Short Stories

The house shook slightly as Jackson rammed his shoulder into the door. The rotten wood of the frame had cracked, the rusted upper hinge starting to break free. It closed grudgingly with a hard kick. The gray wood of the porch creaked and bent under his feet, threatening to collapse at any moment. Sliding his hand over the sharp wood of the railing, it cracked and fell into the slush covered lawn. Grinding his teeth, he inhaled deeply, the winter air freezing his teeth and turning his lungs to ice. He stomped down the rest of the stairs, slush jumping up his fleece lined jeans as he reached the cement. His brows furrowed, deepening the creases between his eyes he had been working on for twenty-five years. He scowled at the slush covering the path to his car.

     The red 1981 VW Rabbit slouched by the curb, one tire trapped in a pothole and another slowly leaking air. The door opened with a pop, sending rust floating to the ground and dumping snow into the seat. He brushed it off, the snow melting on his hand. The car groaned under his weight as he fell into it, closing the door with a bang which caused some snow on the roof to slide down the windshield. He kicked his feet around, trying to make his legs fit comfortably. Still, his knees hit the steering wheel while his hair stuck up far enough to brush the roof. He turned the key. The engine rolled over and died. The second time it grumbled to a start, stuttered a couple times, and returned to a grumble. Smoke billowed out behind the car. It screeched and jumped forward as he slammed it into first. It rumbled almost nicely before settling back to grumbling and rattling. As it heated up the smell of cigarette smoke leaked from the black seats, a reminder of a habit he had only recently broken.

     The sky was gray and overcast, small streams of sun barely filtering through some of the clouds. Sleet fell wet and heavy, splattering across the windshield. The wipers squeaked across the glass to keep it clean. The landscape was as gray as the sky, covered in slush and mud. The trees were dried out and dead like the dilapidated houses lining the streets. Potholes appeared out of nowhere, sending the car into a whole new set of moans and groans. His hands were sweaty, white-knuckled with the force of his grip on the steering wheel as the decaying houses turned to family homes with plowed driveways and whole windows. His heart rate increased as the potholes were replaced with smooth roads. His wandering eyes captured every detail that he passed. It happened every time, a sign of what was coming, what was looming closer.

     The tires sloshed through the slush as Jackson pulled into the open parking lot. He stepped out of the car, wiping his slippery hands on his jeans. The apartment building towered above him, the bricks weathered and cracked. Vines, so green in the summer, were brown and crisp, just skeletons holding onto the walls.

     “It has to be done,” he whispered, his breath floating away on the cold air.

     He took a step forward, another, and was soon at the door. The green paint peeled from the wood, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The plastic of the intercom had yellowed over time. Scratched off names, stacked one on top of the other, were replaced by the names of current occupants. The faded and cracked buttons created a ladder beside them. He pressed a button, causing a small beep followed by a loud buzz that sounded like hair clippers. A shot of ice ran up his arm as he twisted the metal knob. The door opened silently as he entered the dark hallway. His eyes adjusted slowly, first focusing on the red carpet. Warm air filled his nose with the scent of soap and household cleaners. Fans waved back and forth on the floor, fan blades spinning and air swooshing past his legs. Outlines of his wet feet were left behind on the fresh surface as he wandered to the elevator.

     “It has to be done,” he whispered again.

     Pushing the white elevator button, it turned red. The shiny silver doors created a vague reflection of Jackson. He stared at it, waiting. When the doors opened they were quiet, his reflection sliding away to reveal dark wood paneling and more red carpet. He stepped in and his reflection slid back into place. The smell of chemicals had been replaced with new carpet and glue. It filled his nostrils and coated his lungs. Taking short breaths, he jammed his finger into the three. The button jumped to red as the elevator started to glide up, the machines working as silently as possible. As the gold two above the doors lit up, the speakers on the right crackled. Graceful violins tried to break through the static. The speakers went silent, giving up completely just before the white circle behind the three lit up. The elevator stopped smoothly and the doors opened with a quiet whir.

     Yellow walls greeted him as he stepped into the hallway on the third floor. The carpet was snagged and discolored down the center. A dog barked a high pitched yip in the apartment at the end of the hall. The potent smell of fish leaked under the door of 307 while Chinese drifted from 309. At 310, Jackson wiped his boots on the rough, tan mat in front of the door. Squaring his shoulders, he brushed his hands over his black jacket to make it look as nice as possible. It was worn and white powder stained the sleeves where he had brushed them up against his salt-stained car the day before. Clearing his throat, he rapped his knuckles on the newly finished mahogany door. The dense wood threatened to eat any sound his knuckles made, but the shuffling of feet on the other side told him they had been heard.

     The doorknob jingled and wobbled as the deadbolt was released with a slap. The door opened as blue eyes stared up at him. The woman’s face was ancient with wrinkles like tree bark. Her arthritic hand left the doorknob and curled around her black metal cane. Her other arm clutched an old photo album to her chest. The cover begged to be opened so the old woman could tell him all about the stories contained within the images. She was eager to tell anyone who would listen.

     Tea steamed on the table, the sweet scent of lavender floating around the apartment. The sun had broken through the clouds and streamed through the window, casting yellow light on the white teapot and cups with pink flowers and gold rims; she always brought out her best china for his visits. One last hot cup of tea before everything changed. Afterward he would leave the city, choosing a new identity, town, victim. This time he was thinking kitchen utensils, but no, the dining chairs looked just right. The old dark wood would snap easily, leaving a splintered and pointed tip. It would have no problem piercing into the old woman’s side, puncturing her lung. Then he’d watch as she slowly choked on her own blood, the rest staining the white carpet. She wouldn’t die alone; he would stay with her. It could be weeks before anyone found her body.

     It wasn’t a want, but a need. There was a hunger invading his thoughts like a cancer, a desire to follow the one thought that always pushed on his mind. Kill. He longed to feel the life leave another human being, to see eyes glaze over as the soul left. There was a need to be in control of another’s fate, playing God. It gave him a sense of power like nothing else could. He couldn’t control the hunger, but he could control how he handled it. There was no need to be heartless.

     His fingers twitched and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could be at the chair in just a few strides, but he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. First he would have tea and then he would listen to the quietness of her voice as she told her stories. She always had such good stories, but nobody was interested enough to listen. He smiled down at her and her face lit up as she smiled in return. He stepped inside and slowly closed the door behind him with a click.