Flash Fiction Friday: Stalker

Stalker

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Rochelle leaned against the counter of Good Food Fast during her shift. She glanced out the window and saw large flakes falling. No one is driving around in this weather, she thought. It’s going to be slow night.

Her cell phone dinged in her back pocket, indicating a text message. She shouldn’t answer her phone at work, but it was from her best friend, Marcy. Plus, she was bored. Sliding the phone out, she opened the message. It simply stated, This just happened. Rochelle answered back with a ? A few moments later, she received a response with a photo. She nearly dropped her phone in surprised shock. A bloody sink. There was something in the bottom. She pinched the screen to zoom in and her heart dropped. Teeth. Frantic, she called Marcy, but all she got was voice mail.

“Marcy? Marcy? Are you alright? What’s going on there? Please call asap.”

How long should she wait? Five minutes? That seemed so long.

Her phone dinged again.

Don’t try to call. I’m coming now.

What do you mean? Here? To the restaurant? she typed.

There was no response.

I’m really worried about you.

Marcy has already left. I’m coming now.

Rochelle’s heart thumped in her chest. She felt her blood pulsating everywhere throughout her body. This wasn’t her friend. And if it wasn’t, who had her phone?

Looking around the restaurant she checked for any patrons. There was no one. She only heard the hum of the walk-in refrigerators. Should she lock the doors? They were supposed to stay open late for business. But this was a matter of safety. She wished her manager, Patrick, would hurry back. He liked to leave on break when it was slow. Except he took breaks all the time, frequently leaving her alone. Rochelle wished she had the tenacity put her foot down and said that made her uncomfortable. And it was against policy.

With her hands shanking, she dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 what is your emergency?”

“Hi, Rochelle Stevens. I got some weird text messages from my friend’s phone. I think she’s in danger. She—well, maybe someone else who has her phone—also sent me a photo of a bloody sink.”

“What’s the address?”

“1213 S. Grove Street,” Rochelle answered.

She heard the operator typing.

“There’s no such address. Please say it again, maybe I misheard you.”

“1213 S. Grove Street. I’ve been there hundreds of times.”

“There’s no address on our street grid. Is this a prank? We don’t have time for those—“

“NO! Please send someone. And please send someone here, too. Whoever has Marcy’s phone said they are coming after me, too.” Rochelle started to panic once she realized the circumstances. Speaking them out loud validated them. It scared her blood cold, now.

“Where are you, Rochelle?”

“I work at Good Food Fast on Cherry Street. That’s where I’m at.”

There was a pause.

“Hello? Ma’am? Did I lose you?” She briefly held her phone away to check the connection. No dropped call. “Can you send someone please?”

“There is no such food establishment. We don’t even have a Cherry Street in this city.”

Rochelle was confused. How is it 9-1-1 doesn’t know these addresses?

“This is Lincoln Heights 9-1-1 center, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know my locations and where my friend’s house address!” Rochelle practically screamed.

“Calm down. Is there a landline available? If you call using that it will send the address directly to me. But don’t hang up your cell phone.”

“Ok. Yes, there is one here.”

Rochelle walked to the corner of the store near the refrigerator and picked up the beige telephone covered in greasy fried filth. Its long cord dangled from the phone down to the floor. She picked up the receiver with her free and pushed three numbers. It rang and rang.

“Why aren’t you picking up?” Rochelle asked the dispatcher.

“The phone isn’t ringing.”

“I’ll try again.” Rochelle hung up. Sometimes the landline acted up. It was old and it frequently got knocked off the wall. She placed the receiver back, picked it up, and dialed again.

“It’s ringing now. Once twice—“ she gasped.

“Rochelle? What’s wrong?”

“The phone went dead.” She whimpered.

“Rochelle, are you there by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Lock the doors.”

Rochelle ran to the front of the restaurant. She grabbed the key from the lanyard secured to her belt loop, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. The keys jingled as she fumbled with them.

The dispatcher heard it and continued, “Good. Did you get the back door?”

Rochelle ran to the back where the employee entrance was. She locked that door as well.

“I’m glad you got that taken care of, Rochelle. I’m worried about your friend. Tell me more about her teeth.”

“She sent me—“

Rochelle abruptly stopped. She didn’t tell the dispatcher about the teeth, just the blood in the sink.

“Rochelle? Rochelle?”

Rochelle reflected on her situation. Her mind was blank and running wild at the same time. Someone was out there stalking people. Was that same person corrupting cell phones? Was that even possible to do? She flashed back to Marcy. The bloody sink. The threatening text from whoever that was.

“Hello, Rochelle. I’m still here.” The dispatcher’s voice spoke softly in her ear.

“Can you help me?” Rochelle whispered.

“I don’t know.” Her words were flat and stern. They were no longer friendly.

She yanked the phone down from her ear and pressed the end button. At least that worked.

Thinking quickly, she looked at the alarm system mounted on the wall next to the employee entrance. She pressed a series of numbers and the unit flashed a red light indicating it was now armed.

Next, she made her way up front to the tills. The motion sensor was aimed in front of the counter, in case someone tried to rob the establishment. She slid over the counter and onto the other side. Simultaneously, she jumped and criss-crossed her arms overhead to activate it. A searing alarm went off.

Rochelle breathed a sigh of relief. The alarm company would get the message and dispatch the police. She imagined the safety of the red and blue lights and how she would tell the officers to race to Marcy’s house.

The alarm suddenly ceased. Buttons were being pushed at the alarm panel. Rochelle hear a familiar cough.

Patrick. He probably sucked down a half pack of Marlboros while he was gone. At least it was a familiar face. She climbed back over the counter and towards the employee entrance where Patrick was changing out of his snow boots and back into work tennis shoes. His back was turned toward her as he stooped to change footwear. His large winter coat swallowed up the slim shape of his body. As Rochelle approached him, she noticed he didn’t reek of the usual cigarette smoke.

“Patrick?” she inquired.

With his back still toward her, he held up his hand as if saying, “Hold on.”

Rochelle didn’t wait. “Patrick, I got frightening and threatening messages while you were away. I had to call 9-1-1, but something weird was going on. They didn’t have addresses in their system. We’ve got to get out of here. I’m worried about a friend, plus our own safety.”

Patrick didn’t say anything. He just shook his head.

An uneasy feeling engulfed Rochelle. Something seemed off. This whole evening seemed off.

“What did you do while you were gone?”

“Zey toog my teez, too.”

He coughed again, this time into a paper towel he pulled from his pocket.

“What?” Rochelle didn’t quite understand what he had said.

Slowly, he turned around. The paper towel was stain red. She took a step backward and looked up at Patrick’s face. His lips looked like they were painted with ketchup, but she knew what it was. Curling his top lip, he showed her most of his front teeth were missing.

Rochelle swallowed hard. Patrick collapsed onto the floor.

The next thing she heard was the knob turning. The door clicked open about six inches, blowing in large snowflakes. A hand reached in. It was grasping a bloodied wrench.

Copyright 2016, by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Ivy Alive

Ivy Alive

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The low clouds sizzled as the storm hovered over a telephone post where an ivy vine wrapped around. The lightening zapped its energy into the wooden pole, passing it to the plant. Like Frankenstein, the vine was given life. It shook, twisted, and stretched across until it came to the house. Slithering up the side to the window, it clung to the glass. What it wanted was inside. Its leaf as a blade, it cut a hole in the glass and squeezed inside, down the wall, across the floor, and onto the bed. The ivy wrapped around the sleeper’s neck.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Factory Ghost

Factory Ghost

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Frank switched on the factory lights. They flickered and hummed to life. Throwing the apron over his head, he stuffed a rag in the front pocket. He grabbed the wheeled trash bin with a standard broom, dustpan, and push broom hanging off the side.

                The work was boring, but employment was hard to find during the 30s. Frank’s wages helped his family make ends meet. Mr. Manzini, the factory owner, allowed Frank to work later shifts which allowed him to continue high school. He preferred that someone cleaned after the plant closed, but was apprehensive about who he should let into his building without supervision. Frank was best friends with his son, Carlo, and had earned Mr. Manzini’s trust. Carlo worked on the factory floor after school, learning the skills of pasta making. He was to take over the business when the time came. Frank swept the floors and wiped down portions of the machinery. Mr. Manzini couldn’t pay him much, but, regardless, he was thankful.

There was a strange rule, however. He was not, under any circumstances, remove the crucifix off the wall in the hand-operated elevator. Mr. Manzini was adamant that it was never to be touched.

“When cleaning the elevator’s floor, take precaution not to even accidentally bump it with your broom handle.”

“Sure thing, sir. May I ask why?”

Mr. Manzini gave him a mafia-like stone cold hard stare. Leaning forward he said, “Just don’t do it,” was his answer.

Frank had gotten a chill. He couldn’t explain it, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna touch that thing. He also did not want to lose his job over a religious icon.

It was now October 30. Halloween was tomorrow and he was looking forward to festivities. He helped his high school put together a haunted house in the gym and carnival games for younger kids. It was also All Saints Day on November 1^st. Halloween was the day the evil spirits roamed freely to terrorize the Saints. Dressing up confused them, which kept the Saints safe for All Saints Day. Italians sure take that day seriously, he thought. Mrs. Manzini had nailed ropes of braided garlic over the doors and windows and placed additional statues of Mother Mary around the factory. Frank shrugged. A day early, but I guess they aren’t taking any chances.

He got to work. Starting on the first floor, he swept the office area and lunchroom. These were relatively neat and tidy. Mr. Manzini hadn’t asked him to, but he polished the brass doorknobs and name plates. If a business partner stopped by, there would be a little extra shine to the otherwise drab and ordinary offices. Frank felt those details matter.

Next he moved to the main factory floor. Here was the majority of his cleanup effort. Flour sprinkled the cement floor, dotted with the worker’s shoe imprints. He used the large push broom to sweep it into a pile. Then shoveled it into a wheeled trash bin with the broom and dustpan.

“Whew,” sighed Frank as he finished, wiping his brow.

He stepped off toward the breakroom for a drink of water. Grabbing a chipped glass from the cupboard, he filled it from the sink faucet. He took several gulps then dumped out the rest. Mrs. Manzini must have placed a remarkable about of garlic around this area because he tasted it in the water. He washed the glass to replace it in the cupboard, when he heard a noise. It sounded like something wobbling. Like a glass shaking in the cupboard.

Puzzled, he opened the cabinet door. Sometimes mice made their way in and Mr. Manzini wanted to be informed of the problem. He saw no evidence of the little critters.

Another noise.

Frank whirled around. This time it came from the factory floor. It sounded like the wheeled trash bin moved.

But I’m alone here, he said to himself. He sighed. The weather was getting cooler. Stray dogs or cats may have found a way in to keep warm at night. If that was the case, he must remove them. Animals cannot be in a place where food was made. It was unsanitary.

Annoyed, Frank made his way back to the factory floor.

He halted in his tracks.

The lights were out on the floor. Without the hum of the fluorescent bulbs, there was an eerie silence. Even though Frank couldn’t see a thing, he scanned the darkness, listening for anything out of place. His heart pounded and he told it to stop. Nearly a man, he couldn’t be scared of trifle things like the dark.

He ran his hand along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it up. The comforting hum resumed as the lights glowed once again. Someone had to have turned off the lights because he left the switch in the on position.

“Carlo, knock it off,” he said aloud. He listened for any snickering. If his friends wanted to pull a prank, this would be an ideal place; Carlo had access to the factory. “Come out you weasels.”

Nothing.

“C’mon show your ugly faces.” He was getting irritated. “I don’t have time for this shit, guys.”

After a pause he said, “I’m going back to work. Save your pranks for tomorrow.”

He turned and angrily walked over to grab the standard broom he left next to the trash bin. There was a dusting of flour on the floor.

“You guys are just giving me extra work to do,” Frank voiced. “Don’t wanna clean up after your sorry asses—“

Before him wasn’t just a dusting of flour. It was prints. When he arrived the flour covered the floor; obvious that the workers stepped in the flour. This was a print from flour. Someone had stepped into the trash bin, covering the soles of their feet, each step fading as the substance wore off.

Frank looked around again but saw no clues as to who was teasing him. He cleaned up the mess. He wheeled his supplies over to the hand-operated elevator. It tended to gather debris, too. He would clean it up and proceed to the second floor, which was more of a catwalk. Everything tended to fall to the ground floor anyway. It was really just the machinery that needed to be wiped down.

As he reached the elevator, he gulped. On the floor was the crucifix. That explained the wobbling noise, but Carlo knew better than to mess with that thing.

He got a chill again. If his friends weren’t here, who was? And what does he do about the crucifix? Replace it and tell Mr. Manzini tomorrow? He decided that was the best option. Scooping up the crucifix, he replaced it on the designated nail. As he secured it, he felt a rush of cold heavy air and an inexplicable feeling of dread. The hair on his arms stood straight up, and his hands began shaking. He

was suddenly gripped with fear, but he couldn’t leave the factory. His family relied on him to help pay bills. Frank took a deep breath and made the sign of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. That felt better.

             He swept the elevator’s wood floor. It was an interesting old contraption. At one time it was simply a platform. Heavier items were loaded onto it and hoisted to the upper floor by a rope and pulley system, operated with hand-over-hand effort. As industry safety standards advanced, three walls were added around it. The fourth side was left open for loading and unloading. Frank found the elevator interesting. He thought it would make a good sci-fi subject as a portal to another parallel.

             All Frank had left now was the second floor and he could get the hell outta there. He pulled on the rope, slowly ascending. The pulley creaked and rattled, echoing in the vacant space. Reaching the top, he wheeled his cleaning supplies behind him and toward one of the machines. He grabbed his rag from his apron pocket, squirted some solvent, and began wiping. A thin metal railing separated him form the ground floor. He looked over to see if he could spy the prank culprit.

Nothing.

He finished up, tucking the rag back into his apron pocket.

Whoomp!

Frank was whacked from behind--hard. It knocked the air out of him as he fell to his knees. Gasping for air he turned around, but saw no one.

            He managed to make it to his feet when another blow hit him. This time to the chest, forcing him back against the railing. Frank let out a groan.

            Still not seeing anyone, he began to panic. He thought about many telltale signs lately.

           “Just don’t do it.”

           Garlic. Mother Marys.

            A portal to a parallel universe.

            The day before Halloween.

            Could that be it? Did the Manzinis know something? If Carlo knew, why didn’t he inform Frank? Oh God. What evil is here now? And what will it do?

            Frank didn’t have another moment to think about it. The lights went out again. Stuck in the deafening quiet of the darkness, he whimpered like a frightened puppy. His body shook, involuntarily chattering his teeth.

            Soon he sensed a presence. It was close and preying on his fear.

            Frank suddenly began to gagged. His throat tightened and he couldn’t breathe. Instinctually, he threw his hands to his neck to remove whatever was strangling him, but felt nothing. There was nothing to latch on to and wrestle with.

            As the sensation intensified, he began to feel light-headed. His body became limp as he flopped over the railing, bending backwards. He saw a window near the ceiling where the moon shone brightly. As he tumbled over the railing, head first to the floor, he saw an apparition float through the window and into the night. 




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Doll Car

*Disclaimer: My Flash Fiction Fridays will be creepy themed for the month of October. I don't plan to have any live gore or mass murders, but please note I am writing out of my usual light-hearted style. 

Doll Car

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

He walked up to the garage sale and look around. There weren’t any dolls. He moved on to the next house. Several children played in the front yard, giggling and chasing each other. He saw a box of antique toys and rummaged through it. He found a rubber doll, probably from the 1950s. It had painted eyes that look off to one side, and a curly-q of hair painted on top of its head.

            Perfect, he thought.

            He walked up to the table, seated in the shade, to pay. The homeowner, a woman, was talking jovially to a girl friend.

            “I’d like to purchase this,” the man said. “How much?”

            The homeowner abruptly stopped her conversation. “The vintage items should have marked at—“

            She cut herself off. His appearance startled her. An obese man, dressed in faded black clothing. There were holes in his shoes. He had shoulder length greasy hair, and a missing bottom tooth. Sweat beaded along his temples. It was a hot day, but it added to the unusual feeling she got.

            “—those should be marked at $3.00 apiece.”

            “Okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

            He handed her three one dollar bills. They were damp.

            The homeowner took the money, making a mental note to grab hand sanitizer.

            “Thank you,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

            He nodded once. “You do the same, ma’am.”

            As the man walked down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, one of the girls playing noticed he bought the doll. She ran toward him and asked him why he purchased it.

            “I collect dolls,” he answered.

            The girl squinted up at him, blocking the sunlight with her palm. “But you’re a boy.”

            “I know. But I have a unique collection.”

            She stared at him, and then at doll in his hand, not knowing what to say.

            “I’ll be on my way now, kid.”

            He continued walking and turned around the corner. His enormous size made walking even down the street exhausting. The heat was getting to him and he was glad to reach his front door. There was no air conditioning, but a rickety fan oscillated from the front room’s corner. He reached for a glass and filled it from the tap; water leaked from the handle. Then he opened a drawer, took out a dish rag, wet it, and patted his face to cool off.

            After feeling more at ease, he went about his task. He slid open the cutting board and placed the doll upon it.

            Just dolls, he thought, never real.

            Reaching for the cleaver, he grabbed it. With a swift swing, he sliced the doll’s head off just under the chin, leaving a smooth spot. The body was thrown in the trash.

            He walked out of the kitchen into the dusty garage. Switching on the fluorescent light, it flickered and hummed to life. In the middle was a car. It was older; the kind with square edges rather than the round contours of modern vehicles. Decorating the car’s exterior were heads. Doll heads. His goal was to cover it completely, inside and out. However, he was selective on the dolls, only choosing the ones that no longer wanted. It’s the way he felt. Unwanted. Used, abused, and left for scavengers.

            He created a place for the lost souls. Convinced he wasn’t alone, the heads symbolized their existence. When he drove the car around town, it frightened people. They shuttered and turned away. He would make them see the terror inside of the unwanted. His mission must continue.

            Picking up the heavy duty glue from the tool chest, he walked over the car, squirted a glop on the hood, and secured the doll head. It's painted eyes hadn’t changed their expression, but detached from its body looked...empty.

His creation was ready for another roll around town.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller