Chicky, horror, thriller

Murder and Flowers-flash fiction-thriller

I am quite exhausted of hearing the fact that men are serial killers. I mean, how often do we hear of a woman serial killer? Sure it has taken place in the past; however, names of serial killers that come to mind are Jack the Ripper — I love him, by the way — and Jeffrey Dahmer, the man who never let his murders go to waste. Ate them up, yummy. But, never does a woman’s name come to mind when one thinks of serial killers. There is, of course a reason for that. See, the old saying holds true. “Anything a man can do…a woman can do better.” Of course there are plenty of women serial killers out there! We just don’t get caught!

“My dear, I am so pleased you could make it to my home this afternoon. How did you find your way?” I ask the seventeen-year-old darling who sits uncomfortably upright in my kitchen chair. Her long blond hair is thick and reminds me of the yarn-haired dolls I mutilated as a child.

“Do you mean did I find my way here okay?” She adjusts herself in the chair. “Sorry, I didn’t quite understand the question.”

I lean forward in my chair, placing my face within two feet of hers. I breathe her in, filling my lungs to capacity. Flowers. She smells like fresh cut wild flowers, and my body begins to tingle with excitement. But I must control myself. “Yes, Dear, how did you find your way?”

“It was okay. I didn’t use GPS, if that’s what you mean. I did as you requested and picked up a map from the store and found my way here from that.” She smiles. “That’s the first time I’ve ever used a map. I won’t have any problems driving your child around while you are at work.”

“Oh good, good. And did you also leave your phone at home so you would not be tempted to use that GPS?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And where does your family believe you are right now?”

“At,” she pauses, her eyes slightly squint and her head tilts a little to the side, “a…a job interview.”

“Splendid, Dear, splendid, as right you are!”

She looks around the room a little more closely now. She even leans to her left to get a view of the family room. It, as is the kitchen, is spotless and filled with expensive furniture and beautiful, breakable artifacts. Dare I say, she looks a little…uneasy. Delicious.

“Where…” she starts. “Is the child I will be a nanny to here? I don’t… I don’t see any toys.”

My heart is beginning to race, and I feel slightly lightheaded from the rush that is beginning to flow through my body. Her pupils are growing larger, and her skin… Is it a shade lighter? Yes. “Oh, I keep everything in Jacob’s room. He’s sleeping in his crib right now. Through those doors.” I point to the double-entry door behind her. “Go see him, but shhhh, try not to wake him,” I say with my head tilting down in admiration of my “baby Jacob”. She looks uneasy, but stands and does as she is told. I follow with soft footsteps behind her.

The doors are silent as she opens them. A blue, boat-themed room is displayed before her. And in the middle, there is a white crib with a bundle of joy inside. Joy is in the heart of the beholder, after all.

An odor fills the room that was not there earlier. It is an odor that I am quite familiar with, yet not at all fond of. I am certain she must smell it too. She, however, will not be familiar with what the smell is. And, of course, she will be her most polite and not even mention it. Wonderful girl.

She looks back at me before approaching “Jacob” as if to get final consent to approach my love.

“Yes, Dear, go on. Go on!”

She quietly places her face over the crib, looking at the bundle below her. She can’t see his face, of course. Well, I know why she cannot see the face. There simply is not one. But she does not know that yet.

“I…I don’t see him. Is he in the blanket? I’m afraid he may be suffocating. I can’t see his face.”

“Oh, Dear, he is fine.” I give a slight chuckle. “But, please, feel better and remove the blanket from his face.”

“Oh no. If you think this is okay, I’m sure it is.”

“You had better move the blanket…just in case. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to little Jacob.”

She reaches into the crib and begins to tug at the wrapped bundle of blue and white striped cloth. And that is my cue to pull the blade from under the rocking chair cushion. I stand closely behind her. She is God awfully slow. She is a careful one, isn’t she? Then she stops. She does not move. I listen. I lean in closer and listen. She does not breathe. Yes, she sees what is in the cotton cover. The blood-stained, cotton cover. And there. There it is. Oh yes! Her scream. It makes me feel… And there it is again. Another scream. …so alive. I feel so alive. She turns and tries to run, but how can she with my knife in her chest? She tries to gasp, but she can’t breathe at the moment.  Her eyes fill with fear. Tantalizing. I soak that in before pulling the blade from her. Hunched and trying to hold her blood in, she moves toward the door. I skewer her back, the knife sliding easily between her ribs, but grazing the bone just enough to feel the dull grind as I pull it back out. She screams.  There, now she is breathing again.  Good for her!  She continues to hobble to the door. And I quickly slice through her soft flesh, anywhere–doesn’t really matter where–until she falls to the ground. Blood is everywhere, as though an artist has splash-painted red acrylic into a pattern only he understands. She has fallen and is nothing but a whimpering pile of blood-drenched flesh. She watches as I move toward her, her body no longer allowing her to do much else than stare up at me. I slice her wrist and watch the blood flow.

I don’t know if they are coherent at this point. Certainly in shock. But coherent? I’m not so sure, but I talk to her anyway.

“Got ya. Didn’t I? Everyone feels so safe when interacting with a woman. There is never a second thought about safety. Ever. You didn’t think about safety, did you? You silly, silly girl. You even left your phone behind. Something I’m quite certain you would not have done had I been a man. No one will ever trace you here now.” I pause. “How did you like the bundle in the crib, by the way?” I walk over and grab the decaying arm from the crib. “Do you recognize it? This arm?” Not that I expect her to answer. She just stares as I waive it “Hello” in front of her face. “It is your mother’s arm. Her interview was earlier this morning.” Her eyes glaze over. She is gone. Exquisite. That moment of departure is what I live for. I wonder if her mummy just pulled her to heaven. Who knows.

I guess the sexist fact that men have the stigma of being serial killers is a good thing. People trust me because I am a woman. Therefore, I am permitted do much more killing than they ever could. And because I am a woman, and so very clever, I will never get caught.
~~~
Written by Sheryl Marasi
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horror, thriller

Karmic Hell – flash fiction-horror

What if I told you I know what hell is. What if I told you I was in hell right now.  Would you even listen? Probably not. You don’t even notice me sitting here, chained here, watching you.   The others? They’re watching you too. Now, I don’t know if they know what I know. I don’t even know if they think. Had you asked me twenty years ago, I would have said hell no, they don’t think. They’re too stupid. Ask me now though.

I don’t know how long I have been chained in this so-called house. More like a box…more like a dog house. Half my body in, half my body out. But I do know how long you plan to keep me here. Four months. If I’m lucky, you’ll be impatient like the last person and let me out after three. I could only be so lucky.

Yes, sir! I will bow my head, and step back as you fill my food. I know. I know. One wrong move and you’ll slam my head with that metal bucket you hold. And that blow to my skull will be painful. I’ve felt it before.   So many times before. Even when I was sure to not move, to not even breathe when that bucket was near me, it would still come down and hit me with a loud crack, followed by the soundwaves of that metal traveling through my skull just because the holder was having a bad day. Because it was too hot out that day. Or because the smell of our shit and piss was extra strong on that day. I don’t know if today is one of those days, I don’t smell our excrement anymore. So I will sit here, quiet, while you pour that slop in front of my vulnerable, tender face. And I will pray to the God that has turned his back on me to please take pity on my soul. For I am truly sorry for all I have done in the past. Please God, forgive me.

I know you. I was you. I was powerful once too. Shit, to hold the power of who lives and who dies in your own two hands? That’s some amazing feeling right there. I know, you pretend like it’s just a job. You do it for the money, right? It has nothing to do with the feeling you get when you raise that bucket above our heads and watch with laughter in your eyes as we cower to you, anticipating the pain to come. Sometimes you pull back though.   You spare us the pain, but only the pain. You don’t spare our dignity that you took in that moment. Always making sure we know who is boss.   Always making sure we know we are less than. Because that makes you more than. I know. I was you.

I want to die. And I want to stay dead. I did die. I had a heart attack at fifty-five. Twenty years ago. They said my arteries were clogged. I had a wonderful life, so I thought. My husband and I owned the largest dairy farm our side of the state. Business was good. We had the best machinery money could buy to milk those ladies. We also had the best insemination practices…they took almost every time. That meant extra money from the veal industry. Life was good. Money was good.

Apparently I overlooked number six in the Ten Commandments though: Thou shalt not kill. I’m sure it didn’t help any that we also slaughtered those babies and their expired moms on the Sabbath day as well. I should have known better.

The last thing I remember from that life was hearing my daughter crying for me to hang on. Then it went black. I felt nothing for a minute. Then I saw a light. It was beautiful and I wanted nothing more than to go to it. As I entered into it, I felt myself dangle down, cold and wet. I tried to see, but everything was a blur. Then my body hit something hard. I felt a gentle touch. It was the most welcoming feeling in the world. I wondered if it was an angle. It gently caressed my body everywhere. And once it stroked my face, I could smell the earth. It smelled dirty and green and wonderful. And then I could see clearly. The blur was removed as something rough and wet dragged across my eyes. I could see sky. Beautiful blue sky with the occasional white puff strategically placed. I struggled to stand, and as I did so, I turned my head to see who this beautiful angel was. To my disbelief it was a cow. Surprisingly I wasn’t disturbed, or disgusted. I loved her. It was an automatic love. And instantly I regretted the enslavement that I did for years with animals like this beautiful cow who stood before me, continuing to brush me with her tongue. I think she loved me too.

I heard footsteps pushing through the grass. And before I could turn to see who was coming, my body was lifted and flung into a rusted wheel barrow as though I was nothing more than a heavy bag of manure. My thin, soft bones felt as though they were hit with baseball bats. I could see the anguish in the cow’s eyes as she began to yell for me and follow this man as he threw me into a truck. I yelled, I cried. But I knew no one would listen. Sadly, I was familiar with what was happening and I knew what would come next.   I knew because I was that farmer once. And as terrified as I was for myself, I felt so much worse for the cow, my new mother. Her heart would break and she would literally call for me for days. Maybe even weeks. And no one would listen.

I was tied to a chain and left in a tiny dog-style house for four long months. Veal is tender because when it’s alive, it’s not permitted to move…ever. That’s trick of the trade number one. I was fed a meal that was deficient in many nutrients. I would also be plagued with extreme stomach upset and diarrhea every day because of that diet. But because of that diet, I would taste better. That’s trick of the trade number two. I would occasionally be beat for no reason. Thankfully I would only have to endure this cruelty for four months. Final trick of the trade: kill them young, while the meat is still as tender as butter.

I could not wait for that reincarnated life to be over.

But after four months, after I was pushed into a truck with ten other four-month old calves and driven to the slaughter house. After we all stood in line watching the one in front of us get their throat slit. After receiving a blunt hit to my own head. After having my own throat slit and then my skin pulled and sliced from me before I bled out…before I was even dead. After all that, I traveled to another light. I thought, Thank you God, as I traveled to a new light. That light was beautiful and I felt peace. Finally, I felt peace. It was finally over. Then I felt cold and wet before hitting the ground. I felt a loving caress and found myself in love with another beautiful cow only to endure the whole four month hellish process again. Hell-ish. There is no “ish” about this. It took me five reincarnations into this same situation before I realized this was hell. This is hell. For twenty years I have endured the life of a baby calve, held against my will and slaughtered over and over and over again.

So you, with that bucket in your hand and power raging from your eyes, you will soon be here too. Hell is real and it is more karmic than you could ever imagine.
~~~
Written by Sheryl Marasi
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Photo by Fantareis

drama, horror, thriller

Let Me Out!! flash fiction-thriller

KELLY

“Let me out!” I scream. “Let me out! Somebody! Please!” My screams fade out. I can only yell so much, because I can only breathe so much. The air is thick…no, thin. Is it thin? God, I don’t know. “Please!” I yell. Tears run down my face. I try to wipe them away, but I can’t. They just trickle down my cheek, past my ear to the wetness below my head that I hope is an accumulation of my tears, not an accumulation of my blood. My hands are at my sides, and this box I am in barely lets me raise my chest in and out let alone move my arms any higher than the thickness of my body. I wear it like a snug snow suit. No room to move. No room to breathe. And the air…the lack of air. “Please, please, please, please,” I repeat in a low voice to no one.

Wherever I am, I am in motion. I can’t tell which direction, but I feel a very slight sway like I may be on a boat. If I am on a boat, it must be in the lower cabin, because it’s not just dark in here, it’s black.

I touch the wood that surrounds me, hoping for a clue, praying for an opening that will set me free.

I was…I was putting groceries into the trunk of my car. It was raining, actually it was a downpour, but I had to get home to Ryan.

The air is thin, not thick.

Everyone was inside the store, waiting for the rain to stop, but I didn’t wait. The babysitter was going to leave, so I had to get home to Ryan.

Not thin…the air, it’s barely there.

Ryan,” I whisper. The box is too tight for me to hit upward, but I can move my arms to their sides. A little. I hit the walls on each side of me as hard as I can. “Let me out!” Hitting the walls is doing nothing. There’s not enough room to gain momentum.

I didn’t realize it until now, but I am famished. I feel like I haven’t eaten for days. Maybe I haven’t. I was… I was at the grocery store. It was Tuesday night. I shop on Tuesdays. I woke up here maybe an hour ago. Or was it two? Maybe just ten minutes.

Why is there so little air? Am I buried? I know I’m not buried, I swear I am moving. I breathe in through my nose, praying I don’t smell dirt. I smell urine and feces instead. I can’t tell if it’s mine or if someone else had been in this box before me. I go from being hungry to turning my head just in time to vomit. It’s warm as it slithers down my neck. The smell and feel of it make me hurl again. It’s a vicious cycle until my mind comes to terms that I am going to lay in my feces and vomit and I cannot allow myself to give into the repulsiveness of it.

I’m going to die. People don’t put people into boxes unless they are going to kill them. Or send them off to be sex slaves. Or… “No.” I hit the walls again. “No. no.no. no NO!!” The black market. They are going to slice me apart and sell me piece by piece. That’s why they’re shipping me somewhere. They are selling me like an animal.

As scared as I am, I can’t… I just can’t. I need to stay in control. Ryan will be alone. He’ll end up in the foster system. I need out. I have to get to my boy. “Please! Please!” I sob, “Somebody, please! Help me! Let me out!” I scream, not even words anymore, just terrified screams that originate from every inch of my body.

Then, between my cries, I hear a long, low horn. Am I on a…barge? I quiet to listen. My body weight shifts to the left. I am. I am on a barge. They are shipping me for body parts. Oh my God. God! I scrape at the wood walls trying to get out until I can’t feel my fingertips anymore. I have to get out!

LISA

The sun’s reflections bounce off each ripple in the river, making it hard for Lisa to pull her gaze from it. Not that she wants to. She reaches into her insulated lunch box and pulls out a sandwich.

Everyone else in the office went to some restaurant in the city, but Lisa takes this time to be alone and relax. Boats seem to calm her. And every day at this time, she is guaranteed to see at least one boat, the 12:00 barge that rounds the river’s corner and passes her as if to give a friendly hello. Every day she watches it while her mind wanders and the breeze twists in her hair.

The horn of the barge blows, warning other boaters that it is turning into their area. She pulls her focus from the river and places it onto the barge. She needs this boat more than ever today. Her mind is constantly on her best friend Kelly who went missing Tuesday after work. The local authorities found her car at the grocery store a few blocks from her home. Her purse was on the ground, her keys a few inches from it. They ruled out robbery and linked it to the series of missing women and men that had been taking place in their city for months. One person goes missing every day. This past Tuesday, it was Kelly. They have yet to recover any of the missing people, dead or alive.

Lisa watches it pass and forces herself to take in the strength of the structure, the beauty of the deep red metals, and the hypnotic waves pushing up and down the sides of the barge. And for just those few moments, her mind is off Kelly, and Lisa is at peace.

KELLY

“Let me out!!!!”
~~~
Written by Sheryl Marasi
~~~
Read more stories like this one here.
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Feel free to leave a comment!  As always, I appreciate you sharing my stories.  Thank you!
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