HERE IN SULLEN
By: Teresa VanMeter
Copyright 2014 Teresa Vanmeter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
HERE IN SULLEN
“Mr. Bedlam can you hear me?” An odd static-like voice muttered in the darkness, breaking up from time to time, as if it were skipping from airwave to airwave, just to find a signal, “Its time to go home…” “Whose there?” he tried to speak, yet found he could not. He slowly became aware of his surroundings, smelling a mixer of liquor and smoldering rubber, feeling pain across his forehead, as it rested against the steering wheel of his car, while the sound of his stereo played an endless static. Moreover the effort of just opening his eyes was a test, by means of two tiny slits, blurrily making out the time on his stereo, 6:47 am. Coy Bedlam tried to sort out his surroundings, wondering to himself, “What happened to the voice?” but he didn’t have an answer, even as he attempted to recall his last events, “I was at Smitty’s bar until 3:00 am. Smitty told me that he would call me a cab. I can drive myself I fumed, and drove away.” But how he questioned, “Did I get here?” better yet, “Where is here?” Painfully he raised his head, looking out into a dreary drizzling environment, seeing his headlights purposefully reflecting off a roadside sign, with a name of a town called Sullen. Today’s population is 169. “What does that mean?” He growled, “Today’s population is 169.” Then he asked, “Where the hell is Sullen?” forcing himself to move, he dragged a map from his glove box, “I’ve never heard of it before…” And strangely it didn’t appear on the map either. “Where am I?” he whined, all he wanted to do is go home. Coy knew he was in no shape to walk. He felt miserable, as he desperately tried to start the car, it made a grinding sound as if metal were hitting metal, until there was no sound at all, and the car never started. “Damn it!” he yelled, furiously hitting the steering wheel. One thing he was sure of, he had to get help. Even as he spotted a pink two-story house through his passenger side window, at the same moment from the side mirror he swore he’d seen someone quickly step behind his car, someone small enough to be concealed by the rear of the vehicle. He twisted this way and that trying to see where they had gone. “Odd…” he breathed, “My minds playing tricks on me.” Then Coy turned in the seat, trying to get the drivers side door to open. Quickly he noted two letters written on the frosty glass, an E and J, even as he thoughtlessly traced his finger on the letters, and discovered they were written from the inside. “No…” he was wordless, unsure how anyone could’ve ever been able to write on his window. He was the only one to have access to this vehicle. “Stop freaking yourself out!” he shrieked in his mind, telling himself, “You were drunk last night. Rick and Bob probably set up this whole thing.” “Yea….” He started to laugh, “That’s it!” Coy practically rolled out of the car. He was still laughing, as he stumbled to the front, through steam that came from a hole in the buckled hood, and at last realized the car was wrapped around a heavily constructed rural mailbox. “Why would someone use a metal post?” he had to angrily ask, however the answer must be obvious, such as kids destroying them for fun. Coy began to read the side of the mailbox, 513 Johnson, with shredded pieces of a pink material clinging to the twisted ornate post. Suddenly the odd static-like voice garbled once more, but this time came from the direction of the rear of the vehicle. Exactly where he’d seen someone hide. He hesitated several moments before hobbling around to the rear of the car, just as a shadow slithered beneath the automobile. He blinked and shook his head, telling himself, “Coy your still drunk…there is nothing under this damn car.” Top priority at this moment is to get help, as he began to walk to the two-story house. He could feel the blustery winds kick up all around him, carrying eerie indistinguishable whispers in the breeze, sensing he was being watched from afar. Walking onto the porch he noticed a pink bike setting out in the front yard with a small plastic nameplate reading Emina. Strangely he felt a pain of sorrow for no reason at all as he read the unusual name. Then his line of sight turned back to the house ignoring that strange sensation, as he knocked on the door, and waited. He waited an eternity it seemed, but in reality just five minutes. Coy started to look into the dark windows, he could see nothing at all, and no one appeared to stir, until at last he stood in the yard yelling, “Is anyone there? I need help!” but still no one answered. Coy’s only option was to walk into to town, and he promptly got underway. He sensed once again he was being watched and followed, as the air grew thicker with a strange fog, and it dawned on him that he’d never even seen any animals about wild or domesticated. “Huh…” he made the sound of half a laugh, “This place is strange.” Sullen was one of those towns that if you blinked you probably missed it. However it did have a convenience store, with two gas pumps out front, and the lights suggested it was open. This place had some semblance to a real civilization, but more importantly it had a phone. Coy stepped inside feeling a relief wash over him. Straight away he noticed everything was so white and sterile, while he continued to scan the aisles for the cashier. Then he heard voices coming from the stock room, and he headed in that direction, calling out, “Can anyone hear me back there?” he never received a response, so he raised his voice, “I need help out here!” Carefully he opened the storeroom door, at the same time the voices had stopped, and the undersized room was empty. No one was here, but oddly the room didn’t even have stock inside. “What’s going on?” he was baffled, mumbling to himself. All of a sudden the odd static-like voice distantly came from behind him, from inside the convenience store itself, “Mr. Bedlam its for you…” and the telephone started to ring. A chill ran up his spine, as he hesitantly walked the distance to the phone. Coy felt his heart anxiously flip-flop as he put the receiver to his ear, even as the distorted voice steadily became clearer. It was a female voice, as he recognized his wife frantically screaming and crying, “Coy! Coy! Listen to me!” She breathed hoarsely, “You have to come back to me…NOW!!!” Then the phone clicked several times, furthermore she was gone. Coy desperately dialed his home number, listening to it ring over and over, yelling into the receiver, “Darla pick up the damn phone!” The answering machine kicked on, “I’m sorry we’re not home right now. Please leave a name a number where we can reach you after the tone.” “Beep…” he screamed even louder, ‘Damn it! Darla pick up the phone!” abruptly the phone went dead. Then the building grew louder and louder with the whispering voices, as he was maddeningly drove into the streets, trying to escape the insanity. He ran from door to door, even as the voices persistently followed, and no one seemed to be home. Coy screamed in the most tortured way, “Leave me alone!” and oddly he realized he was all alone. “Why is this happening to me?” he blubbered. Then an odd static-like voice responded, “Its time…” Precisely at that moment he realized he hadn’t checked one last house at the end of the street, as he bolted in its direction. At that moment the voice gathered a shadow-like body of a hideous little dark haired girl, lumbering in his direction, driving him closer and closer to the last house. Coy’s heart felt like it would explode at any time, even as he ran faster and faster, but could never shake the terrifying child. Each time he glanced back she seemed to be closer. He stopped momentarily to read the name on the mailbox in passing, 512 Bedlam. Shaking his head anxiously, he dashed inside the fenced y
ard, locking the gate door behind him. Somewhere in his delusional mind he was certain it would be an impediment to the hideous little girl. He turned for a last look from the porch of the house to see that the gate was no hindrance at all, as she still eerily lumbered towards him. Coy trembled as he reached for the doorknob, without even knocking he opened the entrance and scurried inside, pressing his weight against the door. He was now within a smothering thick inky blackness, with the feel not unlike warm gelatinous matter, and all his tired mind could do is go blank, “……………….” Suddenly he awakens, gasping, and choking from a supine position. Oddly a thin white sheet that covered him fell aside, moreover a man’s arm is in his bed, and he is taken aback. Coy fell with a thud into the floor, comprehending that it wasn’t a bed at all, but a morgue drawer, number 512 Bedlam. He come to understand that the man lying in the drawer was himself, bloodied and bruised. Then he noticed the drawer next to his, 513 Johnson. It was exactly the same as the mailbox. He had to know what was inside. Reluctantly he walked to number 513, and slowly pulled it open. At first he could see a small covered form, probably a child. He felt his hand tremble as he slowly withdrew the sheet, revealing a dark haired little girl. The same little girl who had been following him, still dressed in a shredded pink outfit, mangled and muddy. Coy seemed to instantly know her name, whispering “Emina Johnson...” he’d read it from the nameplate on the bicycle. All at once the girl’s eyes opened, and she said “Mr. Bedlam.” He stumbled backwards, feeling an overwhelming sense of being afraid, while his back was forced up against the wall. At the same time the overall whispering in the room grew louder and louder, until the swinging doors swung open, and two men dressed in hospital uniforms walked inside carrying charts, stopping over his lifeless corpse. Suddenly the whispering clearly turned into words, as the men began to talk, “Blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. One opened bottle of whiskey found in the vehicle. Mr. Bedlam lost control, and hit the child out in front of her home. The deceased body discovered underneath the vehicle. ” Then the other man spoke, as he grimaced looking down at Emina little body “Poor thing. She was just waiting for the bus. Never had a chance.” “No!” Coy Bedlam shrieked, “I didn’t mean it!” but he knew it was his entire fault. Strange he felt a small hand reassuringly slip into his, hearing the young girls voice say, “Its time to go home…” Then Emina lead him up to the mortuary swinging doors, and he read the passing sign just before they stepped through, Sullen, today’s population 171.
Thank you for reading. Here in Sullen, Children of Elmhearse, After Dark, and Death do us part which is part of a collection of short horror stories. You can also check out my book HADAGERY, which has a lot of horror. Please leave reviews.