Damsels In Distress, Melissa Willingham [beach read .TXT] 📗

the feeling of being observed overwhelmed me.

I tried humming a tune to distract myself. I asked for Timmy's protection. I also prayed God would keep me safe from harm. I heard noises from somewhere behind me. My pace quickened with each forward motion. I wanted to break into a full run, yet I stifled the urge. Something told me to not invite a chase unless absolutely necessary.

The odd sounds drew nearer and I moved as swiftly as possible without sprinting along at a gallop. I was certain someone was back there, stalking me. My heart started pounding; my breathing increased. I had a premonition that the convict was closing in on me.

I prayed again loudly. I called out to Timmy's ghost once more. "God, please protect me. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

Suddenly, someone lunged at me from behind. I sidestepped the attack and spun to face my assailant. It was the escaped prisoner.

"Come here, little girl!" he hissed, through clenched teeth. "Give me all your money." He held out his grimy paws expectantly.

I backed as far away from him as I could. "I don't have any money."  

He advanced towards me. "I've been in the joint for five years. I need a woman." He reached for me again.

I screamed in horror and peeled off my satchel, then brought it down over his head. I quickly raced over by the railroad tracks, where the ghost light shone brightly. "Timmy, help me!" I pleaded desperately.

After recovering from the blow, Brutus gave chase, grabbing me from behind. He laughed wickedly. "You're mine!"

"Turn me loose!" I yelled, to no avail. I kicked and swung my fists, trying to break free from his iron grip.

 "Shut up, kid!" he ordered. He chuckled at my attempts to free myself. "You're not going anywhere."

 All of a sudden, the ghost light turned from white into a sunny yellow. I could see the outline of a man in its center.

"Brutus Smith, you murdered me twenty years ago and stole my money. But, you will not hurt Lorelei Jones. Let her go, now!" he commanded forcefully.

Brutus released his grip on me. When I turned to regard him, I saw him staggering around in a stupor. "Timmy Taylor," he mumbled. "You're dead. I killed you with my own hammer."

He swooned and keeled over, crumbling into a heap upon the ground. I knew that he was no longer living. I had just been saved by the ghost of a dead man.

"Thank you, Timmy. And thank you, God," I whispered into the night air. I resumed my walk home and tried to calm my frazzled nerves. I'd suffered a tremendous shock.

Soon, a car traveled along the road. I flagged it down and was relieved to find Papa behind the wheel.

As I slipped into the passenger seat, he looked at me with a worried expression. "Lorelei, what are you doing out here so late? Are you okay?"

I offered him a weak smile and replied, "I am now, Papa. Please, take me home."

The next day, Smith's body was recovered. They said he died of a massive heart attack. But, I knew better. He perished from fright of the ghostly light. I never saw it anymore after that incident. I guess Timmy could rest in peace once justice was served.

I'll always remember that terrifying experience. And I'll be forever grateful to Timmy and to God for sparing my life on that frightening night.

***

"An Unplanned Burial (Arsenic In Small Doses)"

As Clayton Moore patted dirt into place over the makeshift grave, he thought back over the last few days. He'd passed through town, a traveling salesman needing temporary shelter. Someone directed him to the home of Wilma and Sarah Applegate. They allowed businessmen to stay in a room for a small fee. They were very happy to welcome him into their house as a guest.

The two passive, elderly women doted on Clayton like he was their son. He was lonely from his travels and their attention touched his heart. He didn't notice anything peculiar about them right away. They appeared to be compassionate spinsters with hearts of gold. But, soon he observed how the other salesmen stopped in for a brief stay, only to disappear mysteriously.

Clayton recalled how they'd complained of feeling sick shortly before vanishing, without a trace. Even though it seemed odd, he didn't give it much thought. But before long, he started to feel the same way himself. For several days he had unusual spells of severe headaches, vomiting, and diarrhea. 

It was at that point when he realized how the two sisters encouraged the men to fill up on food and drink. The way they insisted on plying everyone with spirits and solids, was almost like pouring liquid down a funnel. The night before he planned to depart, he happened to overhear them plotting his demise. 

"Wilma, he's leaving us tomorrow. So, we must administer one final, fatal dose before he sets off. The power of arsenic will do the trick rather nicely, just like it did with all the others."

"Yes, it's such a shame, Sarah. He really is a nice man. It's too bad for him that he has to move on. Well, after the steady dosages we've been giving him, it won't take much."

After eavesdropping on their gruesome conversation, Clayton felt like his illusion was shattered. He realized the sisters were nothing but cold-blooded killers. So, he decided to beat them at their own game. He got up early and found their stash of arsenic. When they arose, he tricked them into drinking their own poison. Due to the massive dose he gave them, it only took 61 minutes for them to literally drop dead.

Afterwards, he cleaned up the mess and carried their bodies outside, to bury them with their victims. By exacting his own brand of revenge, he made sure that they wouldn't kill, rob and bury him, like they did the other men. They'd never commit their evil acts upon another human being again.

Now, standing by their graveside, he watched his hand slowly bleed from a cut. The tiny gash had been made by picking up a teacup with a broken handle. One of the women dropped it after ingesting the deadly brew. He sighed in revulsion over the events which transpired over the last couple of hours. He harbored mixed feelings about his actions. A part of him felt guilty for poisoning the elderly women. But in a way, they really had it coming for some time.

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. May He show mercy to us all on Judgment Day," he whispered.

Perhaps he was no better than they were, since he'd stooped to their level. But on the same token, he had rid the community of its two most manipulative and deadly residents. Somewhere out there were families wondering why their father, brother, or son hadn't come home yet. Thanks to Clayton, no one else would have to go through such an ordeal in the future. This fact gave him some measure of satisfaction, at least.

Wiping the crud of the mud from his shoes, he prepared to go somewhere far away. He walked to the front porch and grasped his suitcase. He whistled to himself as he headed toward his car and got inside. Before he skipped town, he mailed an anonymous letter to the police, informing them of the unmarked graves. He also advised them on the sisters' criminal activities. At last, his conscience felt clear before God and man. He knew that true justice had finally been served, because of an unplanned burial.

***

"Frightmare (Set Adrift On Memory Bliss)"

Driving home from work one evening, I feel a strange foreboding. The sensation is unusual and not what I typically experience. The unmistakable thickness of doom and gloom is in the air. If I were to reach out with a knife, I could almost slice through the layers.

I flip on the radio for a distraction. Instead of the soft rock music I love to listen to, I hear the latest news report blaring.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful. We have a savage serial killer in our midst. This perpetrator brandishes a sharp kitchen knife. He stabs the victims repeatedly. Take every caution when outside in the yard. Lock up when inside of the home. This killer loves to strike in either location with a blitz-style attack."

Sighing and shivering, I turn the radio off. I crank up the heater. The heavy rains barraging my city begin to pelt the windshield. I hurry to get home, because the report reminds me of my roommate, Lola.

She is at the house all alone, a perfect target for this maniac on the loose. I have known her for five years and would hate for something to happen to her.

Once I pull into the driveway, I release a pent-up breath. I am home at last. Now, I can relax. The stress of my job has proved too much for me lately. My boss always expects more of me than I can handle.

The pressure of being a secretary to a crooked attorney, who makes passes at me, doesn't sit too well. The position is tedious and dreadful. I want out of the dead-end occupation I slave away at.

I have been plagued by intense headaches for the past few months. They tend to come and go. They are accompanied by the furious beating of my heart and extreme difficulty breathing.

Even though I know I should go back to my therapist, Brock, I resist the urge. The prescription pills he gave me do little to curb the pain I experience on a regular basis.

Walking into the house, I start to relax considerably. "Ah, this is so much better!" I moan.

A hot soak in the tub and a bite to eat sounds so inviting to me. Setting my umbrella and purse down, I remove my raincoat. As I place it on the hook, I call out to Lola, concerned for her welfare.

"Lola? Where are you?" I ask her worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm in my room," she answers matter-of-factly, sounding slightly annoyed by my questions. "I'll be out later on."

I can hear her talking to someone else. She's on the phone talking to her boyfriend, Oliver, whom she stole from me. Probably doing her nails and picking out her skimpy outfit to wear on their next date. Such a perfect girl she is. The kind of eye candy any guy would want on his arm. With her tall, flawless figure and long, skinny legs. She loves showing off and taunting the men who admire her. She's so blonde and beautiful. She knows it full well.

I rummage in the kitchen, selecting a small can of tomato soup. I throw together a peanut butter sandwich as well, suddenly feeling ravenous. I devour both of them in about ten minutes. Then I head up to my bedroom to run a warm, sudsy bath for myself.

I feel one of those awful headaches coming on again, so I grab two pills and chug them down. They slide slowly down my throat, floating down on a river of water that follows them. I swear I can feel them swimming around in my stomach, bobbing like two corks.

Dismissing the notion altogether, I ease gently into the porcelain tub, until I'm almost completely submerged. A mountain of bubbles surrounds me in greeting, like a welcome friend. Without meaning to, I drift off into dreamland as my body and mind unwind.

While I travel through visions of puffy, white clouds and sail past suspended planets, I feel weightless. I float along without substance or depth. Like a scene from 'A Christmas Carol', I pause at various places, homes and businesses. I swoop down to enter the beckoning domains. One twist of a knob and I am there, searching through the dwellings. For what, I don't know.

I drift through my boss's house. He lives alone and keeps