Tag: mystery

Idiot Tax

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The Idiot Tax collector stumbles from door to door, shaking his burlap sack and shouting at the top of his lungs.
Four in the morning. He always comes at four.
I watch a door open and a broken toaster fly out.
He catches it, grunts, and shambles off to the next house.
It’s against the law to kill an Idiot Tax collector. Even by accident.
My rusty butcher’s knife is in his chest.
“I tried to hand it to him,” I say. “Honest.”
I cry. I whine. I babble incoherently.
I, the new Idiot, pick up the sack and howl.

Turtle Teacher

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Every classroom has a turtle in an aquarium, placed on a table in front of each class.
The kids stare at the turtle for four hours, take a break for lunch, and return to staring at the turtle for the rest of the day.
Cameras watch the turtles and students, and the principal watches the video screens.
Nothing happens for days… weeks… months…
The Ministry was ready to pull the plug when an alarm went off in Classroom Twelve.
The turtle was gone, a greasy smear on the inside of the aquarium.
Upon review, one student’s eyes glowed red.
Success!

The Gamblers

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Vinnie and Joey liked to gamble.
They were always betting each other about this or that.
Especially about their hits.
What kind of hits?
They were hitmen, you see.
Joey liked to play How Much Money Is In Their Wallet?
Sure, they always split the take, just like they split the contracts.
One day, they took a contract, but the hit didn’t happen.
By the time they realized he’d skipped town, Joey and Vinnie were picked up.
Right before they were tossed off the roof of the building, Vinnie said “I bet you five bucks I hit the ground first.”
Joey grinned. “You’re on.”

The Pair

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Teri had the most beautiful blue eyes.
So, she sold them.
You’ve seen them in some fashion magazines, I think. They made the model who bought them famous.
Teri used the money to buy a set of multispectrum sensorpods. She also paid her way through college and grad school.
The rest went to a startup in Silicon Valley, where genetic replicator tanks worked on the challenge of biological replacement technologies.
The research was a success, Teri having volunteered for the first human test.
She looked in the mirror and declared victory at the sight of her perfectly-reconstructed… and now-cancer-free breasts.

Tell Me A Story

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“Tell me a story,” says the ghost in my bed.
I’m used to it.
So, I pull a book from the shelf, open the pages, and begin to read.
“I’ve heard this before,” says the ghost.
The ghost has heard them all.
I close the book and make up a story about dragons, castles, maidens, and knights.
But this time, the maidens ate dragons and the castles floated in the air.
“What about the knights?” asked the ghost.
“They lived happily ever after,” I said.
The ghost smiled, faded into nothing, and I was finally able to go to sleep.

The Prince Of Scars

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We called the old man The Prince Of Scars.
He was brought to the hospital last winter, frozen solid.
We stripped him and put him in a tub of warm water, reviving him slowly.
His body was completely covered with painful creases, knots, deformations, and agonizing twists.
“What happened to you?” I asked him.
“Life didn’t pass me by,” he moaned. “It took one look at me and tore me apart.”
He didn’t say anything else.
We couldn’t get a name off of him and his fingerprints were long destroyed.
He left that morning.
Think he’ll be back next winter?

A whisper in the ivy

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I hear a whisper in the ivy.
Is it the wind, blowing through the leaves?
On the ground, in a bed of green, covered with shadows, I see something.
I kneel down to look closer, but there is nothing there.
Another whisper. This time behind me.
And yet another. To my left. To my right.
It is the wind, and it wants to tell me something.
It breathes down my neck, past my arms, through my fingers.
“What is it?” I whisper back. “What do you want to tell me?”
Silence. The wind keeps its secrets, locked in the ivy.

The strange coffee

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Mary watched the last drop of coffee slide out of her cup and on to the floor.
There was a sizzle, then a whiff of steam. The drop of coffee burned through the tile to the basement.
Mary looked at the coffee pot, swirling it carefully. She’d used a free sample she’d received in the mail.
After a moment of panic, she realized it hadn’t burned a hole through her.
She went into the bathroom and checked to make sure.
After she got dressed again, she shrugged and filled another cup.
This time, she added sugar, igniting a massive explosion.

The Locksmith

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It’s midnight, and I’ve locked myself out of my house.
I take a pen-knife out of my pocket, cut my palms, and rub my hands together while reciting the chant of The Locksmith.
From the shadows, a robed figure emerges, reaching into a large burlap sack.
His pale hand pokes from the sleeve of his robe, a shiny key in its fingers.
The Locksmith nods and unlocks the door.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
The Locksmith shakes his head, holds my wrist, and his tongue licks my bloody palm.
“Delicious,” it croaks, and returns to the shadows.

The Leaking Pen

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Freitag’s pen drips and leaks on the paper, making it useless as a writing device.
But if you hold it over the paper and gently dangle it, the droplets of ink spell out messages we believe are from Old Lord Freitag himself.
“I was brutally murdered with my own pen, driven into my heart,” says his spirit through the cursed writing device.
We already know that. His butler confessed to the crime, Freitag’s blood and the pen’s ink fresh on his hands.
That was over two hundred years ago, but Freitag’s ghost hasn’t stopped since.
Here. Have a pencil instead.