She continued toward the front of the diner. Her bare feet made wet slapping noises on the floor. She tracked blood footprints next to Victor’s boot marks.
“The police are coming,” the waitress said.
Mercy turned to her. The waitress pressed the phone to her breast.
“You think there’s a purpose to anything that happens?” Mercy asked. “Some grand plan for each of us?”
“I don’t know,” the woman said as if Mercy might kill her for the wrong answer.
“I just killed a man with my bare hands. You think the universe wanted me to do that?”
“I’m sorry?” the waitress said as a question.
“I’m not,” Mercy said. “He deserved it.”
The man at the counter had raised his head. Creases from his sleeve imprinted his forehead. “Jesus,” the man said. “You’re one tough bitch.”
The waitress stepped back until she was against the wall.
Mercy smiled real large. “Toughest bitch I can be.”
She turned back to the door and walked out. When she made it onto the outside walkway, the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles broke the dark horizon.
The Dark Days weren’t coming; they were here--they were now. It didn’t matter if the universe wanted Victor to attack her. It didn’t matter if she was destined to kill him from the beginning. He was psychotic and she had survived. He was cancer and she was life. Sometimes, even in the darkness, there’s hope.
Mercy Higgins grabbed the cold railing and refused to let herself fall down. Blood Mountain hulked over her as a giant, black beast. The tears began to fall and soon the emotion was so great that she couldn’t see or hear anything but her own grief, yet she remained standing. Nothing was going to knock her down.
Not ever again.
THE END
J.T. Warren was born on Halloween, a few months after his mother saw Jaws at the movies. His affinity for horror can be traced to an early age when he built a coffin out of cardboard and pretended to be a corpse, much to the concern of his parents. He can still be found in a coffin on Halloween when he gets into the spirit of the season. He is a public school teacher and has successfully lured thousands of students into literary waters through works of horror. He hopes his writing will further encourage interest in the written word.
Connect with J.T. Warren through his website, on Facebook, on his blog, or on Twitter to learn more about him and find out when his next books are available.
www.wix.com/JTWarren/JTW.com
www.authorjtwarren.blogspot.com.
J.T. Warren is the author of Hudson House, The House on Mangle Lane and Calamity.
J.T. Warren is the pseudonym for an even creepier guy.
As a thank you for reading, here is a bonus short story, “Flies.” It’s a tale Victor would have loved.
Enjoy.
J.T. Warren
FLIES
I didn’t hate my wife. No matter what they say, my feelings toward Clara had nothing to do with what happened. It was the flies, of course. That may sound crazy; maybe it is, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It was the flies and it started with just one.
An ordinary house fly, not especially large, like the ones that came later, but not small enough to be confused for a gnat, was on the granite countertop, nearly blending into the swirling patterns of grey and black. It stood two or three inches from my wife’s hand. Her ring finger was bare.
Her rings were not there because Clara had removed them, as was her wont whenever she needed to have a serious discussion with me and had to make it perfectly clear that she wouldn’t hesitate to leave me. Removing her rings was her way of showing how serious she was, how very serious. She loved that word, very. Used it all the time.
And what did she want to discuss that was so very important while I was staring at a stupid house fly?
“You just don’t seem to care,” Clara said. Her voice had adopted that higher-pitched I’m-talking-to-you-so-you-better-listen tone that made my heart race and my blood pound in my ears. “You’re very distant.”
I nodded. There was no point engaging in conversation with her. If I started to defend myself or explain my behavior, I would only be giving her more fodder for her diatribe, a speech she had, no doubt, been stewing over all day at work and finalizing during her hour-long commute home.
“Tyler,” she said, sounding like the crack of a whip.
But even that I’m-really-serious-now voice wouldn’t sucker me into her trap. Besides, the fly was much more interesting. It had not moved from its spot, but it was moving, rubbing its tiny front legs together and then over its bulbous eyes. I could almost see the sheath of mucus glistening on its alien face.
“You’re just proving my point,” she said. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you won’t even look me in the face. It’s like I’m not even here. Is that what you want? You want me to leave?” She paused. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not leaving this spot until you start talking to me.”
The fly stopped at her pinkie, head twitching side to side as if checking for danger, and then tested the finger with its two front legs. It climbed onto the finger and paused right beneath her knuckle in the little tuff of blonde hair that grew on her finger like mold.
“You’re not even paying attention,” she said.
I grunted. The fly walked over the gap between the pinkie and ring finger and stopped right where her rings would have been.
The fly glanced at me with its bulging, compound eyes. I almost laughed. It was her ring--the perfect one for her: a living fly that could disgust and annoy all at once.
Clara grabbed me under the chin with her other hand and roughly snapped my head up. Something cracked in my neck. She stared at me with her large, grey eyes (almost like a fly’s, I mused) from beneath her slanting eyebrows. She shook her head slowly back and forth.
I yanked out of her grip.
The fly was gone.
“This is because you have women issues,” Clara said. “Your mother warned me. Your testes didn’t descend properly.”
“What?” For the moment, I forgot the fly.
“When you were born, your testicles were inside your body. The doctor had to surgically drop them.”
Something was ringing in my ear.
“It’s quite common, but it is also normal for males who start that way to have male-related problems.”
“I don’t have problems.”
She tilted her head; Oh, really? that tilt said. “You know what tonight is?” she asked.
The fly buzzed past me, slicing through the air. It swooped around and landed on Clara’s right shoulder. It rested there like a little pet. Clara the Fly Mother.
“Don’t play dumb.”
The fly twitched its head at me as if nodding. Even the damn bug knew it was Friday and even it knew what the hell that meant. The fly rubbed its legs together and cleaned its eyes while it waited for me to admit that I knew it was Friday, too.
“Yes, I know,” I said.
Her face softened, but not too much. “It’s very important we’re consistent.”
“Right.”
“Try not to think about the testes thing. It’ll ruin your ability.”
I nodded and waited for the fly to nod back.
* * *
Once we were together in our weekly act of sex, I thought of that stupid fly again. She hadn’t even noticed it when it was on her finger. Hadn’t even glanced at it as if she hadn’t felt it moving through the hair on her finger.