TIGER, TIGER By James C. Clar

Here's the latest in Jim's superb Hawaii based series...

Tiger, Tiger … 

 

“In those days, the world of mirrors and the world of men were not … separate and unconnected … one could pass back and forth …”

 Jorge Luis Borges

The Book of Imaginary Beings

 

 

“So, you haven’t seen Eddie Makiki for three days now. Is that right?”

 

“Yes,” Mary Nakamura pushed back a strand of jet black hair from her forehead distractedly as she answered. She shifted in her chair. As far as HPD Detective Jake Higa was concerned, the young woman sitting in front of him bore the usual mélange of island features – Japanese, Hawaiian, Filipino and, in this case, a little Irish thrown in for good measure – with strikingly attractive results. What she had been doing hooked up with a moke like Eddie Makiki was a mystery to him.

 

“Like I told you, detectives, not since the night of our argument.”

 

Higa’s lumbering partner, Ray Kanahele, had remained standing. He leaned carefully against the countertop that ran the length of Mary Nakamura’s somewhat cramped kitchen between the old enameled cast iron sink and the more modern range top.

 

Nakamura’s apartment was on the second floor of an aging building that straddled the corner of Kapahulu and Campbell Avenues. Through the open window over his shoulder, Kanahele heard the sound of cars and buses as well as the soft swish of palm trees being buffeted by the trade winds that had picked up over the course of the last few days.

 

Sniffing surreptitiously, the big man also detected the aromas of onions, ginger and peppers being prepared in the Chinese restaurant that occupied most of the first floor of the building in which he stood. He and his wife Maile had, in fact, eaten in the place a few times. As far as he could recall, the food had been pretty good. Damned if the smell wasn’t making him hungry!

 

“I’m a little fuzzy here this morning, Ms. Nakamura,” Kanahele offered. “Can you run

through it again for us? What were you arguing about? I mean, a guy has an argument with his girlfriend then doesn’t show up for work and isn’t seen again since. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure there’s maybe a connection.”

 

“Toshio. We were arguing about Toshio.” Nakamura lowered her voice and looked toward the doorway leading to the living room where a TV set was tuned to Oceanic Cable. The audio from a Yomiuri Giants’ game mixed with the sound of the wind and punctuated the silence that suddenly engulfed the little room.

 

“Toshio’s a big fan,” the woman said eventually by way of explanation. “Baseball and his books …” her voice trailed off and she looked down at the table where she sat.

 

“Toshio’s your boy, right Ms. Nakamura?” Higa wrote quickly in his battered and sticker covered Moleskine notebook. “Eddie Makiki’s not the boy’s father, I mean.”

 

“No.” Mary Nakamura looked up with more than a trace of defiance in her pretty almond eyes. “Toshio’s father took off just after he discovered I was pregnant. It’ll be ten years this coming April. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

 

Ray Kanahele cleared his throat before speaking. “So your son is, like, a sore spot between you and Eddie?”

 

“Maybe. I mean, Eddie resented the attention Toshio got I think. But that wasn’t really it. It’s because, well, Toshio’s a quiet boy. He spends most of his time watching baseball or reading. Eddie picked on him, called him names. Said he was becoming a mahu or a ‘donut-pincher’. Stuff like that.”

 

Higa and Kanahele looked at one another. Both men suddenly acquired an over-riding desire to locate this Eddie Makiki.

 

“Have you and Eddie been living together long?” Higa asked. Kanahele wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a hint of something approaching jealousy in his usually impassive partner’s tone.

 

“Just about three weeks. Since we moved over here to Waikiki.” Mary Nakamura fiddled with her hair again.

 

“We used to have a little place closer to downtown. I worked for a trucking company. I was the dispatcher. That’s where I met Eddie. Anyhow, I recently went back to school, up at Kapiolani Community College. That’s when Eddie moved in. Said he’d help out. I’ve started working at the Borders over at the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center. My hours are good. I can walk to work. Toshio likes Jefferson Elementary better than his old school and, most days, he can wait for me at the library there at the corner of Ali Wai and we can walk home together. Everything seemed to be going well until …”

 

Nakamura paused. The young woman fought back tears.

 

Kanahele leaned forward and offered one of his trademark handkerchiefs. “Until … what?” the big Hawaiian urged.

 

“That mirror out in the hallway. That’s what really got to Eddie. Toshio would sit for hours staring into the stupid thing. Then he started making up stories about seeing animals in it. Old Charlie Liu, our landlord, filled Toshio’s head with all kinds of wild tales about it being an old family heirloom with magical or mystical properties or something.”

 

Higa stood and, without comment, walked out into the ill-lit hallway. At the end, near what he assumed to be the bathroom, was a rectangular mirror mounted on the wall. He estimated it at, maybe, six feet high and four feet wide. It was clearly an antique. The frame was gilt with weird Asian symbols and other strange designs in red and black lettering. The glass was old, too, smoky and blotched in spots. Even so, the mirror seemed to possess a nearly fathomless depth. Higa could have sworn that it absorbed whatever light shone on it. He noticed that it had been broken at some point and repaired with a piece of clear plastic packing tape.

 

“That’s quite the piece,” the wiry Japanese-American said as he returned to the kitchen and sat back down. “I can see why your son is so fascinated with it. You know, Ms. Nakamura, there are Chinese legends – Japanese too, for that matter – about animals, whole worlds even, existing inside of mirrors. I know some older Japanese folks who don’t like mirrors because they believe that whatever images the glass reflects are also stored or ‘trapped’ inside.”

 

“That’s what Toshio said. He checked out a book or something from the library. He started reading up on it, like he does with everything. Sometimes I worry about him.”

 

“I wouldn’t.” Higa counseled “He sounds like an intelligent and interesting little boy.”

 

Mary Nakamura glanced apprehensively toward the living room. “You won’t have to, like, talk to him … will you?”

 

Higa reached out and patted the woman’s hand. Self-control was not something Ray Kanahele was noted for. It took all that he had, and more, for him to hide his surprise at his longtime friend’s unaccustomed show of emotion. Son-of-a-bitch, the veteran detective muttered to himself.

 

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Higa answered reassuringly. “For right now, though, let’s get back to the night Makiki disappeared. You were telling us about what happened here.”

 

“I was right here in the kitchen fixing something for dinner.” The Doppler strain of the siren on an emergency vehicle of some sort way down near the beach on Kalakaua Avenue was borne on the trades that blew unabated outside the window.

 

“Eddie came in from the living room to get something out of the refrigerator, another beer probably. He’d been drinking. ‘Jesus, Mary’, he said, ‘the little freak’s out there staring into that friggin’ mirror again’.”

 

“I told him that what Toshio did was none of his business, to leave him alone. He laughed. Told me to shut up. Said he was going to get Toshio and drag him outside, make him play in the park like a ‘normal’ kid.” Mary Nakamura began crying again.

 

“Eddie made to go out into the hallway. I got up to stop him.” Nakamura looked down, embarrassed. “He backhanded me. I fell and hit my head on the edge of the sink there near Detective Kanahele. By the time I got up and out into the hallway, Toshio was on the floor surrounded by a few pieces of broken glass and a bunch of his Matchbox cars. Eddie was gone.”

 

Once again, Jake Higa got up from his chair. He looked over at his partner and, then, at Mary Nakamura. Something unspoken passed between himself and the distraught young woman. The policeman walked into the living room where young Toshio was watching, or at least pretending to watch, his baseball game.

 

Kanahele, for his part, felt like he had just missed something important. Nonetheless, he continued to question Nakamura.

 

“So, you didn’t see what actually happened in the hallway or where Eddie Makiki got to?”

 

“No. I hit my head pretty hard. Like I said, it took me a moment or two to get up and re-oriented.”

 

The sound of muted conversation could be heard coming from the living room. Kanahele could tell that was where the Nakamura woman’s attention was focused.

 

“OK. What did your son tell you about what happened? I mean, you must have asked him, right?”

 

“Toshio said that Eddie came over and grabbed him by the shoulder. Said he started dragging him toward the mirror, like he was going to rub his face into it or something.”

 

“But something stopped him?” Kanahele prompted.

 

“Yes. Toshio said that Eddie slipped on one of the Matchbox cars he keeps leaving around. I tell him to pick them up, but you know how little boys are. It made Eddie let him go. He said that Eddie reached out his hand to steady himself against the mirror. That must be how it got broken. Anyhow, Toshio squirmed around and humped back out of the way on his backside. Said he heard a weird sound like a giant drain emptying. When he looked up, Eddie was gone. That’s just about when I got out there into the hallway.”

 

Higa returned to the kitchen. He remained standing. The veteran policeman made eye contact with his partner.

 

“Alright, Ms. Nakamura,” he said with a faint smile. “I think we have everything we need for right now. You need to call me if you hear from Eddie Makiki or, if by chance, he shows up again. It’s not that we want him for anything formally, you understand … unless you decide to address the fact that he struck you … it’s just that he’s gone missing and his employer filed a report.”

 

Higa approached the still-seated woman and handed her his card. “You can reach me, um, ‘us’ I mean, at any time … if you need anything. Understand?”

 

“By the way, your son’s a remarkable little boy. You should be quite proud of him. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for the two of you.”

 

***

 

“Hey, Jake,” Ray Kanahele said as the two men drove down Campbell Avenue toward Monsarrat. Higa, as usual, was at the wheel. The mauka slope of Diamond Head rose up ahead of them. If anything, the wind had picked up. Petals from the red and yellow shower trees that grew in profusion nearby blew wildly about the street in front of them.

 

“Let’s stop at the Diamond Head Grill. It’s early. Place shouldn’t be too crowded yet. I’m hungry.” Kanahele turned in his seat and faced his friend. “You figure Eddie Makiki will ever show up again?”

 

“I doubt it. Guy’s been in trouble with the law a few times already. He went too far the other night. Probably took off once he realized he might be facing a domestic violence or assault charge. Either that or somebody settled an old score. You know how it goes with guys like him.”

 

“Still,” Kanahele continued, “as long as there’s no sign of our man Eddie, like a body or something, it’s still an open case, right? It might be a good idea to check back with that Nakamura woman. You know, just to make sure she’s OK, that ole’ Eddie hasn’t been back around?”

 

“Maybe so,” Higa replied, eyes on the road. “Maybe I will give her a call in a day or two … if we’re not too busy.”

 

“It’s all about effective policing, right?” Kanahele said as he looked down so that his partner wouldn’t see the smile playing across his face. “Head the situation off before it becomes a problem, that’s what we’re taught.” He reached for his phone and began texting his wife. He couldn’t wait to tell Maile what he suspected.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, little Toshio Nakamura sat on the floor in the hallway of the apartment on Kapahulu. The ball game was over. His beloved Giants had won dramatically in the ninth inning. The two police detectives – how cool was that to have real live detectives asking you questions – who just left seemed like nice enough men. At least they treated his mom with respect … especially that Japanese guy. He wondered again why she couldn’t meet someone like that instead of losers like Eddie and, in all honesty, probably his dad too.

 

Thoughts of Eddie Makiki turned Toshio’s attention to the old Chinese mirror on the wall in front of him. Gazing into its sooty depths he saw a flying serpent swoop down toward the bottom of the glass. He noticed that it had iridescent wings. Best of all, the tiger was back. Right there in the middle. The animal was burnt orange. The boy felt that he could almost read its tigrine thoughts in the bold, fulgenous stripes that traced their way all over its powerful body.

 

The big cat was feeding again, its muzzle stained red as it ripped and tore its way through something it had recently caught. Sated now, the beast raised its head and looked right at Toshio. After a moment, it trotted off toward the edge of the mirror. Toshio thought for certain he saw it “wink” just before it disappeared from view.

 

Maybe, Toshio, thought, he could get his mom to walk with him down to the gift shop at the Zoo. He figured they’d have a book about tigers. Things were going to be better now, he knew it. Whatever the future had in store for them, something told him they wouldn’t have to worry about Eddie Makiki coming back any time soon, that’s for sure!

 

The End

 

BIO:

 

James C. Clar's short fiction has been published in print as well as on the Internet. His work may be found in places like The Taj Mahal Review, Flashshot, Golden Visions Magazine, Word Catalyst Magazine, Antipodean SF, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Static Movement, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense, Weirdyear and Apollo's Lyre. Stories featuring Honolulu Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele have appeared previously here on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

THE HOLIDAY PARTY By Chantelle Osman

Here's a little thought provoking humour/flash from Chantelle

THE HOLIDAY PARTY

I sat listening as the droning voice continued.  How much longer could she keep this up?  I looked around at the faces of her audience, but saw only rapt attention.  Either I was missing something, or these were the dumbest people ever to be accumulated in one room.  Maybe they had all mastered the art of sleeping with their eyes open?  I tuned the voice back in and tried to pay attention.  It was a valiant attempt that lasted approximately ten seconds—abandoned once I heard the words “that reminds me of when I was a child.” In the past two hours, I’d heard her whole life story—grocery lists included. My legs had gone numb, as had my brain.

The door leading to my escape loomed large in my peripheral vision, taunting me. I knew there was no escape.  I thought longingly of the DMV.  At least there I could have a book to read and a parade of people to watch, rather than counting my brain cells as they committed suicide one by one.  I thought of my grandmother, my dream trip to Paris, and baseball—but nothing helped.

The speaker took a sip of water, perhaps gearing up to conclude. No. She seemed content to spend her remaining days spewing nonsense.  I, however, was not. Slowly, my remaining limbs went numb.  I didn’t really try to fight it. The pain distracted me from the incessantly buzzing voice. Finally, my eyes lost their battle and fluttered closed.  As the cocktail party faded into a distant memory, I realized I had literally died of boredom.

Bio:

Chantelle Aimée Osman is a published mystery author and one of the founding members of The Sirens of Suspense, a group of award winning authors who blog on all things writing and publishing www.sirensofsuspense.com. In her other life, she own a script consultation company www.twistofkarma.com, and speaks to writing conferences nationwide.

HALFWAY HOME By David Hagerty

Halfway Home

On the day her husband tore off the roof, Lynnette decided to do something.

He’d been working on the house all summer, various projects to improve the place.  After retiring from the factory, he had the time.  “Finally a chance to catch up on all the chores,” he said.

What started as minor repairs - a leak in the bathroom sink, a door that squeaked - grew to more ambitious projects.  

The first time she noticed it was when he rewired the doorbell, though it rang every time.  “The chime’s no good,” he said, ripping the wires from the wall.  A week later, when friends came for dinner, the ringer still didn’t work.  “I need a part, and the hardware store ran out,” he said.  Three months later, guests were still knocking.

Then he began digging in the yard, unearthing the sprinkler system.  “Leaks” were his reason, though after several weeks he had failed to discover any, leaving a trench six inches wide and deep.  

His next foray was in flooring.  The hardwoods needed refinishing after years of scuffs and scrapes.  From the discount depot he rented a sander.  The machine died halfway through the living room.  “Cheapskates wouldn’t replace it,” he said.  Since, she has worn slippers in the house to ward off splinters.

“Can’t you finish one project before you start another?” she said after finding the baseboards removed.

“That’s what I’m doing,” he said.  “We can’t do the floors with these in the way.”

The moldings disappeared into the workshop he’d created in the garage.  “Only temporary,” he said when she asked where they’d park the SUV.

When a hole appeared in the kitchen wall, her suspicions grew.  “I’m giving us more room,” he said, as he stapled the plastic sheeting.

“But when will you be done?” she said.  

“We’re half way home,” he said, while applying paint thinner to the dining table.

The roof was her breaking point.  After he pledged not to begin anything else, she returned from work to find only bare beams where the shingles once lay.

“It’s nothing new,” he said.  “This is part of the remodel.”

First she tried hiding his tools, but he bought more.  “A much better set.”

Then she called in professionals to assess the damage, quote the cost of repairs.  “Too expensive,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  “Those guys prey on people like us.”

She enlisted help from friends whose husbands were more skilled, she thought, only to find them sharing a beer at the site of some new project.  “It’s all interconnected,” one explained. 

Finally, she took tools in hand herself.  A hammer to be precise.  Applied it first to his knee while he was napping.

“What are you doing?” he said, as she brought it down with a crack on his elbow.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she said  “We’re halfway home.”

BIO:

For more on David Hagerty look here:

bikelanky@sbcglobal.net

www.davidhagerty.net

AGAINST THE ODDS By A. T. Greenblatt

Against The Odds

            It started with a bet.  The simple belief that it couldn’t be done.  Sure mortal enemies could kill each other; they did it all the time.  But could they do it with spoons?

            So there we were.  In an empty parking lot, facing each other and the audience forming a ring around us.  Jimmy-John was glaring at me; I could see the hatred burning in his eyes, even at ten paces away. Clutched in one of his massive hands was a serving spoon.  I’d known him long enough to tell that he doubted that we could do this, despite the mutual belief that neither of us would be happy until the other was dead.  But he would not wound his cherished pride by refusing a fight with me. 

            I stood my ground calmly but firmly, silently figuring my odds.  Lightly cradled in my palm was a small silver sugar spoon, no longer than my finger. 

            The odds were not in my favor, I realized.

            The duel was the result of a failed business relationship.  The smothering ruins of an illegal collaborative, of lost gambles and the actions of desperate men.  I won’t deny my guilt but I won’t forgive how in his desperation to save himself, he sacrificed me.  Ironically, Jimmy-John accused me of committing the same crime.

            We had started with bar fights, hoping that the simple exchange of blows would pacify our rage.  But it hadn’t and bars became rings and the rings forced us out to the streets as the consequences of our poor decisions continued to destroy the foundations of our lives.  Our feud developed a following and the audience became the referee and began to set the conditions of the matches.  They took full advantage of our growing hatred and fights grew more violent and absurd until it evolved to the final ultimatum: Death by spoons.  

            So there we were, armed with our weapons of choice, waiting, calculating, wondering what the first move should be.  Someone from the audience stepped forward and raised a gun to the air.

            POW!  A single shot sang the death note and Jimmy-John closed the gap between us in an instant. 

            I had no time to dodge the flying, angry giant.  But I did have time to position a small silver spoon so it could do the most damage. 

            SMACK!  Down we went, groaning.  I could tell from the tone of his voice that the spoon had hit the mark.  “That’s for the insults,” I wheezed.

            He half rose, never letting his weight do anything less than crush me.  With his free hand he swung the serving spoon at my nose.

            CRACK!  I heard something on my face break and discovered it was the most disquieting sound I’ve ever heard.  “That’s for the lies,” he hissed, as he raised the spoon again.  I took the opportunity to jab my spoon into his exposed stomach.

            WHOOSH!  The air rushed out of those massive lungs, and I knew I hit a nerve bundle. 

Jab, jab.  A few more hits in the right places and I was no longer being smothered by the oppressive weight.  I leapt to my feet.  “That’s for the money,” I said.

But Jimmy-John was quick to recover and was standing again in an instant.  I didn’t even see the spoon coming.

 WHACK!  My ears were ringing.  “That’s for the broken promises,” he panted. 

Jab.  I was always quick with rebuttals.  “For the schemes.”

SWOOSH!  “For the envy.”

Jab.  “For the betrayal.”

SMACK!  WHACK!  “For our dead friendship.”  The serving spoon had become a battering ram

Jab.  Jab.  Jab.  And the sugar spoon was a wasp.  “For the lost time.”  Amidst the exchange in blows, we found ourselves both on the ground again.  I saw both spoons were now slick with blood and its metallic taste was in my mouth as well.  I wondered it if was his or mine. 

I saw Jimmy-John rising and I made sure to do the same.  An eye-blink later, we collided and were grappling, threatening to topple again.  Clenching my sugar spoon, I aimed for his face.  He saw it coming, though and bit down on the utensil when it was in range.  Instinctively, I pushed the spoon in.  And instinctively, he swallowed.

He took a final wheezing breath before it became impossible.  Collapsing on the pavement, his face began transforming from extraordinary shades of red to blue.

“That’s for taking my girl,” I said, slowly and clearly so that he made no mistake about the last words he would ever hear.

Jimmy-John could not reply, but his eyes were laughing, saying:  “We put on one hell of a show, didn’t we Tom?  We sure proved those bastards wrong.”  His eyes were laughing despite his defeat, laughing at them, laughing at us.  Then the lights went out of them completely.

The audience was stunned.  No one could believe we had actually done it. Almost a full minute passed before the crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers.

I stood in silence over the body of the great Jimmy-John, my best friend and worst enemy.  I had finally killed him, after all these years of fighting, and I had done it with a spoon.  Against the odds.  

BIO:

A. T. Greenblatt works in a firmly non-writing field when the sun is up and writes under a desk lamp at night.  Fueled by a sheer love of books and a tyrannical imagination, she writes the stories that appear over her morning coffee and won't leave her alone until they are put down on paper.  

To learn more about her published and upcoming works, follow her on Twitter athttp://twitter.com/AtGreenblatt

THE HAUNTED HOUSE by Harris Tobias

The Haunted House


The idea came to mayor Schienbaum like the proverbial bolt from the blue. “A haunted house,” he said out loud. “A really top notch haunted house, one that will be the envy of the tri-county area. A house so filled with Halloween special effects that people, even grown ups, will pay good money to see it.” It seemed the perfect solution to the town’s current budget woes.

“It will draw folks from all over the tri-county area and put North Croyden on the map.” The mayor looked around the council chamber. He could count on their support. He knew them well and they knew him. They all had their hands in the same cookie jar. “We could raise a ton of money,” he said, then added hurriedly, “for all kinds of good causes—Little League, the library." Here he practically winked at his council cohorts. "Maybe we could divert a portion to the new town hall.” The new town hall was, at that moment, little more than a hole in the ground. When finished, it would sparkle like the Taj Majal.

The mayor turned to Beatrice Abastic, the town’s librarian. She was a rail thin woman with a bookish manner, librarian hair and tiny bird like hands. Her thick glasses magnified her piercing gaze. A humorless spinster, she turned a blind eye to the corruption around her. Just as long as the council kept its greedy paws off her library. She ruled that little brick building on Market Street like the dowager queen and had for as long as anyone could remember. She was quiet, smart and unassuming when left alone but calculating and mean when angry. And she was angry now. She knew the council. She considered them greedy children.

When her budget got cut, she became the council’s nemesis. She rejected their foolish ideas like building a new town hall, something she referred to as the mausoleum; She kept their decisions from being unanimous which irked Mayor Schienbaum no end. She was in short a pain in their collective rear ends.

Bea Abastic didn’t like the haunted house idea from the get go. “We’re broke, remember,” she reminded them loudly. “You cut my after school reading program because the town couldn’t afford it. But somehow it could afford to build the mausoleum as a shrine to our mayor. Now you want to spend money we don’t have on a stupid haunted house? Well, I object.”

“Duly noted,” said Elsa Brighton, the council’s big boned secretary.

“Oh come on, Bea. Give it a rest,” groaned the mayor. “This isn’t the god damn United Nations. Your vote doesn’t count and your objections are tiresome in the extreme.”

“Give the library back its usual budget and I’ll keep quiet.”

“The haunted house hopefully will generate so much money we’ll build you a whole new library.” Bea waved the mayor away. What was the use of arguing? They would only ignore her.

Elsa Brighton, called for a vote on the haunted house proposal. One by one the hands went up. The Haunted House Project passed five to one. Bea Abastic sat there with her arms crossed silent, steaming, protesting as hard as she could. It was resolved that the town would consider investing resources in the creation of a haunted house.

“Scaring folks is no way to raise money,” she protested. “Why is there money for this foolishness and not enough for the library?”

Bea expected to be ignored and she wasn’t disappointed. What she was going to propose had zero chance of even being discussed let alone passed. She was going to call for an audit of the town’s finances. She wanted to know where all the money went. Those fat cats on the council, that’s where.

No one paid her any mind; Schienbaum actually yawned. The council appointed a committee to find a suitable house and another to negotiate a loan. Then Elsa Brighton slammed her gavel and the meeting was adjourned.

She accosted Schienbaum as he was leaving. “How much money are you going to borrow?” she asked.

“Why as much as we can, darlin’.” He put his arm around her oozing the charm that won him three consecutive terms, “As much as we can.”

“But what if it rains? What if we can’t pay it back?”

“C’mon Bea,” the Mayor’s dentures flashed skeletal in the moonlight, “have a little faith. We’re gonna make loads of money.”

There was really only one house suitably spooky enough in North Croyden. That was the old Earl house. It sat on a hill not too far from Main Street. It sat empty and boarded up for almost sixty years. It might have made a good home for a large family or a cozy bed and breakfast if it wasn’t for its reputation. None of the local people would go near it ever since Danny Earl went berserk and hacked his family to bits sometime during the Korean War.

The house itself was perfect for the role of Haunted House. A decaying old Victorian pile with a wrap around porch and a bat filled tower. It had been boarded up for so long, even the interior was made to order for the part—blood spattered wallpaper and rats in the walls. Elsa Brighton and Dana Prince walked around and declared it perfect.

The dim light that managed to filter through the plywood covered windows made the old place look menacing even at mid-day. Elsa’s size made the floorboards creak and groan. The two committee women beat it out of there as fast as they could.
Mayor Schienbaum twiddled his thumbs as Dexter Pinkwater shuffled through his papers on his big desk. The North Croyden Bank and Trust had been in the Pinkwater family for three generations and considered itself one of the town’s most important institutions.

“We’ll have to get the house appraised and inspected,” Pinkwater said assuming an air of due diligence, “but I don’t foresee any problems giving you a loan.”

The mayor flashed his mirthless grin. Of course he’d get the loan. With what he had on Pinkwater in his safe in the town hall would ruin the man forever. “I’ll need a hundred thousand dollars to start and another hundred in a few weeks. I need to hire carpenters and set designers, then there’s publicity. Oh this is going to be big, Dex, really big. I anticipate ten thousand people paying ten bucks apiece. What is that a million bucks?”

Pinkwater smiled inwardly at the mayor’s poor math skills. He didn’t care whether the money went to the mayor’s stupid scheme or directly as blackmail. He knew he’d never see it again.

In the day and weeks that followed, the Earl house was slowly transformed from a real life house of horrors to a Hollywood version of one. Schienbaum and the rest of the council were happy. There was plenty of cash to skim. The mayor quickly set up several bogus companies to do the construction and padded all the bills. He signed off on all the inspections—electrical, structural, fire— without actually performing any of them. While it lasted, the project was a big cash cow for the council. Envelopes of cash fattened their pockets.

A small army of craftsmen labored on the old house for weeks installing elaborate lighting, sound effects and machinery. When the council came for their private inspection two weeks before Halloween, they were as excited as teenagers. It was in the words of Elsa Brighton, “over the top spectacular.” And it was too. In spite of cutting every corner and stealing half the money, the end result was pretty damn impressive.

Ghouls, goblins, witches and assorted animatronic monsters popped out of every closet; vampires slept under beds and zombies walked the halls all to an overly loud soundtrack of screams, roars, evil laughter and creaking doors. The lighting too was spectacular, black lights and strobes added to the effects.

The council gathered in the big front parlor where the wallpaper dripped fake blood and toasted their success. “To the best haunted house in Ohio,” said an ecstatic mayor raising his glass.

The council, with the exception of Bea Abastic, joined him in a self-congratulatory toast. Bea thought the whole thing was a waste of money and generally in poor taste. But that was just Bea. No one paid her any mind. The party went perfectly until the overloaded electrical system blew its main breaker and left the celebrants in the dark. Under Schienbaum’s orders the offending breaker was propped open with a paper clip and the celebrations resumed.

On the publicity front, things were going swimmingly. The house was getting mentioned everywhere. It got a feature spot on the local news and a two-page spread in the local paper. Papers as far away as Cleveland were talking up the North Croyden spectacular. Schienbaum was very excited. A full twelve hours before the opening costumed families began lining up at the ticket booth. Ice cream and food vendors arrived and the whole scene in the parking lot took on the look of a carnival.

By that evening, the line stretched for a quarter of a mile. The original plan was to let people tour the house in small batches of fifty or so. The council had arranged for a shuttle service to take people from the ticket booth up the long driveway to the house. When Schienbaum saw the long line, he told the ticket sellers to, ”Let everyone through. If they want to walk up, let ‘em.”

Within minutes several hundred people were hustling up the hill, racing to be the first to experience the haunted house. Concealed lights cast ominous shadows on the walls and speakers, hidden in the shrubbery piped out eerie sounds. The people of North Croyden were in a festive mood as the early birds raced to be first through the door. The volunteers manning the four ticket booths were selling tickets as fast as they could. Every few minutes a council member relieved them of their excess cash.

As the first customers approached the front porch, they were met by the ebullient mayor dressed as a short, round Count Dracula. When he judged the crowd large enough he called for silence and attempted to deliver a short welcoming speech. The good citizens of North Croyden were in no mood for politicking. They pushed their way onto the porch sweeping the mayor aside as an army of town’s folk surged inside.

Things started to go wrong almost immediately. Thelma Harlowe, a sixty-year-old woman dressed as the Wicked Witch of the North, stumbled and was trampled by the crowd. Several small children narrowly escaped the same fate. There weren’t enough police to keep order and several fights broke out among rowdy teenagers. The mayor hollered for calm but he was drowned out by the booming sound system. The trampled Mrs. Harlowe was hustled away in an ambulance that Schienbaum had the good sense to have on standby. The sight of her mashed body looked like one more special effect to the cheering throng.

Inside the house, it was bedlam. As axe wielding skeletons and mummies sprang from a closets and trap doors, people standing too close were injured. One zombie swung its axe in the crowded room injuring Nigel Dern who clutched his bleeding head and tried to leave. He was greeted with cheers from the crowd for his realistic make up job. Several people were hurt when the crowd recoiled from hidden surprises. More and more people pressed their way inside. There was no place to go but up the stairs or into the kitchen on the ground floor. The scene became surreal as costumed monsters met mechanical ones and human screams blended with recorded screams in a nightmare chorus.

The screams inside only excited those waiting to enter. People pushed their way inside eager to see what all the screaming was about. From the outside, the evening looked like a big success. Inside was another matter entirely.

The old house, its structure so long neglected, was taxed to its limit by the sheer weight of humanity. The joists supporting the floors groaned and shifted. The staircase stringers weakened by years of dry rot began to crack. No one heard the sounds or noticed the signs amidst all the tumult.

On the porch, the council was giddy with success. “Even the weather is perfect,” the mayor beamed. They stood on the porch, proud and happy, and congratulated each other on a job well done.

When the overburdened electrical system finally sparked and sputtered itself into smoldering blackness, the real panic began. Suddenly thrust into utter darkness, people blundered about looking for the exit. Things might have ended better if someone hadn’t smelled smoke and raise the cry of FIRE!

The panic was on in earnest. Sparks from the ancient wiring ignited the equally ancient wood in the basement. Smoke and flames put a swift end to the last shreds of laughter. Now the only screams were human. The crumbling staircase, choked with people clawing their way down, collapsed with a resounding crash spilling dozens of more bodies on top of those scrambling to get out. Their added weight stressed the rotten joists to the breaking point. The floorboards opened and swallowed a host of screaming citizens into a flaming, smoking hell.

The collapsed staircase effectively trapped many families upstairs. Those who could, leaped from the second story windows as the smoke and flame raced to cut off their escape. Mothers threw their children to people below. The fire, now freed from its basement confines, engulfed the first floor trapping dozens more. The haunted house had become a death trap. The mayor and council members who were responsible for the debacle stared at the ruin in disbelief.

The final toll was 63 dead 104 injured 16 missing. The surviving council members were arrested and charged with grievous crimes. The subsequent inquiry named them co-conspirators. Indictments were issued for fraud, embezzlement and negligent homicide. No trace of Mayor Schienbaum or Secretary Brighton was ever found.

Some residents of the town thought they perished in the blaze trying to save those trapped inside. But no trace of their remains was found among the carefully sifted ashes. Others assumed that they escaped with their ill-gotten gains and are living the high life far from North Croyden. Every now and again someone claims to have seen one or both of the fugitives on a beach somewhere. Neither of these stories is true.

Mayor Abastic sits behind her desk in the town’s sparkling new library, built where the new town hall was supposed to go. Ask her what she thinks happened to the mayor and, if she’s in a talkative mood, you might get a strange response. “He’s in his mausoleum,” she may say; or “He’s visiting the Taj Majal.” No one knows what she means.


BIO:
Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.

PARNELL'S GIRL by Matthew C. Funk

Parnell's Girl


Owen had no idea he held his own death warrant in hand as he scrolled through the iTouch he’d stolen. His good humor glimmered in the little screen’s reflection, joined with that of his pal, T-Bunch, hunkered over his shoulder.

“I got some mad bounce beats right up in here,” Owen said.

“You got a whole fucking record store there, dog,” T-Bunch drawled, spinning the New Orleans Saints football helmet dangling from his keychain to indulge his favorite nervous tic.

“I got motherfucking VH1 and MTV and BET all up in here.”

“It’s tight as a thong.”

“Crazy tight.” Owen flipped through the songs. His feet kicked on the steps outside the Carver High gym, making the rotting asphalt dance. “Got some Weezy. Some Prince. Some TRU. Got some Kool and the Gang and some DMX and some Guru, man.”

Always the cautious one, T-Bunch gave the schoolyard a stroke of his mirror shades. “Who you think was rolling with all them tunes loaded, dog?”

“Maybe some music critic.”

“Some music critic who’s down, for sure.”

“For sure.”

“Some bad ass O.G., you think?” The helmet got to spinning again. Owen’s smile was alone.

“Ain’t no motherfuckers more bad ass than we Aces, fool.” Owen formed a fist decked with gold and glister. He held it out for a bump. “We running the Desire from the Canal up them ho-choked streets all the way to our crib.”

“Aces be running with iron fists and chrome rims.” T-Bunch bumped his fist. He let the question lie. His feet didn’t, starting a shuffle.

“Maybe some critic who knows Weezy.” Owen keyed back through the tracks to the main screen.

“Maybe we get a hookup with that Hollygrove player, too.”

“Maybe we do.” Owen showed a grin right to the edges of his golden grill. “Roll on up on Rabid with Weezy toking our blunts, and be like, ‘Damn, what’s up, little dog? We hit the platinum!’”

T-Bunch chuckled. A second later, he realized he was the only one. The frown slapped back on and he leaned in to the screen look at the screen with Owen.

“What’s that say, dog?”

They both read the name of the owner. Then both boys took a minute just breathing. They savored the wet diesel of the New Orleans air like it was a last meal.

“So,” T-Bunch was first to prod the silence, “We gonna give it back?”

“Hells no.” As hard as he tried, Owen couldn’t find an exclamation mark to end his sentence. He sagged.

“But, Owen,” T-Bunch said delicately. “That little gizmo belongs to Parnell’s girl.”

“I sees.”

“Same Parnell who blinded that fool who scratched his ride.” T-Bunch pressed, shivering more by the word despite the stew of summer heat. “Same Parnell who, like, is supposed to eat fools he don’t like.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“So we Aces, man!” Owen brayed through his cold sweats. “This the Ninth Ward—Ninth Circle of Hell here, dog, and we the ones holding the pitchforks! Feel me?”
T-Bunch shuffled like his feet were on fire.

“I said, ‘You feel me’?” Owen said.

He raised his fist for T-Bunch. By the time T-Bunch pounded it, Owen had already tucked the iTouch deep in his pocket. He pushed McDonald’s receipts on top of it just in case.

***

Noon came like a bath in hot sauce. It found the boys kicked back on their porch, fricasseeing on the lime-green stucco. Parnell found them too.

The ’74 Cadillac peeled up so fast it may as well have come off a stunt jump. By the time Owen and T-Bunch had focused their sleepless eyes on the driver, Parnell slithered out. He loped up, reptile sleek and shirtless, his Buddy Holly glasses a solid white burn under the sun.

“What’s up, little nigs?” Parnell crowed. His scars burned brown where he had cut the names of his gang into his flesh. “You learning a lot in school?”

“Yes, Sir.” T-Bunch said. Owen just scowled.

“You learn how to lie real good in school.” Parnell bounced onto the porch to leer over them. “Don’t you? Baby ate my homework; I ain’t no truant, just bringing Granmere her medicine—that kind of shit.”

“I guess,” T-Bunch said to Parnell’s nod.

“Yeah, exactly, shit like that.” Parnell put on a shark smile—not his brightest, but sharp enough to do. “But you wouldn’t lie to a mad king who feed a bitch his own tongue if he was lied to.”

“Naw.” Both boys answered.

“No, you too smart for that.” Parnell said. He bobbed his head like a prizefighter. “So, give it over.”

T-Bunch opened his mouth, but the denial choked.

“Uhm,” Owen managed.

“Ain’t no motherfucking ‘uhm’ to it, boy.” Parnell said, his hands bunching in his pockets. “Give my girl’s iTouch over.”

T-Bunch began to deflate just in time for Owen to see it. It got Owen’s back up; he sneered. There was no way an Ace was going to be made to feel less-than; not on his watch.

“Or what?” Owen yelped.

Parnell’s eyes matched his grin as he swiveled them to Owen.

“I mean,” Owen said, fighting down the fear jamming his throat. “We Aces, Parn. We as much as pay your motherfucking bills. Whatever rock you sling, it’s our houses in the bayou that cook it up. Our ho’s is the ones sucking your soldiers off. What you got?”

“Well,” Parnell snapped. “I got a bit of a rep, even with your high-stepping crew.”

“Dog,” Owen said, feeling all his quaking twist into a cocky chuckle. He stood. “I know what they newsflashing about you, but I got a headline for you, big man.”

“Listening.” Parnell said.

“You ain’t cutting off dick.” Owen flipped his hands up. “You ain’t going to feed shit to shit. You hear?”

Owen jabbed at the elaborate scars on Parnell’s chest with a finger that felt as hard as the ring on it. “So, you come up in our house, pissing on our sunny Saturday, you better be coming in trade.”

“I got a trade right here.” Parnell pumped his shorts at Owen with the hands in his pockets.

“Let’s see it then, Hannibal the Cannibal.” Owen chuckled.

Parnell lifted his right hand from his pocket, a pin dangling on it by its thick ring.

“What’s that?”

“A pin.”

“Oh shit,” T-Bunch muttered. He tried to stand and ended up sliding onto his belly, feet gone to ice. Owen just shrugged.

“What the fuck I need a motherfucking pin for?”

“You need this pin,” Parnell said smoothly.

“For what?” Owen laughed. “Hold my pants up?”

“You won’t have an ass to go with those pants.” Parnell lifted his other hand. “Unless you put it back in this grenade.”

Owen just stared at the live grenade in Parnell’s left hand, feeling his face slowly frost over. He tried to swallow. He tried breathing. Nothing worked.

“Deal?”

Owen found the whimper that was left of his voice. “Crazy-ass motherfucker coming on up in here with a grenade to get an iPod back.”

“iTouch,” Parnell corrected. “We got a deal?”

“Man…” Owen whined. He looked to his friend for support. The sight of T-Bunch just sobbing melted the remainder of his bones.

“Yeah?” Parnell began to open his left hand. The lever on the grenade started to spring. Owen couldn’t nod fast enough.

“Yeah, man, yeah, sure, yeah, man, oh yeah, come on.”

Parnell let Owen clutch the grenade. When the grip was good and tight, he slid free of it. The pin got tossed to T-Bunch.

“I’d say you hand over my girl’s iTouch now.” Parnell wiped his hands on the name ‘SKY’ carved under his heart. “But it looks like you got your hands full.”

It took four minutes for T-Bunch to fish the iTouch from Owen’s pocket with his rubber fingers. By the time the pin was back in the grenade, Parnell was on his way home.

***

After the fifth lock was bolted into place on his tenement door, and the screen was braced with the bar, Parnell rolled his shoulders to relax.

He didn’t just walk through his den. He flowed. The furnishings and the walls all echoed his passions—scales stacked high with drugs, movie posters sporting French action flicks and Korean horror scowling all around, plush 80s-era upholstery. All of it was dusted with a fine sparkle of stray cocaine. All was right in Parnell’s world.

Almost all.

For all his lizard-like leisure, Parnell practically sped up the steps to the bedroom waiting with its door, as ever, a bit ajar.

His tread was light on the steps. They were hollow, and a bit too much gusto would get them creaking. The thought of what lurked under them made Parnell think back on the events of the day.

Under the stairs was the passage to the basement, a narrow flight that looked fused from kindling and spider webs. It was where Parnell had his most satisfying vengeance—a vengeance he’d been denied today.

Down below Parnell’s careful feet were the hacksaws and the blow torches. Racks of butcher knives rusted alongside rubber tubing. And in a case imported from Cuba, its burgundy wood sprayed with gold filigree in the height of Spanish Colonial fashion, there were tools for finer work.

Parnell permitted himself a frown as he pushed open the bedroom door. The young Aces—Owen and T-Bunch—would not be making the acquaintance of the Cuban case. Not today.

Maybe never.

Their continued existence meant continued business. That didn’t matter to the anxious engine of Parnell’s heart. It meant everything to his head.

He had someone to take care of, after all.

Parnell took caution not to disturb the safari of stuffed animals on the floor and sank his weight onto the little bed. There, curled under sheets of peaceful pastel linen, was his girl. Little Sky, age twelve, had nothing to crease her face in sleep.
Parnell stroked his daughter’s face all the same. The action, as ever, terrified and exhilarated him. His hand felt so coarse whenever it touched her, as if the slightest error might leave her with an indelible scrape.

That concern was a curse for a wild beast like him. It was also a blessing he wouldn’t trade—not for all coke in Creation.

“Got your iTouch back, baby.” Parnell whispered after the urge to soothe her overcame the instinct to let her stay at peace.

Sky’s mouth turned down and an instant of fear shot clean through Parnell’s chest. The salve of her voice vanished it the moment later.

“Thank you, Parn,” Sky said, lashes fluttering on their closed lids as the frown shifted into a smile. “Where did you find it?”

“Around the gym, like you thought.” Parnell’s fingers checked Sky’s hair for any strays to tuck back in the groove of her braids. They did it for their own reasons, too. Each touch got dark places in him singing with a hint of light. “Some boys gave it over.”

“Boys?”

“Just some boys.”

“Ballers?”

“Just some boys.”

The dent in Sky’s brows fell only to smooth a moment later. “Okay.”

“Yeah.” Parnell set the iTouch near her head. He tucked the ear-buds that he’d cleaned with antiseptic, then with a moist Kleenex and with a dry one, next to her head. “All’s good.”

“No trouble?” Sky’s eyes almost opened. It hit Parnell like a dare. For the first time in ages, he trembled a bit. “For real?”

“None.” Parnell said, able to breathe again as Sky smiled and settled into her pillow. He breathed deep, took her all in, wanting nothing more than to hold that breath forever. It left him for the only excuse worth it—saying her name. “Sky, girl, you don’t have a trouble in the world.”

Parnell left her with his promise and loped his scarred body downstairs to take gun and drugs and terror in hand, and so to go make his promise true.


BIO:
Matthew C. Funk is a professional marketing copywriter and social media consultant, a writing mentor and the author of several manuscripts that illuminate the beauty of human extremes. A graduate of the Professional Writing MFA at USC, his online work is featured at sites such as Flash Fiction Offensive; ThugLit; Powder Burn Flash; Thrillers, Killers and Chillers; Twist of Noir; Pulp Metal Magazine; Spinetingler Magazine; Six Sentences and his Web domain.