RedRabbit

Hi all, new here, so thought I'd post a short horror story that I've recently written.

I've had to post it in two posts, as its around about 3,000 words.

All comments appreciated.

Thanks, Ste


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THE PACKAGE



Steven McNay



James Bernard knew that death was coming. He feared it every day. Not the ordinary, natural, drop dead of a heart attack at the corner of seventh avenue sort of death, but the unnatural, slaughtered on the spot kind of murder.
You see, James Bernard had done a few bad things to good people. And good people, sometimes, in the dark of the aftermath of bad people doing bad things to them, tend to want revenge like a man thirsting for water in a desert.
He’d pissed a few dozen people off in his time, and until that morning, he didn’t care, and never gave them a second thought. Hell, he couldn’t even tell you their names.
That’s why he lived a life of high-security. The building he owned and worked in had the best security money could buy. No one could get in without being checked by an individual guard and passing through a full-body security scanner.
James Bernard was secure from his enemies, and it made him smile with power as he sat in his inner-sanctum, his luxury office on the thirty-second floor.
His bitch of a secretary, Marline buzzed him for the eighth time in half and hour since he’d arrived in his office that morning.
God, I hate that woman, he thought. I must fire her one-day.
He pressed the speak button as hard as he could on the intercom, the tip of his fingertip turning white. ‘What is it? I’m busy.’ He felt his anger rising.
‘There’s a special delivery package for you that’s just been delivered by courier.’
‘Then bring it in for god’s sake!’
Marlene let go of the buzzer.
A few seconds later she opened the office door with one hand, carrying a large awkward box under her arm. Don’t help me, she thought, whatever you do. You jerk! She gave her boss a dutiful little smile. That son of a bitch!
‘Put it on the table, then leave,’ he ordered, his back to her, as he looked out over the city skyline, sipping coffee from his executive cup.
When he heard the door shut, he turned around and looked at the package on his desk. It was an average square, brown cardboard box with yellow ‘fragile’ tape around the edges.
He walked over to his desk and put his cup down and looked at the handwritten label scrawled in red ink on top of the box:
For the urgent attention of:
JAMES BERNARD
DARK TECH INSTITUTE
WILDEN TOWER
FLOOR 32
Hand delivered, he thought. Must be important. Probably from the sub-division office down on the harbour.
He stood as he took his gold-plated letter opener and started piercing the horizontal tape that ran across the top of the box. He always liked opening packages like this. He never gave them, but it was always nice to receive. Most of them were crap that he threw out into the garbage.
Methodically, he broke the seal of the tape around the box, put down the letter opener on his desk, and with growing anticipation, opened the box.
Bubble wrap popped under his impatient fingers as he dug into the package, then let out a deafening scream.
He fell backwards, landing slap bang in his executive chair, grabbing his left hand as he instinctively pulled it from the inside of the package.
His scream faded into an agonising groan of, ‘Oh god, Jesus, it hurts…’ over and over, until it was nothing but a babbling whisper through his polished teeth.
‘Oh god, Jesus it hurts…’
The intercom on his desk buzzed. Melanie spoke in a rush: ‘Sir, is everything okay?’
‘Oh god, Jesus…’
Through gritted teeth he pulled himself forward on his chair by holding onto the edge of his desk with his right hand. With the same hand he slapped his desk, frantic fingers reaching for the intercom, and with one big, wheezy deep breath, he hit the button:
‘Yes! I’m fine… just… stubbed my… finger…’ he said in a panicky voice.
Melanie didn’t respond. She was too busy laughing. Good!
He fell backwards in agony. Sweat rolling from his immaculate hairpiece and down his forehead. Tears of pain brimmed in his eyes.
He didn’t dare touch his left hand, even though he wanted to hold it, just so he could see whether he felt anything in it. He looked at with shock; the full horror of it hit him like a sledgehammer.
Where all five fingers used to be, there were only two, and half a thumb. Bits of bone stuck out from the stubs of the remaining half-fingers.
His index finger, his executive finger, the finger he used to push the intercom with was completely cut off.
Blood flowed around the broken bones that had severed with the impact of the thing in the package.
Said package sat on his desk, still, calm, quiet, normal, betraying the true meaning and definition of its contents.
He looked at it with venom.
I need a doctor, he thought, but something stopped him from painfully reaching for the phone with his good hand.
Something moved in the box.
A slight tremble of its cardboard sides, but it moved all the same. He was sure of it
I’ve got to get that package off of my desk!
He looked around frantically for something to move it with. He didn’t want to touch it. His desk draws only contained office items: files, folders, paper, and pens, nothing he could use.
The paper knife was his only weapon.
He moved his dripping, bloody, mutilated hand from his desk, and with his good right hand reached over the edge of his seat for the metal wastepaper basket. Lifting it up, he brought it over his chair and dropped it.
Resting his left elbow on the side of his chair, he let his bloody hand drip freely into the wastepaper basket on to crumpled white sheets of paper that soon turned crimson.
I haven’t got much time, he thought, grimly. Only so much of that red stuff in me.
But first he knew he had to get that dangerous package away from him. He took the letter opener from the smooth blade side, and feebly tried to push away the box with the handle of the knife.
It barely budged.
It must be heavier than it looks.
After three attempts with the edge of the knife, he changed tactics and started poking the box with the blade side, its dulled point piercing tiny little slits into the front of the cardboard.
‘God damn it!’ he cursed. Oh to hell with it.
He shoved hard with the knife, moving the box a few inches forward, and felt a sharp, piercing electrical shock run through the veins of his fingers, burning the palms of his hand.
His hand opened in shock and the letter opener hit the desk, clattered with his telephone and fell to the soft carpet floor out of sight.
‘Aaaahhhhh!’
It hurt, and for half a minute the pain of his left hand didn’t seem as bad as the pain in his right hand.
The package sat quiet in its box on his desk, and he looked at it with contempt.
It didn’t take him long to muster up the stamina to stand up from his chair, move away from the desk and head straight for the door.
The door of his office was locked.
The handle turned, but the door wouldn’t give way. He rattled it violently.
Melanie looked at the door from the other side, then thought twice about buzzing her impatient boss.
The phone on his desk rang for the first time ever. His secretary always took his calls in the outer office. His phone never rang. It was not a direct outside line.
Walking back to his desk, he sat down, and then reached for the phone. He picked it up, but it was dead.
The phone still rang. It wasn’t his desk phone.
The ringing was coming from the package.
He put the phone down feebly; catching sight of the blood trail his hand had left on the carpet there and back from his desk to the door.
And still the phone rang.
It rang long enough to drown out the faint sound of the busy city streets below, until they were nothing but a murmur in his ears, the ringing taking on a blurred tone the longer it rang.
With one hand, he pushed the box off of his desk. He saw it go with weighted movement, heard it hit the floor, its contents spill out with a clutter of plastic bubble wrap and hard objects dulled by the sonic cushioning of the expensive carpet.
Ring… ring… ring…
He got up, angrily walking around his desk, half of his mind determined to look what the package was, half of him scared to see it for himself.
He stood staring at where the box had fallen in front of his desk. His mutilated hand dripping on the carpet beside him. He saw plastic bubble wrap twisted and strewn like metal in a car crash. He saw a strange, confusing metal device with bits of his skin caught around the edges of what looked like triangular clamped metal teeth.
His fingers were most likely trapped inside the device.
And he saw another package, a box, wrapped, small, about five inches by five inches.
He guessed the ringing was coming from there.
But what puzzled him were the other packages that had fallen from the package. More little boxes. Some small, others big. All of different sizes. They had red numbers on, he could see that now.
Box number 2 continued to ring.
He picked it up, careful not to touch any of the other boxes.
One box, already opened, the metal one, with teeth, had the number one stencilled on the side in red lettering.
Carefully, he opened the second box where he stood.
Inside was not a ringing phone, but a small silver digital Dictaphone, set in play mode.
Something inside him wanted to laugh. How clever.
The ringing recording eventually stopped after a few minutes, and a voice, digitally distorted, muffled, dark and deep, spoke:
‘The package contains twelve more packages. Twelve boxes. Each numbered. One of the packages contains a large bomb, with enough explosives to blow out the entire thirty-second floor of your building. It is on a timer. One of the boxes contains a device to stop the timer on the bomb. Be careful which box you open. A random choice could cost you your life.’
The Dictaphone beeped. End of message. The screen went blank as it shut itself off.
He put the Dictaphone on his desk, along with box number 3.
This is diabolical.
How do I know which is the right box to open?
None of them! He decided.
He knew it wasn’t a hoax because of box number one. His throbbing hand, which was now starting to turn black and blue, was testament to that.
So some sick fuck wants to play a game.
He was used to playing by his own rules, and his temperament was one so deluded, he would not bow down to anyone else’s.
He was going to play a game of his own by getting rid of all the packages before one of them blew up in his face and killed him.
First, he thought of throwing them out the window, but the windows only opened three inches out from the bottom, and none of the packages would fit.
There was nowhere else in his office he could dispose of them.
Sweat poured from his face, but grim determination kept him going. Adrenaline kept him going. Nobody had ever beaten him before at anything.
Well there was that one time…
That son of a bitch!
What was his name?
He couldn’t even remember what he’d done to the guy.
Well screw this, he thought, as he ran to his desk, furiously pushing the intercom. ‘Melanie … Melanie …’
There was no faint buzz in the outer-office, which he was used to hearing whenever he pressed it. There was nothing but dead air. So he picked up the phone, pressed ‘9’ for an outside line. No dial tone broke the silence.
He collapsed into his chair in despair.
What have I done to deserve this?
His conscience decided not to answer his mental plea.
He knew he had to get out of the office, but he knew he couldn’t.
There was nothing left but to play the stranger’s game.


(continued below)
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Copyright © 2006 Steven McNay

RedRabbit

(continued)


He struggled to open the third package. A box seven inches, by seven inches, wrapped like all the others in brown paper.
With one hand it was difficult, almost impossible to get a grip and open it at the same time. He used his chin to hold it down on the desk, a move that filled him with dread. He could lose his head, but it was his only option.
Once he’d peeled back the brown wrapper with tetchy fingers, he moved back in his chair and looked at it.
The plastic device on his desk had a clear plastic top. It looked like one of those giant cheap ring boxes you get at carnival fairs made of plastic. Black bottom, clear top to open. Only there was no plastic ring in this oversized contraption.
There was a little red button, just waiting to be pushed.
What, does he think I’m stupid?
I’m not pushing that button.
Then his mind started to whir.
But what if that’s the button to disarm the bomb?
He knew he had to press it, but his mind screamed for him no to even attempt it. He thought how it was obvious he’d press it, and then the bomb would go off.
The guy had planned for him to blow himself up by pressing the button. The irony was fucking supreme, he thought. But I’m not going to press it.
But what if I’m not supposed to press it?
For fifteen minutes he agonised over pushing the button.
Eventually, he picked up the plastic device, flipped open the clear plastic lid, and with a trembling thumb, pressed the button with eyes closed.
Nothing happened, at first, and then there was a small pop from in front of his desk, like a toy gun going off.
He sat there rigid in his chair, and then he ran to the door of his office, turned, and with his back to it looked at all the packages on the floor near his desk.
Each numbered package was quietly detonating in sequence. Just small blasts in each package. Grey smoke emanated from the burnt remains of the boxes.
They popped 4, 5, 6, and 7 as he watched.
They all popped and burnt quietly before him.
8, 9, 10, 11, and 12.
No more packages left to explode.
He started to laugh.
Is that it?
He wished he could clap his hands, so instead, slapped his office door with his palm.
‘Is that it?’ laughing uncontrollably, ‘Is that it?! Oh, that’s good.’
The voice of Melanie on the other side of the door suddenly broke his laughter. ‘Sir, is everything all right in there?’
He wiped the tears away from his face. ‘Yes,’ lowering his voice. ‘Everything’s fine,’ you bitch, ‘now get back to work.’
He looked at the little small burning packages on his desk, and was looking for the cupboard with the fire extinguisher in it when the phone on his desk started to ring.
Wandering over, he picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, James.’
‘Who is this?’
‘You have a very nice office,’ the voice said, in a natural, un-distorted, perfectly calm tone. ‘But I made a few adjustments to its insulation last week.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t remember? Well that just goes to show, doesn’t it’
‘Did you send the package?’ desperation in his voice.
‘Take a deep breath, James,’ the voice said. ‘You’re going to need it.’
At first he didn’t understand, but then he coughed from the smoke smouldering in the remains of the burnt out packages, rising towards the ceiling.
The two emergency sprinklers on the ceiling of his office exploded into a spray of water. The lighting of his office switched to a disturbing shade of emergency red. The fire alarm beaconed through the entire building.
‘You!’ he screamed down the phone. ‘You… fucking… bastard… I’ll kill you!!!’
The man on the other line started to laugh. ‘I have a fantastic view from the skyscraper opposite,’ and then the phone went dead.
A very wet James Bernard stood in his office, looking out the window at the skyscrapers opposite, trying to see if he could see the man that had sent the packages, whilst the sprinklers continued to rain down on him.
On the roof of the building opposite, he thought he saw someone waving. He squinted, trying to see for sure.
To hell with it, he thought, turning around in the inch of water that had risen in his office. I’ll have him shot when I’m out of here.
But he didn’t move at first. First he looked at the water, rising in his office, and then it clicked.
The water’s rising…
And it wasn’t going anywhere.
He ran to the door, pounded on it with his right hand squeezed into a fist. Pounded on it so hard, now he had two bloody hands.
Melanie wasn’t there on the other side. The fire alarm had evacuated the building.
The water started to rise around his feet, into his expensive shoes until his silk socks were wet and damp. The soles of his feet squelched as each footstep in his watery office splashed around him.
The water rose at an astonishing speed.
He spent minutes hammering on the windows of his office, trying to break the triple-insulated security glass, but all he did was leave bloody scuffmarks.
The water quickly filled his office, and when it reached up to his chest, he started to weep the tears of a dying man, doomed to a death that he could not escape.
When the water rose to his chin, he started to think about all the bad things he’d ever said, and ever done to people around him, but he could only remember their faces and not their names.
And when the water filled his mouth, he was left with only one thought.
James Bernard wished he’d found the time to learn to swim.
Then the water swallowed him.



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Copyright © 2006 Steven McNay

aliceedelweiss

I only read the first post, its a bit long for me but I'll get around to the rest.

I understand what you were trying to say, but this sentence needed to be read over like 3 times to understand it.

you forgot the word "it" or "his hand" in the first part.

I don't understand, how do you look at something with venom?

I have to say the first part is lingering with a saw-like quality, which I don't like. no offense I just find the "You did bad stuff, you need to learn a lesson, I'm going to kill you horrible" is boring and suddenly the 'new thing' to do.
You have skill, you just need to work at it, but everyone does so no big deal.
Alice

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