Monday, October 12, 2020

Straight-edged razor (a 600 word freaky flash fiction horror story) by Oren Shafir

Bob woke from his afternoon nap looking at the reproduction of Georgia O’Keefes' human skull -- with its shattered teeth and empty black eye sockets staring at him -- and for a second, he wondered where the hell he was.

Then he remembered; this was his new home. He peeled himself away from the sweaty sheets. The first thing he was going to do was to fix that damn air-conditioner.

Bob changed his wet t-shirt and thought about shaving before Marian’s dinner, but he still couldn’t find his razor. There were disposable blades in Marian’s cabinet, probably left from one of her former live-in boyfriends, but once you try a straight-edged razor, you can’t go back to that shit. A nice metaphor for the difference between him and those other two guys, Bob thought. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Well, the razor would show up, or maybe he’d forgotten to pack it altogether. Either way, he could worry about it later. He wanted to spend some time with Simon before Marian got back.

Bob thought that Simon must have taken a nap too. His hair was all over the place and his clothes wrinkled. Jesus, Bob thought, doesn’t she have enough money to take him shopping? The kid’s sleeve’s ended halfway between his elbows and hands, and the pants ended way over his ankles revealing legs that were covered mostly with soft blond fuzz but amidst them, occasional thick black wiry hairs made an appearance. Bob looked closer at Simon’s face, and he revised his opinion about the kid having just woken up because his brown pupils were large and animated.

“Coffee?” Bob offered.

Simon nodded. “Where’s my Mom?”
“She went shopping. She’s going to make something special for dinner. Braised tongue. She says it’s your favorite.”

“Oh, what are we celebrating?”
Bob fidgeted.

“It’s okay. I know you wanted to tell me together, but you’re moving in, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?”

“This is the way it always happens.”
Bob looked down at his feet. Jesus, it was hot and dry; Bob wished for a breeze of air. He didn’t want to make a speech or anything, but he wanted to reassure the kid. Simon seemed so shy and vulnerable.

Finally, he said, “I just want to let you know that it’s going to be different with me. I mean business. Not like those other guys.”
“What do you mean? Who says those other guys didn’t mean business?”

“Well, why’d they disappear like that, then?”

“Because of me.”

“I doubt that. You’re the most normal, and certainly the quietest teenage kid I’ve ever seen.”

Come to think of it, this was the most Bob had heard the kid speak since he’d met Marian. He didn’t seem so shy now either.
“Yes, teenage kid, that’s what my psychiatrist says.”

“Oh, you see a psychiatrist? What for? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Depends.”

“On what?”
“On who you ask? If you ask my shrink, he’ll say it’s just teenage hormones and natural compulsions.”

“And what if I ask you?”
“Are you?”

“What?”
“Asking me?”

“Yeah, I’m asking you, Simon.”
Now Simon looked down, and for a moment, once again there was silence.

Then Simon said, “I’m a werewolf.”
Bob snorted, a guffaw of genuine surprised laughter at the kid’s unexpected sense of humor.

But when he was done laughing, Bob saw that Simon wasn’t smiling at all. And his pupils were big. Really big. Unnaturally big, and they seemed to be buzzing with excitement or agitation.
Bob thought the only thing to do was to play along. He said his next words slowly and deliberately:

“You're not a werewolf, Simon. There’s no such thing as werewolves.”
“A predator, then, Bob.”

At last a breeze came. It blew the kitchen window open. That was when Bob saw the moon: a whopping, sick, yellow moon. A moon throbbing, as if it were about to explode.
Then he turned back to Simon. Bob noticed that he was holding something in his hand, and he had a tiny piece of white tissue stuck to his chin.

It turned to red.
END

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