D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (14 page)

Everyone Has Their Own Sound

Piper Morgan

When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.

-Henry David Thoreau

The simple phrase, which served instead of a company logo, was stamped in elegant gold leaf letters across the ornately wrapped box that was being handed to a withered gent—bowed but unbroken by the constant crush of years. As the severely dressed, but noticeably relaxed woman handing him the box would have readily told anyone who bothered to ask, was that some products and services don’t need a flashy logo or a catchy jingle. The right product inspires brand loyalty on its own. The right product amazes and entices us enough to serve as its own brand without the mundane, empty identity found in a name.

“Are you sure that Elise is ready for this?” she asked him, her smile failing to mask the concern that draped her like a caul. “I realize that she’s not a little girl. Hell, she’s almost twenty-one, but age doesn’t mean a whole lot. I’d hate for you to end up being known as the grampa that set her up with a few years in the rubber suit at ye olde Planter’s castle. Especially since you’ve just paid a good year’s worth of my house payments buying this.”

“You worry too much,” he replied with a soft pat on her shoulder, every bit the comforting old patrician. “She’s ready. Not just ready, but she needs this. It’s the only way that she’ll be able to move on, to get past all that she’s been through. That cocksucking little bastard... Well, that’s why I came to you in the first place. The money is nothing.” A single tear worked its way along the myriad crevasses that lined his face. “There’s no way to repay you for what this will mean to her.”

“Nonsense. I told you before this isn’t just what I
do
, it’s what I am. I only charge because I’m so damn good. It’d be a shame to waste such natural skill on a hobby.”

“Speaking of that, well, I don’t want to pry, but... I’ve always wanted to know...”

“How I got started? That it?”

“Well, yeah,” the old man replied. “How does anyone get started in a line of work like this?”

The woman laughed. “I guess it isn’t exactly something you pick up in a few classes at the rec center, now is it?” She paused, the smile left her face and was replaced by the expression of deep thought. “Like all decent stories, this one happened way back in my youth, during those miraculously fragile days of first love.” 

The man nodded solemnly as if he could relate. He waited for the woman to continue, but she remained lost in the memories of her own story.

***

“Can we go see the new Neil Watson movie for my birthday?” I asked.

“No,” Brady snorted. “He’s stupid, and you’re a dipshit for thinking he’s funny.”

“Well, I just thought...”

He cut me off without even looking up from his video game. “No, that’s your problem, Sophie, you don’t think.” He looked at his watch. “Look, you have to go.” He grabbed my upper arm and pulled me off the couch.

“Why? You said we could spend the afternoon together. Ouch, you’re hurting my arm.”

He didn’t loosen his grip. “I changed my mind. Chris is coming over to play his new game with me, so you have to leave.”

“But—,” was all I got out before he slammed the door in my face.

I walked a few of blocks before I realized my backpack was still at Brady’s. I went back to his house and knocked lightly on the front door. When no one answered, I reached for the doorknob. The unlocked door swung open. The television in the living room was off, and the rest of the house was silent expect for the noises I heard coming from Brady’s bedroom.

I quietly pushed the door open and that was when I saw her, Marta Jones—the perfect slut. She was fifteen going on twenty- five, perfect lips, boobs, ass...perfect everything. And she was having sex with my boyfriend. Their sweaty, naked bodies intertwined on the sheets as the bed banged loudly against the wall in rhythm with their movements, their moans drowning out the sounds of the radio. I felt the color drain from my face and love melt from my heart. My world seemed to be crashing down on me like a sledgehammer; everything was moving in slow motion as I watched the horror before me. Waves of nausea forced bile into my throat. I went out to Brady’s front porch and puked in his mom’s flowers before running the six blocks to my house, hot tears stinging my eyes the entire way. I ran upstairs to my room and started playing my drums.

He can’t get away with this
, I thought.
He isn’t going to survive breaking my heart. Even if it kills me, too
.

A couple of days later, I invited him to my ‘secret’ place by the locks and dam. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Tell me what it is, Sophie. I don’t have time for games.”

“Just come with me. I promise you won’t regret it.”

We got on our bikes and raced toward the dam.

“I beat you! You suck!” He let his bike fall to the ground.

I just smiled and took his hand. The murky water was still; water skippers and occasional air bubbles were the only movement. I took my backpack off and set it on the ground in front of me. I took out my portable CD player, pushed play and put it on the bank. Tribal drumbeats echoed through trees and bounced off the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh.” I took out the pair of white satin gloves and slipped them on. I ran a gloved finger along Brady’s forearm and then down his neck. “I want to give you something special,” I whispered. “Close your eyes.” I grabbed his hands and led him toward the edge of the bank.

“What’s going on?”

“Keep your eyes closed. Trust me; this is going to be the biggest surprise you’ve ever had.” I looked around, making sure we were alone. “Sit down.”

He plopped into the muddy water. “Great. That’s just wonderful, Sophie. You just ruined my new jeans.”

I closed his eyes again with my gloved hands, straddled his lap, and leaned in close to his ear. “Brady, I want you to know.”

“Know what? You’re stupid; what are you talking about?”

“I saw you with Marta.”

Surprised by my words, his eyes sprang open.

I grabbed him by the throat and shoved his head under the water. As he flailed and fought, his head struck a large rock just under the surface. The swirling mud devoured the blood just as quickly as it escaped from the wound.

Brady grasped at my arms, yanking at my long sleeves; I pushed my thumbs further into his windpipe and squeezed tighter.

After what seemed like forever, everything stopped.

Quickly, I grabbed a small bag from my backpack and took out the fillet knife. I unzipped Brady’s precious new jeans then stopped.

My heartbeat synced with the resounding drumbeats. My original plan changed and I smiled. This one was way better.

Putting the knife back, I reached for Dad’s sixteen inch bone saw instead, happy that I thought to bring it along.

 I grabbed and held onto Brady’s right hand, the very hand that I saw squeezing Marta’s boobs in my memory. I began sawing at the hand, right below his wrist, in the tiny space before his ulna and radius started. I smiled as tendons and nerves popped and tore. I didn’t care about a clean cut; I just wanted the bones.

After finally getting through all the muscles and skin, his hand fell to the ground. I picked it up and placed his last gift to me inside my bag. 

I rinsed the saw, tossed my gloves in the water, and toed Brady’s bloody, lifeless body away from the bank as the dam opened. I watched him float down the river before getting on my bike and going to my Dad’s shop.

I had just replaced the saw back on the table when he stuck his head in the back room. 

“Hi little lady.”

“Hey Dad.” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “How are things going?”

“Kinda slow. Care to keep an eye on things while I run to the bank?”

“Sure.”

He smiled down at me and patted the top of my head before grabbing a deposit bag from his office.

After I heard the familiar jingle of the bell on the front door, I went to work. I pulled Brady’s hand and the fillet knife out of my bag. Leaning over the large stainless steel sink, I started shaving away as much skin as I could. Tossing the hand in the sink, I put the strips of skin and muscle on the cutting board and diced them into smaller pieces before throwing them into the running meat grinder.

I bagged what remained of the bloody stump and cleaned everything. I poured ammonia on the cutting board then put it and a few other dishes in the sink as it filled with hot water and suds.

A month later I had a beautiful set of handmade maracas. The shattered bones make such a pleasant rattling sound, reminds me of that special day.

***

“It’s okay,” the old man smiled, interrupting her thoughts. “I guess some stories aren’t meant to be told. Thank you for everything, Sophie,” he said, holding up the box.

Sophie nodded as he headed toward the front door. “Elise will love it.”

The familiar jingle of the store bell broke her concentration. As she came from the back room, Sophie saw a twenty-something man standing near the counter. His pink puffy eyes were rimmed with tears.

“Can I help you?”

The man’s head snapped toward her and he sniffled. “My wife... she...”

Sophie closed the distance between them and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’m very sorry. Please have a seat; I want to hear your story.”  She followed him to the plush navy couch and sat down after him. After pouring him a cup of tea, she looked into his heartbroken eyes. “You know, everyone has their own special sound.”

Les Sperme Vampire

Michael Bracken

The overpowering scent of the man’s testosterone intoxicated me and made me quiver with anticipation before I even saw him, and when he rounded the corner at the unlit mouth of the alley, I wasn’t disappointed. A big man in every sense, at least six-foot-two, with thick, muscular arms and a broad chest that tapered down to a firm waist, a tight ass, and muscular thighs. He wore a half-unbuttoned, long-sleeve blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful biceps, a faded pair of Levi’s so tight at the crotch that even in the dark I could see the bulge of his massive cock and heavy nutsack, and a pair of thick-soled black work boots. He wore his hair in a military flattop and his left earlobe sported a tiny gold hoop. A scar bisected his left eyebrow and his nose had been broken at least once. The tattoo on his right forearm read “Semper Fi” and the tattoo on his left forearm read ‘USMC.’ Up close he smelled of bourbon and breath mints, masculine sweat and hot coursing blood.

And testosterone.

I had been waiting, since nightfall, at the dark mouth of the dead-end alley for the arrival of someone like him. Finally, it was time. I stepped from the shadows.

He stopped, looked me up and down, and said, “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

I shrugged.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” I lied.

Though I could pass for a teenager in the shadows of the alley, I had left my teen years behind many decades earlier. I appeared barely pubescent and a touch malnourished, with paper-white skin, enticing bee-stung lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and dark, shoulder-length hair. Constantly evolving fashion trends had ultimately worked in my favor, allowing me to adapt a quasi-Goth appearance that made my pale skin seem a fashion choice and not a quirk of fate. I dressed all in black. From the knee-high lace-up boots, that added two inches to my height, to my tight leather pants, and sweat-stained hoodie that clung to my emaciated frame, right up to the dog collar, and eye shadow.

The big man standing in front of me thought he knew what I was and what I wanted. He removed a well-worn leather wallet from his hip pocket. “How much?”

I looked him up and down. “Twenty.”

“Ten,” he said. He opened his wallet and removed a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

I eyed the money as if it were important to me and tried to put a touch of desperation in my voice. “Fifteen?”

“Ten,” he repeated.

When I hesitated, he started to put Alexander Hamilton back into his wallet. I snatched the bill from his hand and stood holding it. “Ten is okay. Ten is fine.”

He returned his wallet to his pocket and I shoved Alex into mine.

I had him committed, but I needed more. I ran one finger along the inside of his muscular arm and coyly asked, “You got a name?”

“Call me John.” He grinned as if he’d just told me the punch line to a great joke.

All my men were Johns. I smiled, though, pretending to enjoy the joke as much as he did. “OK, John,” I said huskily, “you want to do this here?”

John glanced around and then did what I’d hoped he would. He took my hand and led me deeper into the dead-end alley. As soon we reached the brick wall that sealed the far end, he stepped behind an overflowing Dumpster, unbuckled his belt, and unbuttoned his fly. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans and his boxers and pulled them to his knees, revealing a long, thick cock already half-swollen with desire. Before he could complain about his restricted movement, I dropped to my knees in front of him and took the head of John’s cock in my mouth, hooking my lips behind the spongy-soft mushroom cap. His cock responded immediately by rising to its full stature.

I teased his cockhead with the tip of my tongue and then slowly took his entire length into my mouth, careful not to scratch him with my razor-sharp incisors or pierce his skin with my needlepoint canines. When I grabbed his nutsack with one hand and kneaded his walnut-sized testicles with my fingers, he moaned with pleasure.

Under different circumstances I might have toyed with him. I might have dropped my own pants and let him take me from behind before I went down on him. I might have let him wrap his powerful hands around my hips as he drove his cock deep inside me, but not this night. Too much time had passed since my last meal and I was hungry. Starved. So I had immediately gone for his meat and he hadn’t resisted.