Road Trips Read online

  The shadowed man shambled closer. His palms faced her, dripping—she could not tell what in the darkness.

  Watching him through the window, she tried to force the key into the ignition, but she kept missing. A frustrated scream finally erupted from her mouth. She pulled her eyes from the approaching man and focused on the ignition. Her trembling hand worked the key into the slot. She cranked the engine, the starter wincing as she ground it. The man’s hand smeared across the window as the car tore out of the parking lot.

  She sped along the dark road for an hour, watching her rearview mirror for headlights that never appeared. She felt hopelessly lost in the stalks of corn and roads that cut seemingly endless lines through the fields. The urge for a cigarette finally overwhelmed her, and glancing in the rearview more once more, she braked but did not dare to put the car in park. She leaned her head against the steering wheel for a moment. She turned to face the window and shuddered looking at the smear, realizing, it was blood.

  She reached in the backseat for her bag. Her hand drifted across the fabric and landed on a wet, sticky puddle. She pulled her hand back, the palm coated in blood. She turned in her seat and gazed into the back. She clawed at the door handle, and fell onto the pavement as the door opened. Carly crumbled to the ground, moaning with her bloodied hand held away from her body. As the car rolled away, the door slammed shut and hid Peter’s head, propped in the backseat, where her cabbage had been.

  Originally published in The Weekly.

  If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy Red Haze.

  Red in the Morning

  Dark gray clouds stretched the horizon, blotting out the red shards of the setting sun. In Maude’s mind, the red slants of light looked like the tentacles of a sea anemone, searching for prey. Throughout the day, Maude had watched from her window as the clouds proceeded toward her. They had gathered into a herd then as the wind picked up, they stampeded. Great raindrops bombarded the ground, kicking up dust clouds, as the line of rain moved toward her.

  Her window on the fifth floor was a single blinking eye in the countenance of the dark edifice. Large raindrops, sounding like gravel, pelted the window. Against the force of the howling wind, the glass rattled. Maude scurried to a dark corner of the room, sat with her knees huddled to her chest. She felt sweat beading on her forehead, felt her pulse race in her neck. She wanted to scream.

  The rain always made her want to scream.

  Maude was fiddling anxiously with the dial to her car radio. The first rays of the morning sun broke the seraphic spell of the nighttime sky as she found a song she liked. Moonlight Sonata entranced her as she strained to keep awake. Looking down the winding road ahead of her, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night.

  A cocktail party had been thrown by one of the senior partners of her law firm. Having only been practicing with the firm for a short time, she was excited at the chance to mingle with the important partners and clients. She knew she was about to become a member of the inner circle. Life was finally blooming; sacrifice was yielding reward.

  For the past seven years, Maude had scraped to make ends meet. Her husband had left her and her daughter without so much as a goodbye. No one could find him; and with no child support or alimony, she had finished college (she had, of course, dropped out when she married), then completed law school—and the entire time, she still kept food on the table. But the circle was almost complete; she was getting what she deserved.

  So all night long, she had sipped martinis, chatted with clients, and told illuminating tales to partners. And as the sun blazed red in the sky, she was coming home to her daughter. She hated leaving her daughter, Angel, with a nanny so often, but she had no choice: They had to eat, so she had to work. But soon it would all pay off. Soon they would have everything they had longed for. She rubbed her eyes again, and let them close for a moment—

  —Maude lay on the beach with her husband. They were entwined in each other’s arms, kissing, tasting the salt of the surf from one another’s lips. Sand clung to their wet bodies, the water lapped at their naked flesh, like pearls dancing across their skin. The sand moved under them, shifted, pulling away with the tide.

  Screams filled the air around her; Maude froze, uncertain of the origin. Maude cringed as the beach morphed into darkness, apparently disintegrating with the tidal pull. The horizon mutated, pulled in toward her, and became the walls of a dimly lit room. The sand fell away, revealing a cushion beneath her.

  She lay in a hospital bed, strapped down. Maude realized, then, that the screams were her own. Maude strained her neck, lifting her head toward the window. Hard raindrops pummeled the glass; the daytime sky was dark with gray, rolling clouds. A streak of lightning lit the room momentarily, followed by a crack of thunder, deafening and strong.

  A white-arraigned apparition floated into the room with a dagger-like needle. She placed the syringe to Maude’s arm and injected a fluid. Maude stifled her screams and closed her eyes.

  Maude’s eyes bolted open.

  She looked around, realizing she was in her car, on her way home. She couldn’t believe she had fallen asleep; she had meant only to blink. Home, she didn’t even remember most of the trip. Turning into the driveway, Maude’s front tire hit the curb and she was jolted, hitting her head on the roof. She rubbed her bruised head, groaning.

  Climbing out of her trusty Escort, she looked at the brooding, rosy sky. She thought whimsically, Red in the morning, sailors take a warning. Yet, the forecast had not called for rain. Seeing Angel’s bike lying in the yard, Maude smiled.

  Maude gave a cursory glance around the yard, then to her watch. It was nearly eight-thirty. Angel always woke up early. Maude had expected Angel to greet her or at least to be on her bike. She walked to the house.

  Inside the house, Maude dropped her small purse. It made a hollow thud on the floor. The light shining through the window caught air-borne dust particles, making the room look hazy, surreal. The house was silent.

  “Angel?” Maude called.

  No response. “Mary?” She called for the nanny.

  No response.

  Maude’s heels clicked on the wood floor as she searched the house. She found only the television on. A tape was in the VCR playing a recording of Maude with Angel. Angel was years younger, a short time before her father left. Maude was playing with her, twirling the girl’s blonde curls around her fingers. Over and over, Angel gleefully squealed, “Rubber baby buggy bumpers!”

  Maude turned off the television. The house filled with a stygian silence. She backed away from the TV, then bolted up the stairs. “Angel?” She cried.

  Her daughter’s bed lay empty and unused. Maude felt the clench of fear tighten around her neck, suffocating. “Angel,” she screamed. Only her echo responded. Maude stumbled backward, felt as if the room was reeling. She rambled down the stairs, slipping, and ran into the kitchen, looking for a note—some indication where they might be. She found no note. Walking toward the garage entrance, she found a small trail of blood. The door handle to the garage was smeared with the viscous fluid, dripping. Maude reached out her hand to turn the knob, but could not touch it; she could not open the door.

  A sedan of dizziness and panic broadsided Maude. Fear consumed her, rising to her mouth with the sick taste of bile. She stammered to the bathroom. As she knelt, her vomit splattered the toilet, floor, and wall. She moaned in pain. “Where are you?” She crumbled to the floor in despair. “Where are you?”

  Curled in the fetal position, Maude rocked herself. Suddenly, she was struck with the realization of urgency. She jolted to her feet, rushed to the phone. She was a good mother. She had to save her daughter. She fought with the tangled phone cord, tapped out 9-1-1.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “My daughter,” Maude whispered. “Help me save her.” She collapsed to the floor—

  —Painful light bore into Maude’s skull as she languorously flicked her eyes open. She was strewn across a hos
pital bed. She was confused. She had just been at the party—no! She had just been home...Angel! Oh, her precious child! Maude tried to sit up. Heat seared through her arms.

  She looked down at her wrists. Bandages crisscrossed them. Craning her neck, Maude looked to the man sitting in the chair next to her. It was her husband, but he was dressed in a policeman’s uniform. He glared down at her. “Why did you do it?” He spat.

  Maude shook her head feebly. “Do what?”

  “Why did you kill your daughter?”

  Maude stumbled through the house. Phantasm, she thought. This is all just a bad dream. She had to find Angel before they killed her. She had to save her daughter. Maude tripped through the garage door as she pushed it open. She caught herself on the edge of her car, hoisted herself up. The nanny’s lifeless body lay slumped, hanging in the seat belt. Her hands flopped over the steering wheel, useless. Ligaments and tendons were cut away. Blood flowed from her slit wrists, coagulating in a puddle on the floor. Maude saw her red reflection in the blood and brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle her scream. Unlike her sanguine image, the nanny’s face was ashen. The garage burned red. Red like the blood. Red like the nanny’s hair.

  Maude stumbled back, slipping in the puddle of blood. Her body fell back, sliding across the cement floor through the blood. She landed, looking at the front end of the car. It had been smashed. Blood was splattered all over the hood and windshield. A sledgehammer lay next to the demolished car. Hair and brain matter spattered the floor. Thick gore clung to the passenger side front tire with clumps of flesh and blonde hair. Curled in a ball, a small, lifeless body lay there too—

  “—Why did you do it Ms. Lynn? Why did you kill her?” The officer screamed. He was no longer her husband, but a young, fierce cop. He spat his words at her with deep contempt and anger. He ripped his badge from his shirt. “There’s nothing worse than a child killer,” he cursed. He opened his clenched hand, slapped Maude.

  She fell from the bed onto the floor and a crimson trail of blood flowed down her chin. “But I didn’t,” she screeched. “I loved her!” She racked her mind, searching. The nanny—yes, it was the bitch-nanny! She had killed Angel! Then she killed herself.

  “But it was the nanny,” Maude screamed, as if the revelation would save her.

  The officer looked down. His stern gaze was certain. “There is no nanny. There never was a nanny.” He hissed a long, drawn out breath like a devil’s choir. “You smashed Angel’s head in—like with a sledge hammer—bashed her brains in, scattered them all over. You’re a sick, sick woman, Maude. You must pay.” His mouth twisted with rage, his teeth gritted in disgust, lips snarled. In his eyes, blood-shoot, she could see her reflection and his hate raging. He pulled out his gun, aimed it for her head.

  The chemistry of Maude’s brain began to breakdown. It was lunacy! Conspiracy! Rubber baby buggy bumpers! The nanny—and there was indeed a nanny!—was not dead...The nanny and the officer were conspiring. Yes! Yes! That was the answer. And Angel, she was not dead! They had her. Maude had to get home and save her daughter. With superhuman strength, Maude leapt from the floor. She wrestled the gun from the officer, shot him.

  Agile as a cat, Maude leaped from the window. Glass exploded around her, catching in her auburn hair. Safe on the ground, she ran down her own street. Swerving, an old Escort passed her.

  Sable clouds swooped across the sky like raven wings swallowing the sun. An umbra fell across Maude’s face. A shard of light pierced the skin of clouds and groped for the street below.

  As the sky crashed with thunder and rain pelted her, Maude screamed.

  The rain always made her want to scream!

  Transfixed, Maude gazed on as Angel jumped from her bike, and darted into the palm of the sunbeam illuminating the street. Angel ran to meet the car; her mouth opened in a large, toothy smile. Then Angel opened her mouth into a voiceless scream. Rubber baby buggy bumpers on home movies, no sound, only silent, fuzzy images. What was Angel yelling? To whom?

  Maude’s inaudible screams ripped from her lips, forming stagnant hope in the air. Angel halted at the lawn edge, and then threw her arms in front of her tiny body. The car jumped the curb, knocking Angel to the ground, the front tire skidding on her head.

  A woman in an evening gown fell from the car. Looking at the torn body, the woman tossed back her red hair and laughed hideously, deliriously. Maude stood face to face with her, looking into the lady’s eyes, unable to see her face, but only her own reflection in the mirror of the woman’s eyes...

  Once again, the white apparitions were upon her. They lifted their fluid filled daggers high above their heads, preparing to bombard her flesh. She strained against their clinging hands. She twisted her hands in the straps that held her. Her screams filled the long corridors around her, “Angel! I have to save Angel!”

  The needles penetrated her flesh. The fluid filled her veins even as she contorted on the bed. The figures floated from the room, their white cloaks billowing like pirate flags. They shut the door behind them, leaving her in silent darkness. The only light was streaming through a small window in the door and reflecting off the round mirror in the upper corner of the room. In the concave glass, she could see her distorted image. Her eyes grew heavy.

  Outside Maude’s window, the storm raged, blocking out the sun. She contorted her body as she slipped into unconsciousness.

  Maude was fiddling anxiously with the dial to her car radio. The first rays of the morning sun broke the seraphic spell of the nighttime sky as she found a song she liked. Moonlight Sonata entranced her as she strained to keep awake. Looking down the winding road ahead of her, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night...

  Originally published in 69 Flavors of Paranoia.

  If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy The Devil You Know.

  What a Little Moonlight Can Do

  “Would you like another piece of pie?” Anita Cambridge asked. The elderly lady’s voice crackled as her lips fluttered over her teeth in a frail smile.

  “No thank you, ma’am.” He shook his head and declined politely. It would be his fourth piece of pumpkin pie, and he just didn’t have the room.

  A broad, engaging smile swept her face. “That’s fine, dear.” Humming, she darted into the kitchen, carrying his fork and dessert plate.

  He looked out the paned window of her old house at the bare branches of a tree casting a webbed shadow on the leaf-covered lawn. Down the street the painted, clapboard houses stretched in Norman Rockwell, small town idealism. At the end of the street, the steeple of a church on the hill cut a white contrast against the gray clouds. He frowned. Something about the church was amiss—and then he realized that the church bore no cross. He wondered if it was being repaired. Storms had ripped through the area over the summer.

  Scratchy music from the Victrola brought him back to the living room. Through static crackle, Billie Holiday crooned What a Little Moonlight Can Do.

  Sitting in the living room of Anita Cambridge’s home, the detective found it hard to believe that this lady or anyone else in this town could know anything about criminal activity. The autumn sun poured through the panes of the large, old windows and warmed a cat sleeping on a rug nearby. Dusty knickknacks and curios collected over her long life cluttered the many tables and shelves in the warm—if not frilly—room.

  Anita was the fifth person he had visited on the late September morning. Everyone in the small New England town seemed to be fond of pumpkin pie, and he had refused, since he was investigating—but Anita’s had smelled especially irresistible. The grandmotherly lady returned, wringing her hands in her apron.

  “I wish I could be of more help.” She shook her head. “Those poor people. I wonder whatever did become of them.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll find out.” He smiled toward her baffled expression. She seemed incapable of comprehending the atrocities that man could do. Maybe, when he retired, it would be to a small town like this, as long as he could le
ave the cancer of the city behind him. Everyone here was so provincial, he thought, they could be taken at face value. It was a nice change.

  His brow furrowed as his mind returned to his investigation: the disappearance of several people wanted for crimes against children. His investigation had led him to this small town, where he feared someone was giving them refuge and then helping them flee to Canada. His fears were quickly being allayed. He placed his hand to his temple.

  “Are you alright, dear?”

  The detective smiled half-heartedly. “Yeah, I just have a slight headache.”

  “You look a little jaundiced, dear. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He stood. He tried to focus his eyes on Anita, but they blurred. She looked distorted, alien, as if he were seeing her reflection in a funhouse mirror. He leaned against the chair, trying to steady himself.

  “Maybe you should lie down,” Anita offered.

  He shook his head and then took a few tentative steps toward the door. His legs felt sluggish, like the lassitude after a long run. Stumbling, he fell against the wall and stared into a dusty mirror. His face was yellow, as Anita had remarked—and swollen. He glanced down to his hands. The fingers ballooned up like bloated carrots. He needed to rest. He would walk to his room at the Sugar and Spice Bed and Breakfast. He stumbled to the door. He placed his hand against the knob, but his swollen fingers fumbled, unable to twist it. He turned to face Anita again. She stood back, looking worried. “I think you better lie down,” she said again, her voice more of a command.

  The detective focused on the knob again, using both hands to turn it. His steps thudded on the wood floor as he stepped back to pull the door open. He fought to control his mind. He imagined an allergic reaction—though he had no allergies he knew of. And his mind darkened: had Anita poisoned him? He needed to call for help.