Twisted’s Evil Little Sister (Twisted50 Book 2) Read online

  Having splashed my face with cooling water, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Jeez, I’ve looked better. . . Then it hits me. A searing pain courses through my body, causing me to double in two. I crawl back to the bedroom on all fours. At eye level, I note the empty drugs bottle and the suspiciously cloudy glass of water adjacent to it.

  "No!"

  Wiping the blood from my nose, I swallow, tasting the iron liquid within my mouth. In frustration, I throw the glass at the wall. It shattering is the last sound I hear as I convulse on the floor.

  Tenth Day After Verdict

  I sit bolt upright, panting, gulping, and reach for my water but think better of it.

  A sense of powerlessness consumes me and I hate it! Is this witchcraft? Voodoo, perhaps? I need answers.

  I call Mark. It’s odd that we ever became friends; he lacks that city, killer instinct.

  He stares at me as I sit opposite him in the packed bar. The smirk on Mark's face betrays his amusement. “You’re taking the piss, right?”

  “No!” I reply. “Hear me out, will you?” And I ramble on in hushed tones so the whole world doesn't hear that I’m basically fucking crazy.

  “Nine days, nine deaths; each more painful than the last. I’ve suffered snake bites, been electrocuted, impaled, shot, crushed, mown down by a train, beheaded, gone into anaphylactic shock. . . and now O.D.ed.”

  Mark bites his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. If I didn’t want to hear what he has to say, I'd punch the English fucker. “Wow. That's quite a list.” He raises his eyebrows and polishes off his wine.

  “Stephen King does Punxsutawney Phil.”

  “It's different,” I insist. “When I wake, the calendar’s moved on.”

  “Exactly,” he asserts, as if I’m meant to draw solace from the word.

  Mark signals for another bottle, leans over the adjacent table and points to a newspaper. “Hi. May we borrow this?” He flicks through the pages. . . then presents it to me.

  “James, look.”

  “At what?”

  “The obituaries. You’re not in them." He pauses for effect. "You’re James fucking Chance. If you’d died yesterday, don’t you think it’d be plastered all over the front page?”

  A fair point and, with that, I begin to doubt the validity of the last ten days.

  “This trial thing, it’s screwing with you. You need a break. . . And therapy, obviously.” And now he’s smirking again. His smile is annoyingly infectious and I can’t help but snort out a laugh.

  “Of course;" I nod, "you’re right.”

  Mark's cab heads up 6th and I continue on foot, accompanied by a persistent bee. As I wave it away, I lose my footing on the edge of the sidewalk and topple into the street. A car sounds its horn and swerves violently to avoid me. That was close.

  Wait. Maybe that was my thing for today. Maybe surviving being run over has broken the cycle.

  A refreshing sense of calm washes over me as I near the apartment. I punch in the combination and pull at the door; it doesn't open. As I re-enter the code, a buzzing sound intensifies and there's that damn bee again. It lands on my cheek and stings me instantly. A friend comes to join it. Then three. Then ten. . . All calmness deserts me for I know how this ends.

  As I pull violently against the door, the swarm take full advantage of my screams, entering my mouth and nose, blocking my airway with a thousand venomed barbs. Oddly, fleetingly, annoyingly, I recall the time when my wife pulled a wasp sting, oh so tenderly, from my foot with her teeth.

  My body buckles and I hit the floor and squirm for the last time.

  Eleventh Day After Verdict

  I wake early, screaming, this time out of frustration.

  Yesterday, I retrieved the jurors' papers from my safety deposit box. I’m not sure why exactly, but I feel that they hold the key. I call the office and cancel all appointments.

  I fan out the papers on my desk. Nothing remarkable here: a firefighter, chemist, plumber, a janitor at a zoo. I stare at them but gain no advantage, so spend the next hour compiling a comprehensive list; all the ways in which I have died, when, where etc. If I can predict today's event, perhaps I can stop it in its tracks. I view number ten ‘Stung to death by bees’. Number eleven, of course, has a question mark against it. For some reason, my eyes return to ‘bees’. Hang on…

  My heart races; my breathing is laboured and erratic. Can it really be that simple? Juror 2 – Melvin Harris – 47 – Proprietor – Queen's Apiaries. I Google ‘Apiaries’ to make certain. ‘Apiaries: honey-producing beehives.’ I grab my pen and write ‘10 – Bees’ on Melvin Harris’s sheet.

  Scanning through other papers, I write ‘1 – Snake bite’ against Juror 5 – Kelly Watts – 28 – Janitor – Central Park Zoo. All begins to fall into place as I allocate the method of death against each juror’s profession. “Those double-crossing bastards!”

  Okay. Only two pages remain unallocated: Juror 6 – Victor Spelling – 54 – Electrician – PKP Electrics and Juror 12 – Howard Stafford – 32 – Plumber – Self-employed.

  I sit back, contemplating Victor Spelling's details.

  Using my pre-paid cell, I place a call. . . Eventually, he answers and I arrange, covertly, for him to visit on the pretence of fixing my stove, promising him way-over-the-top payment for coming out immediately.

  I lay my gun on the bed; I've time for a shower.

  As I rinse off suds, the water begins to pool in the shower tray. I stamp on the drain repeatedly; it doesn't help and now the shower door won't budge. What the fuck? The water turns scolding hot and is now up to my knees and rising at an alarming rate. I scream out as the water scalds my skin, turning it lobster red and causing it to slough-off. As I fight the shower-head, attempting to stem the torrent, I hear the entry system buzzer.

  I tilt my neck back, trying to find one last gasp of air and pound on the door, screaming out as my eyeballs poach in the now boiling liquid.

  Twelfth Day After Verdict

  I pace the apartment, mumbling to myself. I feel isolated; the unwelcome consequence of murdering one’s soulmate, I guess. I write ‘11 - Shower’ onto plumber, Howard Stafford’s sheet with shaking hands. This leaves me with electrician, Victor Spelling.

  I've barred and locked all the doors, barricading them with furniture. The windows and drapes are closed, and rags block any gaps between doors and door frames. All sockets, appliances, the TV etc., have been turned off and unplugged. The electricity junction box is flicked off and the smoke detectors flash in complaint.

  In the silence, I can hear the sound of my own elevated heartbeat. I pocket the keycard from the table by the front door and sit down, exhausted, rocking backwards and forwards on my chair. . .

  Waiting.

  “Michael Butler; nine. Melvin Harris; ten. Howard Stafford; eleven. Victor Spelling; twelve. Last one. Last one. Last…” I fall asleep.

  I dream that underneath the floorboards, a mouse scurries through gaps, stopping, periodically, to sniff. It gnaws at a cable veraciously, until it is electrocuted in a flash of blue, jumping into the void.

  The mouse lands on the severed cable and its fur begins to smoulder. The embers catch on a dust bunny, which ignites, and the floorboards glow amber. Above, smoke billows from the gaps between the floorboards. Soon after, flames appear.

  I awake, coughing and spluttering, to find the room dowsed in flame. I lurch for the fire extinguisher, pull out the pin, and squeeze on the lever, which snaps off in my hand.

  This cannot be right! I count out the paperwork in confusion. "Eight, nine, ten, eleven. . .” Where's the Goddamned twelfth? I search around and pull out the top drawer of my desk, overturning its contents. There, in the void behind it, is the twelfth sheet.

  The fire alarm blares out in the corridor as flames engulf the apartment. I tear away the furniture and blankets from around the exit door and fumble with the keycard, but a choking sensation overpowers me. As I struggle to catch a breath, I drop the keycard and it falls
between two floorboards.

  “No!" I scrape at the floorboards with my nails, causing them to bleed and detach and I can no longer hold back the sobs.

  Resigned to my fate and through the inferno, I watch as the blaze consumes the Matisse I bought for Ella. God, she loved that painting, though she thought me obtuse paying so much for it. “Nonsense,” I teased. “Millions maketh man…” Was I wrong?

  I sigh at the number ‘7’ emblazoned in red pen on John Finch’s sheet - Fireman - NYFD. I strikethrough it and write ‘12’.

  As I rise to my feet, an axe splits the wooden door, and my head, in two.

  Thirteenth Day after Verdict

  I awake refreshed. Yes, it was I who had it coming. Twelve jurors; twelve consecutive death sentences. I've paid my dues and now it’s over.

  A party is called for.

  The Temptress awaits our pleasure. A twenty-eight-metre ocean-going yacht, she is my pride and joy. I'm feeling indomitable as Mark and I fish for shark from the stern and sexy Suzy tops-up our glasses with Bollinger.

  "You're looking better," Mark observes, but as the words come out, his line rips away. "Got one!" he exclaims as he struggles with the bent-double rod.

  A rogue wave hits starboard and Mark’s rod breaks free from its mounting. It whips into the air and knocks me on the back of the head. I fall backwards, off the stern and into the sea.

  Under the water, the propellers pull me down in their wake. Though I fight the force with all my might, it isn’t long before they make mincemeat of my legs. I holler as the pain sears through me, causing me to gulp in the salty water, over and over. Above, I can see Mark's horrified face as he leans over the side, powerless to assist as the water turns crimson.

  Shimmering in the depths below, her white ball gown wafting weightlessly in the undercurrent, right where I left her, she beckons me – the woman from the photograph on my desk.

  "Oh James. Such arrogance," Ella whispers, wearing a wicked smile. "You're not the only one who can manipulate a jury." She throws her head back, laughing with satisfaction, her haunting cackles echoing in the depths.

  And as she drags my legless body ever more deep into the ocean, I know that I shall not wake tomorrow.

  No Chain

  By Paul W Franklin

  Angela stood on the pavement and stared up at the charming period building.

  She was already picturing living there.

  “Angela!”

  The voice interrupted from one side, like an old acquaintance at a school reunion. She turned to see a man, besuited but tie-less. His warm eyes connected with hers.

  “Yes,” she chirped.

  “I'm Lloyd. Shall we?”

  He led her up three narrow flights that smelt curiously like her grandmother's, and to the top floor. Lloyd waved her inside, and without prompting she began to nose around, his well-oiled spiel rapidly becoming background noise.

  “. . . a cosy flat that at the same time has plenty of space. . . Newly decorated, recent boiler, fully-fitted kitchen . . . and of course, no chain.” On that last comment, Angela was jolted from her reverie and turned to find Lloyd staring at her, hands clasped like an antiquated shopkeeper.

  “Yeah, that's great! I mean, great that it's easy, not that they. . .” she cringed.

  “Of course. Well, I assure you they didn't pass away in the flat.”

  “That's good to know,” she said, relieved.

  It was then, as she stood in the kitchen-come-lounge, that she noticed a shelf sporting a collection of curious toys – a jester, rocking horse, ballerina, etc. Some carved, some stuffed, all of them bearing that expression of being stopped mid-action.

  “These are. . . interesting”.

  “Oh, they're the previous owner's,” replied Lloyd. “The Will insists that they stay.”

  “Well, every house has its quirks, I suppose! Where do I sign?”

  Angela merrily hummed as she unpacked boxes in her new abode. Upbeat music filled the small flat. Cosy or not, it was her place, and she loved every bit of it.

  Except the unusual inhabitants.

  She carried a digital photo-frame to the ledge where they lived, and stopped. Set the frame down, grabbed a bin-bag, and was about to throw the characters into it… but then refrained. She shrugged, and positioned the toys around the photo frame, all neatly facing outwards.

  Eventually, everything unpacked and re-homed, she took a photo of her roommates and slumped on the sofa, opening Instagram. Under the alias ‘DitzyDolphin’ she typed:

  Moved in and unpacked at my new flat, helped by the resident toys! #tiredbuthappy and posted it.

  The next morning, a recognisable phone alarm woke Angela, and she peeled back the duvet. Sunlight spilled onto her face, and she snapped up, anxious.

  For a moment, she panicked, awaking in an unfamiliar room; then she realised it was hers. Her new bedroom. She smirked, like the proverbial cat with a generous serving of cream. “Morning, new bedroom!” she chimed.

  Angela crawled out of her room in a snuggly dressing-gown, shuffling through the open-plan area towards the kitchen. “Morning, new lounge! Morning, new kitchen!”

  She grabbed a coffee jar and prepared the necessary. Minutes later, she re-entered the lounge with a steaming mug.

  “Morning. . . creepy toys. . .” her tone changed. The toys had shifted, facing in different directions. She eyed them suspiciously. “What the…?”

  BEEEP! Her phone disturbed the stunned silence. A text from Claire:

  Yay! I’ll come round soon. Have you given them all names?

  Claire perched on the armchair, gazing at the rank of peculiar ornaments. “But if you're keeping them, you have to give them names!”

  Angela ruminated. “But it's less confusing if I call them what they are: Jester… Horse… Ugly Ballerina Girl…” She leaned in and wiggled the dancer as if she were alive, mimicking her voice: 'But I'm beautiful on the inside!'

  As she did, some red wine spilt from her glass and trickled down her arm like blood. “Crap.”

  “There's no need to chuck wine on her. You already called her ugly,” Claire remarked. Angela went to get a cloth from the kitchen. “Oh you should add a dolphin to the collection! Stamp your own mark on it.”

  Angela returned, wiping red off her arm. “Yeah, maybe . . .”

  “Anyway, far important matters at hand, like your fab new flat. And what the local men are like.”

  “You’re right. Priorities!”

  Angela wiped the floor around the shelf, her eyes more or less level with the ornaments, and abruptly stopped. “Hey, did you move the bear?”

  On the shelf, said creature stared straight at Claire. She shook her head.

  “You sure?”

  “You probably just knocked it. Come on, let's hit the town.”

  Angela repositioned the furry little bear, and they left.

  The morning after, Angela was sprawled on her bed, one leg out of the duvet, mouth agape. The night before had been a heavy one of drinks, music, dancing, photographs with strangers, and a random man kissing the dolphin tattoo on her ankle. The ankle that was now bared to the sun beaming through the badly-drawn curtains.

  BRRIIIIINNG!

  Her phone rang and she grumbled awake, eventually finding it, and through bleary eyes saw the face of the Bear, with red eyes and a menacing snarl. She gasped, and it hung up. Angela paused, frowned at her device, then checked her recent calls.

  Withheld.

  She got up, staggered to the bathroom and necked some painkillers.

  In the mirror, a hideous face stared back at her.

  “Maybe it's time to curb the drinking, Angela,” she advised herself, and dowsed her blotchy skin with cold water.

  She took her phone again, as if fresher eyes might clarify things, but no. She shrugged and deleted the Withheld call, trudged to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and opened Facebook. More notifications than usual. She glanced up from her phone –

  And did
a double-take.

  In the lounge were the toys, all present and in order. Except for the Bear. Angela didn't know whether to laugh or cry or. . .

  She called Claire. Voicemail.

  She overturned the flat, searching for the Bear. Cushions were flung, cupboards slammed, furniture scraped.

  BRRIIIING!

  Claire's face filled the screen. Angela answered: “Hey.”

  A harsh, gravelly voice stabbed her ear: “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”

  “What…?” she stuttered.

  “I said what do you want, babe? It's early.” It was now Claire's voice.

  “I. . . Did you move the Bear?”

  “The what?”

  “The stuffed bear in my lounge. It's not here. Did you hide it?”

  “You took it with you. It's in half the photos. Dunno how you – ”

  Angela switched to Facebook, frantic. “This better be a fucking joke!” she screeched as she inspected last night's photos. One had fourteen comments. A standard picture of them, arm in arm, glasses raised. Angela saw nothing unusual.

  And then, she spotted it. In the background, perched on the bar, was the Bear. Staring right at the camera.

  Her hand went to her mouth, eyes saucer-wide. “Oh God. . . Oh no, no no no…!”

  She scanned through the comments, unblinking.

  Looks like you had fun!

  I see you took creepy stuffed toy with you, lol!

  Good work! What's his name?

  How do you know it's a He?

  Serial killer bears are always male!

  She felt like someone was strangling her, red-faced and unable to breathe. The toy graced other photos, in the background and foreground, in one case being held by a man. The stranger who was kissing the dolphin tattoo on her ankle was, it appeared, kissing an image of the Bear.

  “If this is your doing I'll fucking unfriend you!!” Angela shouted at Claire, and dropped the phone on the worktop, trembling.

  She clutched her head in her hands, verging on tears. Then she leapt into action and fetched a bin-bag. This time she had no hesitation in throwing the toys away.