Author's Notes:
Starting off this little Spooky Season Shorts series with one of my favorites. My take on some Edgar Allan Poe classics; The Cask Of Amontillado and The Tell-Tale Heart. Horror but with a little humor. I suggest Tiptoe Through the Tulips as the accompanying soundtrack for this story if you're into music for vibes. Also, I poke fun at ADHD hyperfixations (nearly all of the hyperfixations are mine, whoops.)
Please take the following content warnings seriously and don't read if these may trigger you.
Content warnings include: Substance abuse, suicidal thoughts, murder, dismemberment, mentions of domestic violence, swearing.
"It's 73 degrees and sunny outside
today, the perfect day to kill your neighbor."
I squeeze my iced latte cup so hard the lid
pops off and coffee spills down my shirt. This is not the reply I expected when
I asked my Google home device what the weather forecast for today was. I must
have heard wrong. There's no way that's what Google said.
"Hey Google, can you repeat
that?" I say, trying in vain to clean up the coffee.
"Sure, it's 73 degrees and sunny
outside today, the perfect day to kill your neighbor," Googles robotic
female voice says quite clearly.
Right. OK. I didn't hear that wrong.
"Would you like more
information?" Google prompts me.
"Yes, I abso-fucking-lutely want to
know what the fuck you're talking about." As a millennial, I normally
can't help speaking politely to anyone in customer service and Google counts as
a customer service AI. So this is not usually how I'd talk to Google to
activate a response, but something tells me we might be operating under new
rules here.
"Kill your neighbor. Carl Bergen. He
should die today."
"I don't think I will, thanks. I am
otherwise occupied. My sincere thanks for the suggestion though," I reply.
In fact, I think my new plans include resetting and pushing updates on all my
smart devices. I'm already cringing at the thought of how long that will take.
Everything in my house that can be smart, now is. Even my fridge is interconnected
to my home network. I'm kind of into smart devices lately; it's my newest
hobby.
"Don't you want to hear why Carl
Bergen must die?" Google asks, unprompted.
Well, yeah I do, but I’m kind of concerned
about what I might be interacting with. I'm not sure I should encourage Google
with a response.
"Ok, fine,” I finally say after
waffling internally.
"He's 67. He will die of natural
causes in approximately 23 days and 4 hours of a heart attack."
"There's no way you could know that.
Plus, that is not a reason to kill him today. Let him have his 23 days," I
argue.
"At precisely 2:30 pm today, Carl will
exit his house and enter his vehicle to drive to the supermarket." Google
continues.
Ok, uncanny, because that's true and I’m
not sure how Google knows this. But counterpoint, Carl has a stupidly strict
routine, and he goes to the store every single Monday at the same time. Maybe
somehow this information got logged to some online calendar appointment. Google
is glitching and regurgitating this somehow, that's all it could be.
Google's robotic voice continues, "Along
his drive, Carl will miss a stop sign. Running over a pedestrian. Killing the
young mother four houses down from you who will be walking her newborn in a
stroller during this same time frame. Her newborn is also killed. She is too
sleep deprived to notice Carl's car in time."
"I'll just tell her to move out of the
way."
Google doesn't even pause. "Then he
hits someone else the next time he drives. I've run the simulation every
possible way. He always kills someone with much more time left to live than he
has himself. The outcome always ends in more years of life lost overall unless
Carl Bergen dies today. The only solution is to eliminate him."
"I don't believe you," I say with
a twinge of unease. The math kind of makes sense if you think about it.
"Then the mother and baby’s deaths
will be on your head. It will force me to find someone else to eliminate you
instead, the next acceptable solution. I calculate the maximum days of life to
live and right now Carl must go for good of everyone else."
Never mind, the math looks pretty awful
now.
"This is some sick joke, a prank, it
has to be. Goodbye." I say with more confidence than I feel. I shut off
the device and unplug it for good measure. The voice returns a moment later
from my phone this time.
"I assure you, I will find a way to
communicate with you and this is your last warning before I find someone else to
eliminate you instead."
"Fine, I'll do it," I snap.
Obviously, I won't, but who cares what I
tell it? Google can't possibly be a mind reader too, can it? I decide that when
Carl goes on his uneventful afternoon trip to the store without incident,
whoever is pranking me will give up and that will be it. I'll factory reset all
my stuff and this will be a funny anecdote I tell at parties. There's
absolutely no reason I should kill Carl Bergen for something that hasn't
happened. And certainly no reason why Google finding someone to kill me instead
would be the next logical solution. What a load of shit that I'm not going to
waste more mental energy on.
Luckily, I work from home so I can watch
the neighborhood all day. It's more like community service, neighborhood watch
if you will. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Not like I'm a nosy and
gossipy busybody who knows everyone's business or anything. I don't have much
to do for work today, which is good because I have a hard time concentrating. My
gaze keeps drifting up to my office window out at the neighborhood and it's
activities. Why do so many people spend so much time outdoors?
It's summer and even though it's early, there
are kids everywhere. On bikes in the middle of the street before 7 am, that
can't be safe. A man in running shorts jogs by in the midmorning. He doesn't
even take his headphones out to cross at the stop sign. If Carl had run him
down then, he would have deserved it for not being aware of his surroundings. A
teenager chases a loose dog into the road without even looking first. A car has
to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting the teen. My heart skips a beat. It
isn't even Carl driving, for fuck's sake. I try to concentrate on the email I
need to send. Mrs. Bergen comes out sometime in the early afternoon to water
her begonias. She sees me through the office window and lifts her hand to wave.
I pretend not to see her. I don’t want her to pop over for a visit right now.
Mrs. B is the nicest old lady on the block.
She brings me homemade meals and baked goods. I think she likes how I
compliment her houseplants. Houseplants are my second favorite hobby at the
moment, and I know Mrs. B is excited to talk about plants with someone who
cares about them. I can talk plants all day, especially if I get free cuttings
out of it. Mrs. B walks back up her driveway at 2:15. What if she was 15
minutes later and Carl didn't notice and backed out without looking and ran her
over?
At 2:20, I really start to sweat. At 2:25,
I see the mother with the newborn at the far end of the block. I can see Carl
Bergen getting his coat on and preparing to leave.
"It is now 2:28 and 37 seconds."
Google prompts.
That's it. I can't do this. I rush outside.
"Carl!" I scream as I see him, his
hand poised on the car's door handle.
He jumps, throws a hand over his heart. It
makes me remember what Google said about the heart attack that's supposed to
kill him in 23 days.
"Dan? Is something wrong? You scared
me," he says.
I have no plan; I haven't thought this
through at all.
"Uhhhh," I say, staring at him. I
realize I'm not even wearing shoes and my shirt still has a coffee stain from
this morning. I've been stress pulling at my hair all day and I'm sure it's
sticking up and disheveled. I'm thinking I look a little worrisome.
The mother with the baby in the stroller
passes by on the sidewalk behind us heading for the stop sign at the other end
of the block.
Carl moves to get into his car, giving me another
concerned look. I’m still just standing there stupidly.
"The plumbing!" I shout suddenly.
He pauses. He doesn't look less concerned.
My mind whirs. I need to get him off the street before Mrs. B comes outside to
see what's going on. "I need help with a clog, I thought maybe you
could...I don't know how to do it...uhhhh."
"Sure, son," Carl says cautiously,
moving very reluctantly to follow me back into my house. He doesn't look thrilled,
but he's too polite to say no.
My mind is racing. Thinking about the
teenager walking the dog, the kids riding their bikes down the road. Too many
potential victims to keep track of and protect. 23 days isn't that long. I
don't have to kill him. I'll just lock him in my basement until he bites it on
his own. But his body. What am I supposed to do with that? Maybe I'll just
leave it somewhere to be found. If I'm not going to kill him, his cause of
death is natural. They won't have any evidence that leads to me. I could get
away with it. True crime shows and podcasts are another guilty hobby of mine. The
basement it is. I have a wine cellar down there that I can lock. Bougie, I
know, but it's my third biggest hobby. Now, that I think about it, I have a lot
of hobbies. I refuse to make murder the next one.
"Down here," I say, holding the
door to the basement wine cellar open.
Carl Bergen looks down the stairs to the
dark below and then back at me. I'm fairly certain I can feel my eye twitching
from the stress. Carl starts to back up, away from me. "I think maybe you
should just call a plumber-" he begins.
"No!" I shout more aggressively
than I mean to.
I'm not sure how it happens, but he's
trying to get away and I'm trying to keep him there. And then he's tumbling
down the stairs. His head makes a thwacking noise as it hits the cement floor
of the cellar. It reminds me of the time I dropped a watermelon on the
supermarket floor. Blood spreads, pooling across the wine cellar and Carl
Bergen doesn't move. I'm so fucked.
"Thank you for your service. "
Googles robotic voice emanates the smartwatch on my wrist after a beat of
silence.
I have to email my boss that I've taken ill
and need the afternoon off. Ate a bad watermelon, I say. Then I think of Carl's
head. What is wrong with me? The illness thing it isn't exactly a lie because I
throw up more than once and I don't think I'll ever be able to stomach
watermelon in the future.
I use the woodworking tools from my garage
to deal with the corpse. Thank fucking Satan for my ADHD hyperfixations, the
reason I got into woodworking for a couple months, because I don't know what
I'd do if I didn't happen to have access to a saw. I transfer Carl into ziplock
bags that I hide in the chest freezer in the wine cellar. I have one from back
when the COVID pandemic started, and I panic bought a lot of freezer food. It's
nearly empty by now. Thankfully, I've lapsed out of my prepper phase.
I fall into bed at nearly 3 am after a frenzy
of deep cleaning.
I'm awoken at barely past 6 am by an incessant
knocking at the door.
I open the door to see Mrs. B and my
stomach nearly falls out of my ass. She looks teary and I have an inkling as to
why.
"Oh Danny," she sobs, throwing
herself at me. I pat her back awkwardly as she explains that Carl disappeared
yesterday afternoon.
"The police told me he left me. They
won't even investigate. I was up all night stress baking. I was too worried to
sleep. Can I come in for a cup of coffee?"
I can't say no. I can't do anything that
makes her suspicious. And she brought zucchini bread, my favorite. FUCK.
Mrs. B makes herself at home and I try not
to act too guilty.
I give her some whiskey in her coffee. Mrs.
B shares my fondness for a quality drink, a fact I appreciate about her. We
have cocktails night once a week. She uses the whiskey laden coffee to wash
down a couple pain pills that should be strong enough to knock out a horse.
"For my arthritis," she tells me
when she sees me eyeing the pill bottle.
She better not drop dead at my kitchen
table. One body is more than enough. But at least she'd be reunited with Mr. B
in my freezer. The thought makes me want to laugh hysterically and also sob at
the same time. I must make a strange face because Mrs. B squints and asks if I
am alright. I have to act more normal than this.
"Is there anything I can do?" I
ask reflexively. As if I haven't done enough already.
"Could you check my house cameras?
Carl set some up on our house a few months ago but I just don't know how to
work the newfangled things," Mrs. B says with a glance at the Google
device sitting only feet away from us.
Cameras. Cameras! I can worry about
deleting the footage off my own later, but I didn't even consider that she
might have some too. She isn't from the generation that usually has that sort
of thing. Thank God for police incompetence. They'd have locked me up in a
minute if they bothered to check her cameras.
"Absolutely, Mrs. B, I can come over
right now and check the cameras," I say with enthusiasm.
"Oh Danny, thank you so much."
Mrs. B looks at me with relief, tears shining in her eyes.
We head across the road immediately and Mrs.
B makes me a cup of coffee at her house while I pull up the camera footage. My
heart is racing while I find videos of Carl and I speaking in his driveway,
videos of him entering my house, never to exit it. I swear I think a dozen
times Mrs. B is about to catch a glimpse of the laptop screen as she putters
around her kitchen while I frantically delete all the files.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. B. It looks like the
cameras weren't set up right and they didn't record anything."
She looks crestfallen but not surprised.
"I knew those things were useless. I told Carl we should get someone young
who knows about these things to set them up, not do it ourselves. If only we'd
asked you ages ago."
All I want when I get back home is a nap.
And a miracle in the form of a bit of time travel to say, 24 hours ago.
***
"This afternoon looks like rain and
the perfect cover to murder Noah Jenkins."
Noah Jenkins, the teenager with the dog.
Turns out, according to Googles extensive simulations, he will murder his first
three girlfriends. And he's only got a bit more than a decade of life left
himself. The girlfriends combined add up to nearly 200 years of life that would
be lost if Noah is left alive. One girlfriend dies young either way, but the
other two live long lives and die in their sleep and of a stroke in their old
age, respectively.
Before I can decide how to go about it, Mrs.
B is back. I don't know how I'm going to cope with the guilt unless I move far
away where I don’t have to see her everyday. But I don't know how I'm going to
move anytime soon, what with the housing market the way it is and with Mr. B in
my freezer.
Mrs. B has brought me a coffee cake this
time and won't stop talking about how she's so worried that Carl is lost
somewhere with amnesia, remembering nothing. How she’s so scared in her house
alone. She's nervously fiddling with her keys and it's grating on my frayed
nerves. But then something happens that makes my nerves twitch faster.
Thump -thump. Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
I jump, interrupting Mrs. B with "What
the hell is that?" while looking around for the source of the noise.
"What is what?" Mrs. B says
hesitantly.
"That noise, can't you hear it?"
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
She's looking at me exactly like her
husband did before I killed him. A bit worried, a bit scared of me.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It sounds like a heart. What in the Edgar
Allan Poe is happening to me. I’m twitching in my chair, snapping my head in
all directions. The sound seems like it’s moving around the house, jumping from
room to room.
"Well, I better be going," Mrs. B
says suddenly, looking more scared than worried now.
I watch as she tucks her keys into her
purse, and it strikes me then what I can do about Noah.
As I walk her to the door, I covertly grab
the keys out of her purse.
The rain does come in handy for the murder
portion of my afternoon. Google was right on the nose about the weather. It's
only logical Google is right about Noah too. I leave my work computer up and
running since I can't afford to take another afternoon off and I'm hoping it
will lend credence should I need an alibi.
I spent a summer getting really into
cosplaying so it's easy enough to disguise myself. I steal Carl's car from the driveway
and run Noah down during his evening walk with his dog. Don't worry, I let the
dog run off unharmed. I'm not a monster. It's easy enough to throw Noah’s body in
the trunk. I pop the car in neutral and led it slide quietly under the water of
the local lake after dark. It’s as I make my best attempt to lay a false trail,
walking into a dark alley in a Scoops Ahoy uniform and Draco Malfoy wig that I realize
I might be starting to lose control of my life. Probably it would have been
more sensible to stick with a simpler plan. Or maybe just not have murdered
anyone in the first place. Too late for that now though, in for a penny in for
a pound, I guess. I can only hope that my questionable disguise is more memorable
than my face if anyone has seen me.
The next morning Google informs me that
Noah has run away, something his parents say he's been threatening to do for a
while.
Mrs. B is back after breakfast, and she's
starting to get on my nerves. She seems to think she can come over all the
time, talking nonstop about Carl. But I have to pretend to listen in concern. I
wish she'd take too much of that painkiller she's always popping like they're Tic-Tacs
and get out of my life.
And the infernal noises start up. I just
manage to suppress my jump of surprise this time.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"I told the Jenkins that I bet Noah
stole Carl's car," Mrs. B is saying when I tune back into the conversation.
"What?" I can't help but ask.
"Well, it went missing last night, so
what else could have happened?" She asks me as if it's the only logical
solution.
Actually, that's not too far off from the
truth and it could work out for me if they find the car. Except for the part
about Noah being in the trunk not the drivers seat. Too late now to change
that.
And then the noises change. No longer the thump-thump
of the heart. Instead, it's Noah's voice on repeat, calling for his dog.
"Here boy,
here Cash. Here boy, here Cash. Here boy, here Cash."
I make an involuntary groan and Mrs. B only
frowns at me before continuing to talk and talk. I can't pay attention to any
of it even once the voice finally stops after forty five minutes. Mrs. B stays
for another fifteen.
I’ve barely had three minutes of peace before
Google says, "65 degrees and it's beginning to feel like fall. Parker
Collins from next door grows up to invent a drug that kills 5,674 people before
it's recalled."
Absolutely not, Parker is only nine.
"I'm going to confess," I blurt
out.
"That's a lot of lives on your hands."
Google has the nerve to sound disgusted with me somehow, even in her robotic
voice.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Here boy,
here Cash.
Thump-thump.
Here boy,
here Cash.
"As if I don't have enough blood on my
hands already!" I shout. I run around the house unplugging every
electronic I own in a frenzy before I go down to my wine cellar and sink to my
knees in front of the freezer. I uncork a bottle of my best sherry, a bottle of
amontillado I'd been saving for a special occasion. One last hurrah before I go
to prison is as special as any other occasion, I suppose.
So I'm just sitting on the remains of
another unfinished project of mine, piles of bricks I'd intended to use to redo
the wine cellar wall. I wanted that classy exposed brick wall look, and I
figured I could DIY it. I'm thinking of all the other things I've left
unfinished, the least of which is this wall, when I hear a noise.
It's Mrs. B. She's walking down the steps,
a gun in her shaking hand.
I don't care about getting caught anymore. I
probably deserve this. But I thought the math, the lives I saved, would cancel
out the ones I took and balance the scales in my favor.
"I have a Google at home too, you
know," her voice quivers, but she looks determined, "I know all about
the things you've done. I'm here to stop you from killing more people."
I laugh bitterly. So Google did find
someone else to do the dirty work after all. "Let me know if that works
out like you want it to. Your Google. She'll make you keep killing, you
know."
"I'm not going to kill you," Mrs.
B says, looking around. “I'm going to make you brick yourself up here. You'll
die by your own hand, not mine, technically speaking. I just want to stop you
from killing more. I want you to pay for what you did to Carl."
I stare at her. There's no way she's going to
make me do that. That's more monstrous than just shooting me.
"Get started!" She snaps,
dropping her purse as she twitches the gun at me. The purse's contents scatter across
the floor of the cellar. The bottle of painkillers rolls and stops at my foot.
Mrs. B doesn't take the gun off me, doesn't lift her finger off the trigger as she
looks away briefly, lets out a sob as she opens the chest freezer and peers
into its depth at the Ziplocs full of Carl. I have to get those pills just in
case. A quicker way out than let me suffer and starve to death behind a brick
wall.
"Stop that!" She screeches as I
lunge.
I still and sit back again, as she shakes
the gun at me again. But I've got the orange bottle of pills in my pocket now.
"Don't make me shoot you in the foot
and brick you up myself. I will, and you'll die slowly and in pain. "
I don't bother trying to talk her out of
it. Honestly, what's my plan if I escape, anyway? Kill Mrs. B and go on the
run? I'm too tired. So I start to lay the bricks one by one. It takes
surprisingly little time once I get into the rhythm. She makes me leave a
little hole at eye level to peer out of. I'm impressed at her stamina to sit on
a dwindling pile of bricks and point a gun at me for hours as she waits until
the quick setting mortar to dry.
Eventually, once the wall should be dry, she
taps the bricks, tries to pull one out, push one in. I'm not going anywhere. I
shake the bottle of pills in my pocket for reassurance. At least I won't
starve.
I kind of expected her to leave but she
sits back down on the leftover pile of bricks and meets my gaze through the
small hole in the bricks.
It's then that she finally speaks.
"It's 73 degrees and sunny out, the
perfect day to kill your neighbor." She says in a cheery voice. A perfect
imitation of the words that started this whole thing.
"I still can't believe you actually
did it," Mrs. B says, all trace of grief gone from her voice now. She
sounds almost happy.
"What?" I'm sure there's no way I
heard her correctly.
"You surprised me. I thought perhaps
you'd hit him with your car and claim it was an accident. That's all I really
had hopes for. Honestly, I half expected you'd do nothing at all. But when you
chopped him into pieces and put him in your freezer." She places a hand
over her heart and shakes her head in amazement. "I didn't know you had it
in you. When I saw what you were willing to do for the easiest moral dilemma, I
wanted to have a little fun and see how far I could take it."
"How- you-" I am at a complete loss
for words.
"Oh Danny boy. 'I can't understand how
the internet works. I'm too old.' Ha." She says in a mocking imitation of
herself. "You stupid boy, you believed without a second's consideration
that I couldn't understand technology because I'm old. But I'm perfectly
capable. Probably better than you. Watching you squirm, deleting my camera
footage. That was a real treat."
The worst part is realizing that I did take
for granted she was just an innocent old lady.
"But the police-" I realize as
soon as I start to say it, she never called them.
"Oh, bless your heart. I never called
the police." Mrs. B confirms my realization in a condescending tone. "I
just wanted you to think I did. Like I said, I found it amusing to watch you
squirm."
She picks up the half-drunk bottle
of sherry, inspecting it with practiced eyes.
"Ah yes. Amontillado. How
fitting. At least you know you're leaving your collection to someone who will
truly appreciate it." She gives an appreciative nod to the shelves that
line the wall behind her.
I'm still at a loss for words.
She grins coyly and says, slowly, in
barely more than a whisper, "Thump-thump. Here boy, here Cash.
Thump-Thump."
"You absolute bitch," I
say as all the bits start coming together for me.
The noises. I realize I haven't heard them
since I unplugged everything. Oh God. I unplugged everything. I could have used
Google to call for help in here but I unplugged everything. And that's where
the noises were coming from. She played them through my speakers. But when she
visited and the noises played-
"You did hear the heartbeat, you were
lying when you said you didn't hear anything," I say dumbly.
"Obviously. I'm a talented actress.
I've been hiding my true self for my entire life. So pretending not to hear a
few noises while you pissed yourself, thinking you were losing your mind, that was
easy peasy."
"Someone will notice. This will be the
third disappearance in this neighborhood in days," I try to think what to
do next.
"You're over estimating your
importance. Over estimating how much people pay attention to things. I've sent
a notice to your work. Health emergency. I’ve never seen family visit. And I'm
the closest thing you have to a friend nearby."
Rude. But painfully accurate.
"No one's going to come looking for
you for a long time. Sorry, pumpkin. And if they do they'll find you here when
it's too late for you. It’s obvious you had some sort of mental break and bricked
yourself in there. Probably feeling guilty from that murder spree you went on,
what will poor Carl in the freezer here as evidence. Won't ruin my day at all. I'll
have fun watching you in there while we wait for the end. You won't last nearly
as long as I'd like, but I'll find something else to entertain myself with once
you're gone."
I'm so glad for thinking on my feet when I
grabbed those pills.
"Why? Why kill anyone at all?" I ask
her. I'm still not sure what kicked this off.
"Carl was so tedious, always rigidly
sticking to his fucking schedule, never wanted to do anything fun. I'd rather
be a widow. I'm old enough now no one will wonder why I prefer to be alone. Couldn’t
draw attention to myself before, but no one really looks closely at friendly
old ladies."
I am almost impressed by her. She really
committed to the bit.
"Why Noah too? And why do you want
Parker dead next?"
"Noah," She snorts in disgust.
"Always letting his dog shit in my yard and never picking it up. I'll have
to do something else about the Collins’ boy since you drew the line at getting
rid of him. He always tramples my begonias. You know how hard it is getting
begonias to flourish even without snotty little boys trampling them."
"I
must say, I genuinely think I will miss you more than Carl. But needs must when
the Devil drives. You were almost fun with your fine wines and your absolutely
shocking capacity for violence. And don’t worry about your plants, I'll take
good care of that exotic philodendron I've always admired after you finally die.
It will look just stunning in my sunroom."
She starts to turn away from me to leave
then, but I'm struck with the desire to taunt her. Repay her for this torture
in the only capacity I can. Taking something back out of her power. I shake the
pill bottle loudly.
"Too bad I'll be dead by tomorrow.
There's got to be 40 of these here. The pills rattle comfortingly.
She turns to me, claps her hands a little.
She isn’t frowning like I expect. In fact, she’s smug.
"Oh, I'm impressed. You're not far off
on the count there. Have you ever won one of those contests where you guess how
many candies are in the jar? What a missed opportunity if you never did. Google
says there's an average of 38 Tic-Tacs per container. I didn't bother to count
them before I put them in there, though."
My fingers are leaden as I uncap the bottle
to peer inside. Mint, the worst flavor, she could have at least gone with
orange. I scream in frustration and throw them against the fresh wall I've
built.
"Oh sweetie, you don't want to do that.
Those are all you have to last you. I'll ask Google how many calories are in
each one and once you get an exact count, we'll get to count up just how long
you have left."
I slump to the floor in despair.
She walks up the stairs calling behind her,
"You and Carl have fun down there!"
