| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted January 20, 2024 |
  |
Don't talk to strangers
Stranger Danger
by Lyle Nußbaum
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
There was a knock on the door.
George lived alone, down a long lane, in the middle of nowhere and he was not expecting visitors.
Fred, the Meals on Wheels delivery driver, had made his daily stop several hours earlier, leaving a hot lunch of mystery meat and mushy vegetables that George had eaten in solitude.
Struggling to get out of his recliner, he resorted to using the lift feature then, grasping his walker and trailing his oxygen tank, he made his way to the door. He took a furtive glance through the peephole, observing two clean-shaven men wearing navy blue suits and ties standing on his front porch holding what appeared to be a Bible and other literature. Reassured by their religious appearance, he fumbled for his key chain and began opening several padlocks and throwing a series of deadbolts to open the reinforced door.
When the door finally swung open, George was greeted by the smiling visages of his unexpected visitors, which he, in turn, reciprocated. The taller, blonde man on the left began, "Good afternoon, sir. I am Brother Phil and this is Brother Brian," indicating the shorter, redhead on the right. "We are part of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Could you spare some time to talk with us today about your soul's salvation?"
George's smile grew bigger as he said, "I think it would do me good to have a nice visit; no one ever stops by anymore. Come on in, boys, we can chat in the living room."
Brian and Phil eased cautiously by George, making sure not to entangle their feet in his oxygen tubing. George pointed them toward a worn, brown loveseat then turned back to the door, relocking each padlock and deadbolt.
Turning back to his guests, he offered, "Since you aren't Mormons, I assume you won't refuse a nice glass of Southern sweet tea."
Both men graciously accepted the offer. Phil even came into the kitchen to help carry the pitcher of cold tea from the fridge and three tall glasses from the cabinet over the sink; George followed a moment later with a small sugar bowl and a long spoon.
"I can't offer you sweet tea without sugar," George explained, "unfortunately, I have to drink mine unsweetened due to my diabetes." Before either man could protest, he dropped four sugar cubes into each of their glasses and stirred, watching them dissolve. Then, taking his place in his recliner, he listened attentively to what they had to offer.
Phil presented arguments from the Watchtower pamphlets they carried while Brian took a more direct and personal approach. "Have you ever considered what will happen to you when you die?"
George took a sip of his tea and said, "I never really thought about it before. Truth is, I don't really believe in God; yet, I feel like your stopping here was orchestrated from above to return one of my simplest pleasures in life to me, one that it has been many years since I last experienced."
As they listened to George, the two men finished their tea. Brian leaned forward, "And what pleasure is that?"
Phil guessed, "Conversation? Companionship?"
"In a way," George elaborated, "though it is much deeper than that. You will understand better in a little while."
As he finished speaking, Brian slumped forward, unresponsive. Phil threw a quick glance of alarm at his friend then realized that he, too, felt funny. Beginning to rise, he said, "The room is beginning to spin." He stumbled toward the door but was thwarted by the many locks. He, too, fell unconscious on the floor.
-------------------------------------
There was a knock on the door and a voice from the other side, "Are you awake yet, boys?"
Phil struggled to focus, emerging from the darkness. How long he had been out, he did not know. His head throbbed mightily, his mouth felt like it was full of wool and his limbs were uncooperative. Hearing a groan at his side, he glanced in the dim, evening light and saw Brian, still unconscious, jacketless, barefoot tied up with his tie and belt and gagged with his socks. Phil began to panic.
Hearing the sounds of movement on the other side of the door, George open it and turned on the light. A bare, fluorescent bulb, blindingly bright. Seeing that Phil was conscious, he slapped Brian across the face bringing him groggily into his horrible reality. "I see the roofies which I concealed in your sugar cubes haven't fully worn off yet. When you have fully regained your senses, the real fun will begin."
The young men's eyes reflected pure terror, the sense of power, missing for so long in his life had returned to George. Yet, he was not satisfied with his victims' state of consciousness. Without another word, he left the room, closing the door but leaving the light on.
Phil heard the engine of their car fire up and the crunching of gravel under the tires as it pulled down the drive. Unsure of how much time they had, he surveyed the room. Other than himself and Brian tied to straight-backed chairs and the bare bulb, there was a work table in the corner, ominously covered by a tarp and several five gallon buckets. He fought against his restraints, trying to get Brian to do the same. They had to escape.
Half an hour later, though, to Phil and Brian, it felt like only five, the sound of gravel under tires returned. The young men hoped someone had come to rescue them but braced themselves for the return of their tormenter.
A slow shuffle was heard outside the door and then George stood before them, holding a circular saw. "I apologize for having to step out. I had to dispose of your cell phones in a random person's trash waiting for pickup and then conceal your vehicle in my vacant garage. It has been quite some time since I last drove. It was quite exhilarating. What a day! So many old experiences being relived."
"I have so much to thank you for, brothers. You stopped by, expressing concern for my soul and wanting to plant seeds of faith. I will repay your kindness by giving sight to your faith. Today, you will meet your Maker and see how He measures up to your beliefs. So, in the end, maybe you should be the ones thanking me."
He set the saw on one of the buckets and removed the tarp from the table, revealing an eclectic array of knives, saws, and meathooks. "They called me The Butcher of Bresden," he began, "because of the way I dispatched my victims." He lovingly stroked each terrible tool. "There were thirty-nine in all. You shall have the honor of being forty and forty-one; my first double homicide. I terrorized the town for three decades. Unfortunately, my health has not allowed me to act on my impulses for many years and will prevent me from following my usual practices of suspending you from hooks in the ceiling but there is more than one way to skin a cat," he chuckled as he plugged the circular saw into the outlet.
Turning the power on, he advanced toward Brian, who struggled futilely before him. Phil watched helplessly as George began his grisly work. It didn't take long for Brian to bleed out but long after the life had left him, George continued hacking, dismembering, collecting the blood in the buckets.
Satisfied, he turned his crazed, blood-splattered features on Phil. Licking the blood off his fingers with a look of pure ecstasy, George crowed, "The life is in the blood; it's true. Your church teaches it, going so far as to forbid blood transfusions. Without blood, there is no remission of sins. Blood is holy, cleansing, and life-giving." Taking a step toward Phil's chair, George started the saw once more, "Brother Phil, your time has come to bleed."
-------------------------------------
There was a knock on the door, two days later.
George meticulously unlocked each lock and swung the door open greeting the two policemen on the porch with a genuine smile. "What can I do for you, officers?"
"We are investigating a missing persons case, a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses who were evangelizing in the area."
"Do you mean Brothers Brian and Phil?" George asked with a feigned look of concern.
"Yes, Brian Jarvis and Phil Baker. Have you seen them?"
"Well, sure, they stopped by two days ago and we talked about salvation for awhile. The last I saw of them they were heading south out of my drive about a quarter after four in the afternoon. You can't possibly think that I had anything to do with their disappearance. I'm just a frail, feeble, old man no match for one, let alone two strapping lads."
"Of course not, sir," one of the officers replied, "we are just trying to establish a timeline and figure out where they were in hopes that it will lead us to where they are now."
"Well, in that case," said George, "would you like to step inside and have a glass of sweet tea?"
This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry
There was a knock on the door.
George lived alone, down a long lane, in the middle of nowhere and he was not expecting visitors.
Fred, the Meals on Wheels delivery driver, had made his daily stop several hours earlier, leaving a hot lunch of mystery meat and mushy vegetables that George had eaten in solitude.
Struggling to get out of his recliner, he resorted to using the lift feature then, grasping his walker and trailing his oxygen tank, he made his way to the door. He took a furtive glance through the peephole, observing two clean-shaven men wearing navy blue suits and ties standing on his front porch holding what appeared to be a Bible and other literature. Reassured by their religious appearance, he fumbled for his key chain and began opening several padlocks and throwing a series of deadbolts to open the reinforced door.
When the door finally swung open, George was greeted by the smiling visages of his unexpected visitors, which he, in turn, reciprocated. The taller, blonde man on the left began, "Good afternoon, sir. I am Brother Phil and this is Brother Brian," indicating the shorter, redhead on the right. "We are part of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Could you spare some time to talk with us today about your soul's salvation?"
George's smile grew bigger as he said, "I think it would do me good to have a nice visit; no one ever stops by anymore. Come on in, boys, we can chat in the living room."
Brian and Phil eased cautiously by George, making sure not to entangle their feet in his oxygen tubing. George pointed them toward a worn, brown loveseat then turned back to the door, relocking each padlock and deadbolt.
Turning back to his guests, he offered, "Since you aren't Mormons, I assume you won't refuse a nice glass of Southern sweet tea."
Both men graciously accepted the offer. Phil even came into the kitchen to help carry the pitcher of cold tea from the fridge and three tall glasses from the cabinet over the sink; George followed a moment later with a small sugar bowl and a long spoon.
"I can't offer you sweet tea without sugar," George explained, "unfortunately, I have to drink mine unsweetened due to my diabetes." Before either man could protest, he dropped four sugar cubes into each of their glasses and stirred, watching them dissolve. Then, taking his place in his recliner, he listened attentively to what they had to offer.
Phil presented arguments from the Watchtower pamphlets they carried while Brian took a more direct and personal approach. "Have you ever considered what will happen to you when you die?"
George took a sip of his tea and said, "I never really thought about it before. Truth is, I don't really believe in God; yet, I feel like your stopping here was orchestrated from above to return one of my simplest pleasures in life to me, one that it has been many years since I last experienced."
As they listened to George, the two men finished their tea. Brian leaned forward, "And what pleasure is that?"
Phil guessed, "Conversation? Companionship?"
"In a way," George elaborated, "though it is much deeper than that. You will understand better in a little while."
As he finished speaking, Brian slumped forward, unresponsive. Phil threw a quick glance of alarm at his friend then realized that he, too, felt funny. Beginning to rise, he said, "The room is beginning to spin." He stumbled toward the door but was thwarted by the many locks. He, too, fell unconscious on the floor.
-------------------------------------
There was a knock on the door and a voice from the other side, "Are you awake yet, boys?"
Phil struggled to focus, emerging from the darkness. How long he had been out, he did not know. His head throbbed mightily, his mouth felt like it was full of wool and his limbs were uncooperative. Hearing a groan at his side, he glanced in the dim, evening light and saw Brian, still unconscious, jacketless, barefoot tied up with his tie and belt and gagged with his socks. Phil began to panic.
Hearing the sounds of movement on the other side of the door, George open it and turned on the light. A bare, fluorescent bulb, blindingly bright. Seeing that Phil was conscious, he slapped Brian across the face bringing him groggily into his horrible reality. "I see the roofies which I concealed in your sugar cubes haven't fully worn off yet. When you have fully regained your senses, the real fun will begin."
The young men's eyes reflected pure terror, the sense of power, missing for so long in his life had returned to George. Yet, he was not satisfied with his victims' state of consciousness. Without another word, he left the room, closing the door but leaving the light on.
Phil heard the engine of their car fire up and the crunching of gravel under the tires as it pulled down the drive. Unsure of how much time they had, he surveyed the room. Other than himself and Brian tied to straight-backed chairs and the bare bulb, there was a work table in the corner, ominously covered by a tarp and several five gallon buckets. He fought against his restraints, trying to get Brian to do the same. They had to escape.
Half an hour later, though, to Phil and Brian, it felt like only five, the sound of gravel under tires returned. The young men hoped someone had come to rescue them but braced themselves for the return of their tormenter.
A slow shuffle was heard outside the door and then George stood before them, holding a circular saw. "I apologize for having to step out. I had to dispose of your cell phones in a random person's trash waiting for pickup and then conceal your vehicle in my vacant garage. It has been quite some time since I last drove. It was quite exhilarating. What a day! So many old experiences being relived."
"I have so much to thank you for, brothers. You stopped by, expressing concern for my soul and wanting to plant seeds of faith. I will repay your kindness by giving sight to your faith. Today, you will meet your Maker and see how He measures up to your beliefs. So, in the end, maybe you should be the ones thanking me."
He set the saw on one of the buckets and removed the tarp from the table, revealing an eclectic array of knives, saws, and meathooks. "They called me The Butcher of Bresden," he began, "because of the way I dispatched my victims." He lovingly stroked each terrible tool. "There were thirty-nine in all. You shall have the honor of being forty and forty-one; my first double homicide. I terrorized the town for three decades. Unfortunately, my health has not allowed me to act on my impulses for many years and will prevent me from following my usual practices of suspending you from hooks in the ceiling but there is more than one way to skin a cat," he chuckled as he plugged the circular saw into the outlet.
Turning the power on, he advanced toward Brian, who struggled futilely before him. Phil watched helplessly as George began his grisly work. It didn't take long for Brian to bleed out but long after the life had left him, George continued hacking, dismembering, collecting the blood in the buckets.
Satisfied, he turned his crazed, blood-splattered features on Phil. Licking the blood off his fingers with a look of pure ecstasy, George crowed, "The life is in the blood; it's true. Your church teaches it, going so far as to forbid blood transfusions. Without blood, there is no remission of sins. Blood is holy, cleansing, and life-giving." Taking a step toward Phil's chair, George started the saw once more, "Brother Phil, your time has come to bleed."
-------------------------------------
There was a knock on the door, two days later.
George meticulously unlocked each lock and swung the door open greeting the two policemen on the porch with a genuine smile. "What can I do for you, officers?"
"We are investigating a missing persons case, a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses who were evangelizing in the area."
"Do you mean Brothers Brian and Phil?" George asked with a feigned look of concern.
"Yes, Brian Jarvis and Phil Baker. Have you seen them?"
"Well, sure, they stopped by two days ago and we talked about salvation for awhile. The last I saw of them they were heading south out of my drive about a quarter after four in the afternoon. You can't possibly think that I had anything to do with their disappearance. I'm just a frail, feeble, old man no match for one, let alone two strapping lads."
"Of course not, sir," one of the officers replied, "we are just trying to establish a timeline and figure out where they were in hopes that it will lead us to where they are now."
"Well, in that case," said George, "would you like to step inside and have a glass of sweet tea?"
Artwork by avmurray at FanArtReview.com
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© Copyright 2024. Lyle Nußbaum All rights reserved.
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