began to feel very euphoric. Naturally he dabbled with drugs in the past, but this was unlike anything he’d ever tried before. He felt as though he were laying in the worlds warmest, softest bed with forty pillows, and a silk weighted blanket on top of him. He felt laughter and joy radiate through his body. It only took once, but he was already desperately hooked.
Corpse sniffing became a regular thing for Chester, telling the other two he would take the historic section every night, for the sole purpose that they wouldn't make the same discovery and use all the powder up on him. He would take Ziploc bags filled with corpse powder and go through all of it by the following night, as the feeling would only last an hour, and once it wore off, it felt like your insides were drying up and dying one by one. Holding the relationship with his girlfriend was difficult and finding excuses to break plans to go corpse sniffing was getting harder and harder, so he decided to cut all ties, focusing entirely on his addiction. Eventually, however, full commitment wasn’t enough; he needed more. He asked one of his partners to join him alone one night, and when his back was turned, Chester stuck the sharp end of the shovel through his back. He drank some blood and gnawed on some bone, but it just didn’t capture the essence of the powder. A new idea then popped into his mind; what if he fed his other partner the powder, then ate him right after? With the two mixed, it would be the ultimate rush!
The other partner was easy to trick into thinking the crushed powder was cocaine, and as soon as he snorted some, wham, Chester hit his head with the back of the shovel. Much to his disappointment however, it only gave the same effects as the powder on its own. Eager for the next high, he thought of new methods. The elderly? Children? Pregnant women? These all seemed plausible until, finally, he said “Screw that I’m done!” He could have quit cold turkey; he could have sought out the help of a specialist; but he decided on the one method to get off corpse powder that had been there since beginning; the one method that he knew, without a doubt, would rid him of his current repulsive state forever… he popped a Xanax.
THE END
The Pink Scrunchie (Adapted as “Warm Apple Pie”)
By: Mike Irace
“What is that? 7?”
“8.”
“For real? Hold on.”
Murphy then proceeds to chug the remaining beer in his bud light can, letting out a painful belch as he finishes.
“8.”
He says to Randell, grabbing his eight beer and popping it open.
“Shits like water.”
Randell doesn’t answer, staring at the floor after a big swig.
“Can I ask you something serious?”
“Of course Randell.”
“No, like not as your friend, but as a complete stranger. Like you don’t know me or my situation, you’re just a third person viewer looking in on the situation.”
“This is gonna be deep, huh?”
“I’m serious, dude.”
“Of course, 100 percent. What’s wrong?”
Randell hesitates. It’s one thing to think it, but to say it makes it real.
“So… you know Brenda…”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure you can connect the dots.”
“Did she die?”
Pure stupidity. The look he gives Murphy says it all.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s just the beer. So Brenda?”
“Well… it’s hard to say, but I think she’s… seeing someone.”
“You think she’s cheating on you?”
“Well, yeah.”
Murphy gags on his current swallow of beer, coughing aggressively.
“Are you fuckin sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Dude, no way! You’ve been together for 5 years, you guys just bought an apartment together!”
“You don’t think I know that?”
After Randell snaps his response, he covers his face with his hands.
“I mean… I don’t know what to say Randell… I just couldn’t see her doing that.”
“Yeah, neither can I, that’s what makes it so hard.”
Randell’s voice begins to get shaky. Beer and tears aren’t always the best mix.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you think such a strong accusation? Did you confront her about it?”
“Pfft. No. You’re the only person I told.”
“Did you find boxers or something?”
“No, thank the lord. There’s just a couple little things. They could all be justified, but I don’t even want to bring them up to her unless you agree they’re reasonable.”
Randell begins to speak as though he’d rehearsed a million times in his head.
“I don’t look at her phone behind her back, that’s fuckin gross, it I constantly hear her phone go off, I’m talkin the same bell notification 5 or 6 times every 10 minutes. It’s not my notification alert, it’s not her girlfriends’, I’ve never heard it before the past 3 weeks. I’ve asked her who it was and she says it’s her mother but it’s obviously not her mother, her mother’s is the piano rift.”
“So she lied?”
“Yeah, she lied...”
Murphy’s interruption makes Randell forget where he was in his speech. He rests his beer on the arm of his chair and adjusts his posture, bouncing up and down on the cushion as he does so. An unfittingly comfortable chair for such a disturbing vibe.
“Anyway, she’s also been spending a lot more time with her friend Meredith, which I obviously don’t mind if she wants to spend time with her friend, the fuck am I doing right now? It’s just… I saw Meredith one night at the store, when she was supposed to be with Brenda-“
“You did? Did you go up to her?”
“No, no, no, I just left my cart and walked right out of the store. I wish I did, I fuckin wish I did, but I hate confrontation. Maybe a beer or two in me and I would have, but I was in no place to. I just went into my car, blasted music, and kept the thought out of my head. The thought being the most obvious assumption one would draw from that scenario…”
Randell pauses and covers his face again, rubbing his slightly teary eyes.
“Randell… I don’t know what to say man.”
“Just tell me I’m right.”
They stare intensely into each others eyes, Randell desperate for confirmation.
“I mean… I know it may appear that way, but I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it. I mean it’s Brenda dude… it’s BRENDA. She just wouldn’t do that to you and you know it. She’s a tough cookie and if she wanted out, she’d tell you she wanted out; I mean 5 years is a long time man. If I were you I’d keep to the outskirts and wouldn’t confront her yet. I’d try and catch her in the act if anything, cause no matter how many times you ask her, she has just as many “no”s as you do “yes”s. “
Randell covers his face and begins to gently weep.
“It’s just so fucked up man… it’s so fucked up. She’s the love of my life and she betrayed me like this… I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way she does. I mean look at that fuckin scrunchie she always wears, who the fuck else could pull off a puffy pink scrunchie like that? She could do no wrong and I love her unconditionally but it’s just not enough for her.”
“Randell, stop crying man, my goddamn little sister is gonna hear you from upstairs. You still have her, don’t forget that. There’s a reason she’s still with you. If she didn’t love you, she would have broken up with you by now, but she hasn’t.”
“He doesn’t know why, but what Murphy said makes him feel a little better. It was true.
“Was she meeting with this supposed person tonight?”
“No she’s staying in and watching the South Park marathon.”
“Well there ya go. Does she know you’re supposed to crash here?”
“yes.”
“Well, don’t. I’ll call you an uber a little later, and if you get home and she’s there alone, you’ll know everything’s fine. She woulda taken this opportunity if she WAS doing something wouldn’t you agree?”
Randell flashes a smile.
“Yeah man.”
“Aye there ya go man! Murph knows what he’s talkin about doesn’t he?”
“Yes…”
“Doesn’t he?”
“Yes!”
“Exactly.”
Murphy stands up off the couch opposite Randell, stretches his back, and let’s out an exadurated groan.
“I’m gonna take a leak, bitch.”
He aims his rear at Randell and rips ass, then runs to the bathroom. Randell laughs and fans the air away from his nose.
“Asshole.”
He says to himself, still laughing. For the first time since this suspicion came to mind, he’s actually happy. He knows she wouldn’t do that to him, and he’s gonna prove it to himself tonight. Things are gonna be alright from here on out.
Wait a minute…
What’s that over there on the couch?
Randell stands and approaches the couch. He slowly reaches down and pulls a pink puffy scrunchie which was stuffed between the cushion.
The world begins to spin.
His thoughts grow jumbled.
That prick double crossed him.
He trusted him.
The prick.
The asshole was right in front of him the whole time.
He ruined his life.
He stole the one thing he loved more than anything.
Fucking prick.
Kill.
He’s dead.
His prettyboy face is gonna be dented in.
He thought he could trust him.
No wonder he was so quick to dismiss the allegations.
That fucking pri-
“You good bro?”
Somehow, Randell managed to hide the scrunchie in his pocket before Murphy returned. Murphy is none the wiser; Randell wants to keep it that way.
“Yeah… yeah, I just… I’m just ready for another beer. Wanna chug the next two?”
“Ahh, I like the way you think! Take a seat!”
Fucking prick.
They both sit in their original seats, and Murphy hands Randell a beer.
“This is gonna fuckin suck.”
Murphy says as he let’s out a nervous laugh. Randell stays silent.
“Ready? Three, two, one!”
As Murphy begins to chug the beer, Randell pours his into a nearby plant in a sly manner. Murphy finishes and is none the wiser, as Randell drinks the remaining sip.
“Jesus Randell how can you do that and not be in total agony?”
He asks in between belches.
“Practicemakesperfect, hey can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my son.”
A pathetic attempt at humor. The prick.
“Have you ever been cheated on?”
“No, but a good friend of mine has.”
The nerve of this goddamn son of a bitch.
“Your… good friend?”
“Yeah, he was so torn up about it. It’s the worst thing you could do to someone, ya know? Well, obviously you do. The funny thing about his situation however, he actually caught his girl in the act.”
“Funny! What did he do to him?”
“Well, he was a little pussy about it and didn’t do anything… but if it was me who discovered a guy porkin my girlfriend…”
“Yeah…”
“I’d kick that fuckers teeth in.”
Randell stares maniacally at Murphy.
“Amen to that bro… what do you say we… chug another?”
“I don’t know man, things are starting to spin…”
“Oh come on, don’t be a little pussy. One more…”
“A pussy? Well I certainly don’t want to be a pussy!”
The two laugh, but only one of them is sincere. Murphy grabs two of the remaining 6 beers and passes one to Randell.
“You ready man?”
“Oh am I…”
They both crack open the cans.
“Ok… Three…”
Randell clenches his empty fist.
“…Two…”
Tunnel vision appears, focusing entirely on Murphy’s teeth.
“…ONE!”
Randel launches off his chair, tackeling Murphy to the ground mid chug. The confused Murphy chokes on the beer in his esophagus, as Randel begins to strike him in the jaw. He hits him over and over again, screaming at him as he does so. He curses and curses and hits him again and again. Blood gushes from his nose, eyes, and mouth. Finally, Murphy’s front teeth come flying from his mouth.
Exausted and satisfied, he gets off the unconscious Murphy and spits on him.
There’s nothing more to be said. He isn’t angry, he isn’t hurt, he got his revenge and that’s it. That’s the end of the story, just like that.
“What’s going on?”
Murphy’s little sister enters the living room from upstairs. She’s an innocent 5 year old girl who only thinks of Randell as Murphy’s best friend. Luckily, Murphy’s body was hidden from her by the couch.
“What? Nothing! Nothing! What’s wrong?”
“You guys were making a lot of noise. Where’s Murph?”
“He’s… taking a shit.”
“Oh, ok.”
She giggles then begins to leave the room.
“Oh wait, one more thing…”
Randell looks back at her with wild, unblinking eyes.
“Yes?”
“Have you seen my pink puffy scrunchie?”
THE END