Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (26 page)

She
managed a small smile and switched on her computer. As it whirred and
clicked into life, she made herself a fresh pot of coffee and decided
she would at least try to appear human despite everything that had
occurred. Once the coffee was ready, she returned to the
computer, opening the latest draft of her novel, selected the new
pages, and sent them to print.
As the printer
began to churn out her pages, she scrolled down to the bottom of the
document, to the unfinished fifteenth chapter. Because she knew sleep
would not come to her again that night, she thought she might as well
try to get some work done, if only to forget about the horrors of the
real world for a while. She would shower and get dressed, then settle
down to try and finish the final chapter.

Thirty minutes later, and feeling infinitely better,
Terri went to the thankfully now silent printer and picked up the
pages, skimming through to make sure they were in good order. She was
often unsure about the quality of her work, but on the rare occasions
that she hit her stride, she felt immeasurably at ease. She slid the
pages into a brown envelope and set it on the table for when Bob
arrived. He eyes drifted to the wooden box, and that awful, cold,
simmering feeling churned deep within her. With a frown, she turned
her attention to the computer, grimacing at the screensaver and
making a mental note to change it. It was a slideshow of photographs
of her and Mark during happier times. Laughing together, holding
hands on the beach, and various other snapshots of a dead
relationship. She no longer had anything in common with the smiling
woman in the pictures. She couldn’t stand to look at them
anymore and moved the mouse, breaking the cycle of images.

At first, her brain didn’t register what it was
looking at.

The page had been blank when she headed off to shower,
but that was no longer the case. Now there were words—words she
hadn’t typed. As she stared at the screen, she felt her flesh
begin to crawl and her stomach start to flutter, and for a moment she
felt as if she was going to vomit. She let her eyes drift across the
words, so innocent in their composition, yet at the same time
horrifically sinister.

Terri.

Don’t let the world get you down.

You know what to do to make it all go away.

She
reached down to the outlet with a hand she couldn’t keep from
shaking and pulled the plug on the computer, plunging the phantom
words into darkness. Her skin was like gooseflesh, and once again she
had the sick sensation of being watched. She turned slowly in her
seat and looked at the box on the table. In her mind she imagined it
looking right back at her, with a sick, sharp-toothed smile. Unable
to hold it back any longer, she vomited noisily onto the carpet.

6.

The park was beautifully bathed in mid-afternoon
sunshine as Terri fidgeted on the wooden bench. Still shaken, she
couldn’t stand to be in the apartment anymore. She felt as if
it had secret, hidden eyes and was watching her every move. She had
partially convinced herself that it was the lingering smell of her
vomit that had caused her to vacate, but knew deep down that wasn’t
the case. It was the box. She didn’t want to be near it. It was
as if the atmosphere around it was heavy and charged with some kind
of unseen power. She had called Bob and asked him to meet her here
instead of the apartment.

She was watching a young couple tossing a Frisbee for
their enthusiastic Alsatian who chased it with determination. She
enjoyed coming here. It was her haven against the harsh brutality of
the city. The park itself was two acres of lush green, ringed by a
path which was often populated by early morning joggers in their
garish shades of luminescent spandex. Large birch and oak trees lined
the outer side of the park, offering cool shade against the heat of
the day. Bees hurried about their pollination duties, and the
numerous species of birds seemed to be joined in endless song. She
looked up and saw Bob striding down the pathway towards her. He had
removed his jacket and was carrying it over his shoulder, three
fingers hooked into the collar. He was covered in a light sweat as he
sat beside her.

“
Damn
hot today,” he remarked, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

“
Tell
me about it,” she said, handing him a coffee.

She was debating whether to tell Bob about the box, and
decided that under the present circumstances, it was probably a bad
idea. There was a comfortable silence as they both sipped their
coffees and watched the Frisbee loving Alsatian run back and forth
with its owners. It was Bob who spoke first.

“
How
are you holding up, Terri?”

Not bad, apart from the psychological torture I’m
being subjected to.

“
Not
bad,” she said, neglecting to add the rest of her thought. “How
about you?” She was on autopilot, and had said it only because
it was the protocol in such conversation. She didn’t expect the
answer that she received.

“
I’m not great, to be
perfectly honest.”

She looked at him and saw that he was trying to hide his
own fragile state with a show of normality. Terri’s heart sank
a little for Bob.

“
Why,
what’s wrong?”

“
It’s
Marge. She... She’s not doing too well right now.” He
fingered his wedding band nervously, then realising he was doing so,
folded his hands into fists and set them on his knees.

“
Is
she sick?”

He looked at her, no longer able to hide the sadness in
his eyes.

“
She’s
dying, Terri.”

She wasn’t sure how to react, and was fumbling for
the right words to say when he continued.

“
Damn
Alzheimer’s. She hardly even knows who I am anymore.”

“
Bob,
I had no idea. You never mentioned it.”

“
I
didn’t want it to be public knowledge. I had hoped she would
recover, that maybe she would be different... but over the last six
months she has deteriorated.”

“
Bob,
I’m so sorry,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his
shoulder. She could see that he was fighting back tears as he opened
up to her, this being one of the few conversations between them that
didn’t revolve around business.

“
I
mean, she’s only fifty-one for God’s sake. I thought she
might have the strength to hold on... It’s the blank stares
that are the worst. The way she looks at me sometimes and doesn’t
even know who I am... Sometimes I wonder if someone up there hates
me,” he said, rolling his eyes skyward.

“
Twenty-seven
years we’ve been married. Can you imagine someone that you have
shared so much with suddenly not knowing who you are? She called me
Martin the other day. Martin was my brother; he died when he was a
boy. I… I don’t think I can take this anymore.”

I wonder, Bob—if you had an Erase All button,
would you push it right now? And here is the million-dollar question—
if you did, what would happen?

“
Look,
Bob, I don’t know what to tell you... I’m sure you have
done your best to look after her, but maybe it’s time to get
some help?... Why don’t you take the advice that you gave me:
take some time off work, recharge the batteries. You look like you
need it.”

He snorted, shaking his head.

“
I
can’t... I’m up to my neck in work and I’m already
struggling to keep up. I don’t know if I can do it anymore, I
really don’t.”

Unable to hold them back any longer, his tears broke
free, streaming down his round cheeks. Terri felt deep sorrow for
Bob, and helplessness that there was nothing she could do to make him
feel better.

“
Listen,
Bob, I really didn’t mean to contribute to your stress. I’m
doing my best to finish the book, I really am.”

“
No
no no no,” he said warmly, managing a smile as he wiped his
eyes.

“
You
are one of the few writers I’m proud to have on my books, and I
really do mean that. I know you haven’t had a great time of it
yourself, Terri. And no amount of makeup and hairspray can hide the
exhaustion in your face. Something is troubling you, isn’t it?”

She almost told him then—about the box, about the
writing appearing on her computer screen—but didn’t want
to burden him.

“
Not
really,” she lied. “It’s just that on top of
everything else, one of my friends was killed in a traffic accident
yesterday.”

“
I’m
sorry. Were you close?”

“
Really
close. It’s kinda hit me for six, if I’m honest.”

“
Life
has a strange way about it sometimes, doesn’t it?”

She couldn’t disagree there. She decided to change
the subject, perhaps give Bob something a little more positive to
think about. She picked up the envelope containing the manuscript
pages and handed it to him.

“
Here
you go. Two chapters finished and ready for the ruthless editor’s
pen,” she said, and even managed a small smile.

“
Thanks,
Terri. I knew you could do it...” he already seemed more in
control as he opened the envelope and leafed through the pages.

“
This
is good… Really good... Should get those pricks in the office
off our backs, at least for a while.”

“
I
should have the final chapter for you in a day or two. In truth, I
can’t wait to finish it.”

“
That
great, Terri. I really appreciate you coming through for me on this.”

The relief was as evident in his face as it was in his
voice.

“
Same
applies, Bob. You just make sure to take care of yourself, and please
see someone about getting help with Marge.”

“
I’d
say I will just to please you, but you know me too well. I don’t
want her to spend her last months in some sterile hospital bed. I
appreciate the concern though, I really do.”

She hugged him then, and he awkwardly returned the
gesture.

“
Look,
Bob, I have to go. I have some errands to run before I knuckle down
and do some work.”

Unless somebody has done some for you whilst you were
away

She ignored her inner monologue as she stood, Bob
following suit.

“
I
have to be on my way too—need to get back to the office and
turn these pages in. Traffic will be hell soon... I’ll be in
touch in a few days. You take care of yourself, Terri.”

She nodded and smiled, then tossed her empty coffee cup
in the wire waste bin by the bench.

“
You
too. I’m sure things will get better soon.”

“
You
know what I was just thinking, Terri?” asked Bob with a haunted
and reflective expression on his face.

“
What?”

“
I
was thinking that if there was a way to go back in time and start
things from scratch, I would take it in a heartbeat.”

It was an innocent statement, the words meant
reflectively, but inside Terri screamed. Her reply was automatic, and
her split second of horror didn’t appear to have registered
with Bob.

“
I
think we all wish that sometimes... You take care, and give my best
to Marge.”

She turned and left, fearing that if she stayed he would
see through her and know that there was something truly, terribly
wrong. Fighting back tears of her own, she quickly glanced over her
shoulder to see Bob standing by the park bench, finishing his coffee.
If there was a greater power, she hoped it would spare Bob from his
misery. He was one of the good ones.

7.

The I55 highway stretched out in front of the silver
Mercedes as it headed towards Seattle. Bob had the window cranked
open, and was enjoying the cool breeze as he made good time. Although
still upset, he was happy to have met with Terri. He had no children
of his own, and thought of her as a daughter in a way. He was pleased
to find the road surprisingly clear, and accelerating to a steady
sixty-two miles an hour, he activated the cruise control and took his
foot off the pedal, allowing the car to do the work. Sunlight glinted
off the traffic in the oncoming lane, which was far more
congested than the run Bob was currently enjoying.

Glancing over to the envelope containing Terri’s
manuscript pages on the passenger seat, he picked them up and began
to carefully scan through them, making sure to check the road ahead
every few seconds. He was happy she had managed to get some work
done. He had worked with some fine writers over the years, but had
never known anyone with her potential.

Out
of nowhere he felt a migraine sluggishly begin to form—a thick
pulse behind his eyes, which made him feel nauseous. Suddenly an
agonizing pain surged through him, causing him to spasm and kick out
his feet, flooring the accelerator as the car veered over the median
and into the oncoming traffic, where it met a school bus head on. The
impact was violent, the crumpled Mercedes rolling several times
before erupting in flames. Bob was already dead before the
crash—killed by the brain aneurysm he had carried with him for
the last seven years without knowing it. As the flames took hold of
the car, and Bob’s body began to burn, his dead hand released
its grip on the envelope containing the manuscript pages, and soon
they were engulfed in flames.