Exceptional Sometimes waking up is a bad idea Miscellaneous stories : A Rough Night by CD Richards Halloween Horror contest entry

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.     Michael Fenwick winced as he placed his hand to the side of his head. He brought it around in front of his eyes, struggling to focus, but he could see well enough the traces of crimson on his fingers. That must have been some whack, he thought, as the fog gradually lifted. He couldn't remember what had hit him, or how he got to be in this sodden pile of leaves and bracken. He tried, but the memories wouldn't materialize. Come to think of it, I can't even recall what I had for breakfast. "Mike, are you OK?" He felt his shoulder being shaken and gingerly raised himself onto one elbow. "Susan? What..." "We've got to get moving. There's more of them out here." Michael slowly dragged himself to his feet. His skull throbbed like it had gone ten rounds with a baseball bat, but the bleeding wasn't excessive, and he doubted there was any major damage. In the light of the full moon he could make out the figure of a man lying on the grass. The man's face was disfigured horribly, and on his right hand each finger seemed to dissolve into a deadly looking razor-sharp blade. Half embedded in the man's back was the head of an axe. Michael looked dumbly at Susan McKinnon. "Paul." Susan explained. "He got here just as old melty-face here slammed you into that tree. A few more seconds and..." "Where is he now?" "Right here." Michael spun, and instantly wished he hadn't, as his head threatened to explode. "I don't want to sound like a nag, but we really have got to get out of here. You'd better take this." Paul placed his foot at the bottom of the red and black sweater the prone figure was wearing, and grabbed the wooden handle of the axe. Tugging it free, he passed it to Michael. "I have this." he explained, holding up a machete. "Our hockey mask wearing friend over there won't be needing it any more." Michael was only mildly surprised at the sight of the second blood-soaked corpse about twenty feet away. "Where are we going?" Looking at Susan's fine features in the moonlight, with her long dark hair cascading around her shoulders, Michael worried he might be the next casualty of the night if Paul could read his thoughts. Young men just didn't think those things about their best friend's girlfriend, if they knew what was good for them. Susan pointed to the west. Looking through the trees, Michael could make out the shape of a two-story cottage, with lights burning in two of the bottom-floor windows. "That is the only house within half a mile of here, and being on the edge of the woods, they aren't likely to be expecting trick-or-treaters tonight. We need to be ready for a less than welcoming reception." As the three approached the cottage, it became far more imposing and ominous looking. Weatherboard siding covered the structure, with a portico covering a large entrance door at the front. The shingled roof was very steeply pitched and high, but flat on top. Arched windows surrounded both floors. The ground on which the structure was built was raised some twenty feet from the road that ran across the front of the property. An impressive concrete stairway led up to the house. Someone is inside watching TV, thought Michael, noticing the light flickering in the window to the left of the main entrance as they stepped onto the portico. It didn't occur to him to wonder what had become of the weapons he and Paul had been carrying a few minutes before as he stepped forward to knock on the door. What seemed like hours, but was probably in fact half a minute, passed before the door opened, and a man in his mid thirties stood in front of them. "Hi. I'm Mike and this is my friend Paul, and his girlfriend Susan. We were just..." As he said the words, it occurred to Michael that he had no idea what they had been doing prior to ten minutes ago. "...just heading back from the river when we had a flat tire." finished Susan. "We were wondering whether we could use your phone to call road service." "It's late to be coming back from the river." The man in the cardigan spoke in a tone that sounded matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "Why don't you all come in? You can call Roadside Assist, and have a nice cup of tea while you wait." In the foyer just inside the door to the left, a number of chairs were spaced around the wall. To the right was a counter. Susan noticed the large guest book and the silver bell sitting beside it. A few feet away was a tall silver vase filled with carnations, next to an old style black telephone -- one with a dial instead of buttons. "Is this a guest house?" "You could call it that. We run a small motel business. There's only four guest rooms, and we don't get a lot of business, but Mother enjoys having company from time to time. I'm Norman, by the way." Of course you are. Michael made a mental note to politely decline if their host offered them use of the shower. "You folks take a seat, and I'll go put the kettle on." "That sounds wonderful!" chirped Susan. As soon as their host disappeared from view, she whispered urgently "Paul, call the police." Michael had just enough time to scan through the open pages of the guest book and notice that the last three guests to check in —a couple two weeks ago, and a single woman four days later— had not checked out, before he heard the receiver being slammed back into its cradle. "Dead." announced Paul. I sure hope he's referring to the phone. Opening his mouth to speak, Michael heard a blood-curdling scream from Susan. He looked at her, and saw her face was white. Her eyes, wide in alarm, were staring straight past him. Spinning around, the sight that he saw had him transfixed. Rushing down the hall toward him was a male doll, no more than three feet high, with bright orange hair and the most impossibly blue eyes he had ever seen. It was dressed in a multi-colored striped sweater and blue dungarees. Its right arm was raised and holding a huge kitchen knife. The look on its face was pure malevolence. With the doll preparing to strike, Michael was slammed out of the way as Paul hurtled past him, crash-tackling the doll, the knife flying from the possessed toy's grasp. As the two hit the ground, the doll began flailing, struggling to unpin itself. Paul sat astride its chest, raising the metal vase high into the air. He smashed it down into the doll's head, creating a loud cracking sound and a hole the size of a silver dollar in its skull. The doll shrieked in fury and agony as Paul struck again and again with the base of the vase, pulverizing its skull, until there was silence. Slowly, as his astonishment made way for bemusement, then awareness, the realization came to Michael. Tonight is Halloween, and in the space of half an hour we have encountered Freddy Kruger, Jason Voorhees, Norman Bates and Chucky. I'll be damned, this is all a dream! It was not, however, until a few moments later, when his gaze shifted to Paul that the awful truth finally dawned on Michael Fenwick. It was not he, but Paul who had killed each and every one of their adversaries this night. Susan was not his girl, but Paul's. Who has a dream and makes someone else the hero with the drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend? Now he finally understood why he had no recollection of what he had for breakfast, why in fact he had no memory of anything at all prior to the last quarter of an hour. This is not my dream, it's Paul's! Michael had not existed prior to this particularly vivid nightmare which Paul was experiencing. As the implications of this finally hit home, he could hear knocking. It sounded far off. The last thing Michael Fenwick heard as he faded forever into oblivion was an older female voice calling "Paul... Paul... wake up, it's time for breakfast."

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