Twisted Endings: 5 Disturbing Stories Read online

  TWISTED ENDINGS

  5 DISTURBING STORIES

  Timothy D. McLendon

  ©2013

  BOOKS BY TIMOTHY D. MCLENDON

  Last Hero

  Twisted Endings

  Twisted Endings 2

  Twisted Endings 3

  Contents

  The Teacup Lady

  Bitter Water

  Neighborhood Watch

  The Amazing Flea Circus

  The Rock Toss

  The Teacup Lady

  SWEAT TRICKLED from the crack of my ass all the down to my feet. My toes swam in sweat-soaked socks. Even the thermometer atop the concession stand behind me sweated tiny beads of scalding mercury. I stood there with my daughter in a line that never got any shorter.

  “Daddy, when’s the Teacup Lady gonna get here?” Crystal asked, oblivious to the ridiculous torture. That's the nickname she created for the woman who operated the ride — the Teacup Lady.

  “It could be a while.” The Teacup Lady had headed for the restrooms more than five minutes earlier. “We can come back later. Wouldn’t you rather ride the merry-go-round or bumper cars?" My finger and hopes all pointed at the bumper cars. We had to do something, anything, to expedite the foggy horror of that Middle America nightmare.

  “No thanks, Daddy,” was the dreaded reply. “I can wait.”

  Great. How could I turn down those innocent blues eyes? I patted her sticky blonde hair. We only got to see each other on the weekends. I wasn't about to disappoint my beautiful five-year-old angel.

  “The Teacup Lady looks like Mommy,” Crystal said, pointing at the woman when she started to walk back toward us.

  Ah yes, my dear, dear ex-wife – no hard feelings there. Fat, short, stringy brown hair and an uncaring attitude. The only thing she ever exercised was her right to vote. I’m pretty sure she voted for the Communist party.

  She had found the need to go outside of our marriage with a pot-bellied truck driver. “You don’t love me the way you used to,” she would say.

  I didn’t disagree with her. How could I?

  After Crystal was born, she changed into someone I didn’t know at all. She drank all of the time. She only ate candy, cupcakes, and Cheerios. She forgot who I was half of the time. She forgot who Crystal was. She didn’t care to dress when fetching the newspaper in the morning. The neighbors complained until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  The house? Gone. The Monte Carlo? Gone. The law had caught up with me a few times in the past. I had a slight problem with, shall we say, herbal remedies? Kerry was all too happy to point that out. The judge didn’t like it too much.

  I only fought for one thing in that damn divorce: Crystal. She belonged with someone who could love her and care for her: Me, her protector. The fool of a judge believed my ex-wife could take better care of her with the promise of therapy. I begged him not to do it. It didn’t work.

  And there stood the Teacup Lady, a disgusting reminder of the biggest mistake of my life. Controlling the time I had with my daughter. She had the eyes of a vulture, sent straight from hell to watch us die in the desert heat. Standing in the shade with a stupid grin plastered to her face. If she had been within range, I would’ve unplastered that grin on her pumpkin head. I knew it would be another five minutes before she could walk back over here. Waddle over here. Whatever.

  Even more disgusting is that I never saw her without that brown bag in her hands. She had one of those small paper contraptions that cockroaches love to lick the glue off of, or so I read in one of those respected tabloid magazines. I could picture their tiny mouths salivating as she reached her fat fingers in to retrieve whatever she was after: candy, cupcakes, Cheerios — who cares? I'm sure it all tasted like chicken to her!

  My temperature rose with each labored step she took. Sweat poured from my eyebrows. There are two places a woman like that shouldn't work: a fast-paced environment and a fast-food environment. I knew why she was here. Food. Free food. Well, candy anyway.

  “Sorry that took so long,” was all she could muster as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Don't worry about it.” Worry about me, I thought, worry about me.

  She set her bag down in a drawer next to the control booth. She closed the drawer and looked around like a guilty thief. Then it happened. She opened the gate to glorious freedom!

  My anger began to subside until I saw her look at her watch, like she had something more important to do. She was in a hurry to get back to that bag.

  “Daddy?”

  I looked down at Crystal with a smile. It had been a long, vicious race, but the finish line was just ahead.

  “Yes, Hun?” I said as relief started to set in.

  “I’m hungry.”

  My jaw collapsed

  “Okay.” I winked at her. “We’ll get something to eat as soon as we get home.”

  “But I’m hungry nowwwww…”

  I gritted my teeth. We stuffed ourselves earlier with cotton candy and hot pretzels. We stood in that line forever, waiting, sweating, and all of the sudden she wanted something else to eat?

  “We’ll get something later, Hun,” I reassured her. I put my palm under her chin and saw the raw tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The Teacup Lady walked around all the rides and unlocked the safety harnesses on the seats. If I had any sanity left, I lost it when she winked at me.

  My jaw tightened.

  She could no longer have control over my daughter and me. Something was vastly wrong in the world and I alone could fix it!

  “I'll be right back,” I told my daughter. I couldn’t stand to watch those tears anymore. Let it be noted that I was angry — no, beyond angry! I walked over to the booth where the Teacup Lady would control the ride, opened the top drawer and snatched the bag of surprises. I peeled the bag open to observe the merchandise: red, chewy circles of sugar — probably Sweet Tarts.

  I didn’t care if anyone saw me. The bag was going back with me, far away from the fat lady.

  “What's that, Daddy?”

  “Just a bag,” I replied, “with some candy. You can have some as soon as the ride’s over.” I was a hero, a bona fide hero.

  She nodded like a happy bandit just as the Teacup Lady motioned for us to come towards one of the rides.

  I hid the bag behind my back.

  We finally sat together in one of the teacups. Crystal was so happy. So beautiful. I wish I could have been as excited as her but my sticky, sweaty body stuck to the seat like Velcro. I held my breath as the fat vulture circled around her prey, making sure everyone was buckled in nice and tight.

  “Let me apologize again,” the Teacup Lady blurted, still out of breath. She glanced at her watch and smiled at me.

  I couldn't look at her. She needed to take those vulture eyes off of me. I wanted to shout, “Your candy’s gone lady and you can’t do anything about it! It’s right here under my seat! Boo-yeah!” I was relieved when she waddled away and hit the red button on top of her booth.

  It didn't take long for the spinning to start. Sobriety was forgotten. Memories of better days were brought back. My daughter loved it, too. At last, we were having fun.

  A minute later I realized I wasn’t feeling so good. Too much cotton candy and too many hot pretzels. I was afraid I’d have to taste them a second time. The expression on my daughter’s face told me that she felt the same way.

  “Hey!” I tried to shout. “Stop the ride!” I knew I sounded like a drunken monkey.

  “Better get a water hose!” someone offered back.

  I prepared to yell again, right as we passed the Teacup Lady's booth, but I had to stop myself. A crowd had gathered aro
und her sad little booth. People were gasping and running over to it. I couldn't see the Teacup Lady anywhere; the ride spun around too fast.

  A few seconds later we faced the booth again. A much larger crowd had assembled in a matter of seconds. Several people appeared to be screaming into their cell phones.

  The ride kept spinning.

  I was scared shitless — not just for me — for my little girl, too. The ride was out of control and we were all going to die! I wasn’t sure if the wetness on my seat was from sweat or urine. For God’s sake, no one's supposed to die at an amusement park!

  Faster and faster.

  I heard someone shout slurred obscenities. It sounded French or German or something, but hell — obscenities transcend all languages. Shit, fuck, bitch — they all have universal meaning. I wasn't hearing straight, that's for damn sure! I was beginning to lose hope as we kept spinning out of control. I grabbed my daughter's hand and held it for comfort, mine and hers.

  “Call the paramedics!” English at last!

  The audience below looked horrified — except one guy — he had a smile on his face like he was ready to throw a goodbye party for our departure to hell. I thought about everything wrong I ever did. I remembered the time in kindergarten I shoved a red crayon up Betty Martin’s nose. In eight grade I sold my magic flying skateboard for a hundred bucks to Billy Newsome. In college I slept with my psych teacher and told her I’d love her forever. I dumped her the same day she gave me an ‘A’ for the class, and told her no one could ever love her.

  Then all I could see were brilliant strobes of red and orange lights. I closed my eyes tighter than my own wallet and opened them again. I realized no one was looking up at us on the ride. Deep in the center of the crowd is where all the attention was focused.

  The ride began to slow down.

  Slower and slower.

  I had the first premonition we would be okay. I swore I'd never do anything wrong again. I had to be there for my daughter. Her protector.

  Crystal appeared to be smiling, almost laughing. My angel. And I too began to laugh.

  We were in hysterics by the time the ride crawled to a stop. The surrounding passengers stared at us in utter disbelief.

  I glanced around again and realized everyone was running to the same area where I had seen the crowd gathered. I reached for my daughter’s right hand but she offered her left hand instead as we got up and walked toward the crowd.

  “What happened?” I asked one of the pimply-faced teenage workers that walked by.

  “I dunno, dude. I just work here." He shrugged and walked over to the teacup control booth, where he shut everything down and closed all the gates.

  I looked through the crowd and saw an ambulance drive away with red and orange lights flashing. 2:15 p.m. blinked on my watch like an impatient child. That was the first time I realized the Teacup Lady wasn’t there.

  “Make sure you find that bag,” a deep voice said from behind me. I saw three police officers discussing something important. “I don’t know if it had salt tablets, heart medication or rat poison in it and frankly, I don’t care,” said one of the officers. “We have an amusement park full of kids and the last thing I need today is for some kid to find those pills and end up hurt, or worse.”

  The officers agreed and split up.

  What bag? My bag? Salt tablets? Heart medication? Rat poison? No, no, no. Candy! Cupcakes! Cheerios! It had to be!

  Sweat raced down my face now. Had anyone seen the little stunt I pulled? Some big-mouthed kid had to have seen everything.

  I stood there, dumbfounded. I squeezed Crystal's hand, smiled at her and mentally prepared to admit my guilt to the police.

  A young mother with three kids brushed past me and approached the uniform in charge. “Excuse me, Officer. I was wondering if you could tell me what's going on?”

  “Yes Ma'am. One of the workers apparently had some heart trouble and had to be rushed to the hospital. Darn shame.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “We can’t tell yet. Apparently she was on some type of medication. The last thing she was able to tell us is that someone stole it.” He paused for a second, deep in thought. "Those pills could be dangerous to a kid. Someone’s gonna have to answer for this," he said, stroking his holster.

  I gulped, big time.

  “Don’t worry, Ma'am. We've got it under control. I’m sure we'll catch whoever did this.”

  “Thank you, Officer. We’ll be going now.”

  “Good day, Ma'am.” And off he went.

  I never let go of Crystal’s hand and marched straight to the parking lot. I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder.

  “Daddy?”

  “Not now, Sweetheart. Wait ‘till we’re on the road.” No time for words. No sense in getting caught for a stupid little misunderstanding. It wouldn't do anyone any good to know what really happened.

  I was able to breathe again once we were on the road home. I was alive and so was my little girl. I would be there for her: Me, her great protector. The fat lady would be fine — I was sure of it. I left the bag under my seat on the teacup ride. The workers would find it and no one would get hurt.

  “Daddy?”

  I was brought back to reality. “I’m sorry, Darling. What did you want to tell me?”

  “This candy doesn’t taste good.”

  “What candy?”

  She put out the hand she wouldn’t let me hold earlier. In it was the small, brown paper bag.

  Bitter Water

  “COME IN, come in. You’ll freeze to death out there!” The sweet, mixed fragrance of jasmine and cinnamon escaped into the cold winter air as a small bell chimed overhead. “We don't open for another fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t watch you turn into a popsicle,” the store owner said, locking the door back as he closed it.

  “Much obliged,” Mark Walton replied, cupping his hands together and blowing into them. “Not used to the Nebraska winters yet.”

  “I don’t think anyone is. Can I interest you in some coffee?”

  “No, but thank you. I called last night about a special order.”

  “Oh yes! You must be Mr. Walton, the new postmaster. Let me be the first to welcome you to Lake Heron.”

  Mark extended his right hand to return the congenial old man’s greeting, but shivered at the coldness that transferred from the man’s fingers. “Thank you. It seems to be a nice little town, Mr...?” He felt awkward as the man stood there and stared at him the way a fat man stares at a cake.

  “Oh, it is!” he finally answered. “And it’s Johnson. Just call me Johnson.” He looked down at Mark’s trembling hands. “Where are my manners? Follow me back here and we’ll get you something warm to drink.”

  Mark didn’t want to insult Johnson and followed him to the back of the store. The chair he was instructed to sit in was across from Johnson’s mammoth oak desk. The chair felt like a giant ice cube as he sat down, Fed-Exed from Greenland.

  “It’s pretty cold in here, don’t you think?” Mark asked.

  “I turned the heat on a few minutes ago. Should warm up pretty fast.”

  “Hope so.” Mark cleared his throat as Johnson continued to stare at him. “That’s an interesting piece.” Mark nodded at a wooden plaque on Johnson’s desk. The words ‘God Save The Children’ were meticulously carved into it.

  Johnson smiled. “Yes. Simple, yet profound.” He stomped on the floor and shouted, “David!”

  Mark heard heavy footsteps from below the floor as they trampled up the stairs from the basement.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” Johnson assured him. “David’s my assistant.”

  A large figure appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Sir?”

  “I’m no spring chicken but I’m not your father, so don’t call me Sir. Listen, this here is Mr. Walton,” he said, nodding at Mark.

  “You’re new in town, ain’t ya? Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand in the same manner Johnson had, with the same chilly
result.

  “David,” Johnson said, “can you get us some coffee?”

  “Sure thing. How do you like it, Mr. Walton?”

  “Black, thank you.” Mark didn’t care much for coffee, but anything warm would be better than nothing at this point.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Nice kid you got there,” Mark commented across the desk to Johnson.

  “Yeah, I need young hands around here. Can’t keep my fingers moving long enough to make soap like I used to. Had to teach him everything I know. He’s a smart one.”

  “And speaking of soap,” Mark said, crossing his legs for warmth, “what about that special order?” A welcome basket had appeared on his doorstep when he arrived in Lake Heron the night before. Mark nearly tossed it aside before he smelled the thin sample bar of soap, an overwhelming aroma of delight. He took a long, hot bath with it.

  “David’s finishing it up this morning. I’m delighted you enjoyed the sample so much! It’s not every day we get that kind of response.”

  David entered the office with two cups of coffee, placing them on the desk. “Here you go, Mr. Walton,” he said, handing Mark a mug with a red napkin folded neatly beneath it.

  “Thank you, Son.”

  “Yes, thank you, David,” Johnson agreed.

  “You know, David,” Mark said as he looked at him closer, “you remind me of someone. Ever been down south?”

  “Not since I was little. Sure do miss the warm winters.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Johnson said, holding his mug in the air and toasting an imaginary counterpart.

  David looked at his watch. “It’ll be another ten minutes or so for the soap.”

  Johnson nodded. “So, Mr. Walton, how do you like Lake Heron so far?”

  Mark gave a faint smile and sipped on the bitter coffee. “Haven’t had much time to check it out yet. Still got a ton of unpacking to do." He lowered the mug. “Twenty years of the mailroom and the streets. Can’t believe I’m going to be a postmaster tomorrow morning.”