Twisted spine

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A car crash survivor is given no mercy.

Submitted: July 02, 2010

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Submitted: July 02, 2010



I walk with a stick these days.

My back is a twisted knot of sinewy muscle wrapped around a cracked spine the shape of a helter skelter.

Half of my left foot is numb to the touch and I can barely stand for more than 10 minutes at a time.

I’m basically fucked.

I’ve been this way going on five years.

Got hit by a car while crossing the road to buy milk. The prick that did it had been driving an old black Buick, they never did catch the son of a bitch.

My career was over that day, and without savings I soon became broke, lost my house and sold off most of my possessions.

I had to move to the other side of town.

I rented a room in a shared house with a bunch of low life’s.

I guess I fitted in real well.

On the top floor lived a strange fella by the name of Lars.

He was a tall skinny kinda guy, with long dark hair, he had a small goatee beard that he would constantly twist into a point.

After I had been around a couple of months this guy Lars asks me if I wanna come up for a cup of coffee.

“Ok” I say, and I hobble up those damn stairs like an old fart in his ninety’s.

All the while he wait’s at the top of the stairs watching me approach, while twisting his beard between his thumb and forefinger.

Once at the top I follow him into his room, and head straight for the nearest chair. I slump down like a sack a spuds and wince at the pain in my back.

“How do you like your coffee” he says.

“Black n sweet”

“Ok, be right back!” he says, and off he goes into the kitchen.

Well I’ve seen some strange shit in my time, but this place just creeped me right out!

The stuff he had around was old, real old.

The furniture looked like it was right outa some museum someplace. It all seemed to be made in the same dark wood, with hand carved gargoyles on everything.

And the smell was, well ancient like.

I lifted myself up outa the chair with my stick and walked across the room towards the mantelpiece.

Sitting in a huge jar staring at me was a pickled baby, long dead.

It was kinda yellow and completely without hair.

Next to the jar stood an old black & white photograph with a group of people all dressed in black suits and standing in a line smiling.

On looking closer I could just make out Lars in the centre, he winked at me.

I stepped back in shock, and dropped my walking stick to the floor.

Lars was behind me and caught it quickly before it hit the floor.

“Easy old fella!” he said.

“I’m not as old as I look, pal!” I say, and snatch the stick quickly back from him.

“You are exactly 46 years old” he says, while twisting his beard into a perfect point.

“What are you? Some kinda fucking mind reader?”

“Charlie Charlie Charlie, you really are a fool my friend “ He says in a real condescending way.

He then reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small wax doll wrapped in a stained cloth.

“Who the hell are you?” I say, and sit back down in a different chair opposite him.

My back had started to ache again, this time across my shoulders.

“Back aches does it?” he says. “Good good!”

“Why you son of a bit--!” As I say it, he twists the doll in his hands slightly, and the pain in my shoulders feels like someone is running a cheese grater across them.

He then reaches into his other pocket and takes out a long silver needle, and carefully scratches at the small wax figures head.

The side of my skull open’s up along my temple like a small eruption has taken place.

Blood pours down the side of my head in a momentary burst of electric pain.

“Now you know what your dealing with Charlie, this is no game.

Now drink your coffee and shut up I have something to let you in on!”

I do what he says and listen, while wiping the blood from my head with my handkerchief .

© Copyright 2017 the grim reader. All rights reserved.

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