Horror and Thriller Fiction posted August 10, 2015


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A wife's birthday, and a couple's anniversary go awry.

The Celebration

by Ric Myworld


The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.

The sun rose into the sky from behind the eastern hills, spraying the green pastures with an essence of sparkling dust that glistened off the muscled foals’ rumps as they jumped and played, running up and down the fence row.

The makings of a picture-perfect day were falling into place. John and Sarah had taken a sick day from work to celebrate her thirty-eighth birthday. It was also their anniversary, fifteen years of wedded bliss.

Sarah stayed home to get cooking and cleaning out of the way. John, on the other hand, had planned a quick trip into town, still trying to decide which of three tennis bracelets would suit his beautiful wife best. They were all close in price, from costly to ridiculous, but nothing was too good for the love of his life.

First stop was the bakery, patrons crowded in four lines of six deep had the place buzzing with idle chatter. It didn’t take long for John to move the cake to last on his agenda and head for the jewelry store.

After much debate over weeks and multiple trips, he decided to splurge the extra expense of the most extravagant piece, promising himself to lie like hell if anyone ever questioned him about the price.

Wrapped and waiting were packages from the two finest clothing stores around. Tickets for a month-long cruise taking in ports on the Mediterranean, including France, Greece, and gambling in Monaco had stayed stashed for safekeeping in the travel agent's desk.

Finishing faster than he ever thought possible, he chose to put the Mercedes top down and enjoy a leisurely drive through the countryside, killing some time.

Mesmerizing were the tree-lined roadways framed in perfectly manicured greenery from the year’s over-abundance of summer rain. Whitewashed fences, barns built with intricate artisan-ship of million-dollar homes, and in one paddock after another roamed some of the world’s finest thoroughbreds. Truly, God’s country, otherwise, why would he have ever made it so magnificent?

John drove into the farm from the back entrance, wanting to drop his car off with Charlie at the maintenance garage for a wash, detail, and hand waxing. He was a real stickler for protecting its paint and keeping it serviced regularly. Simple servicing is the life of a car, he would often say.

Charlie offered him a lift up to the house, but claiming the exercise might do him good, he chose to walk. It wasn’t but a winding quarter mile or so to the house, and the views were grand.

He walked up the steps onto the porch and pulled open the front door. Sarah, sitting engrossed in whatever was on her computer hadn’t heard him, until he spoke her name in his deep, rumbling voice. Startled, she jumped up and let out a deafening squeal, clamping both hands over her mouth as she stomped her feet.

Soon as she recognized his face, she ran and threw her arms around him. Her heart pounding, she trembled and shook as he held her close and patted her back trying to console her.

Finally catching her breath, she said, “Oh, my, God. You have almost scared me to death.” She was trying to force a smile, but her expression more resembled a kid straining not to poop.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I could have caused you to have a heart attack. I wouldn’t have frightened you for the world.”

She stepped back, took hold of his hand and with a couple tugs he began to follow her, as she said, “Come on and have a seat at the table in the dining room while I fix us a drink. I think we both need something to take the edge off.”

“Okay . . . sounds like a good idea to me.”

She led him down the hallway where he took his seat at the head of the mahogany banquet table set for twelve. The giant-sized oval mirror reflected the seventeenth-century chandelier that filled the domed ceiling. Fitted with custom-scented candles, the flames flickered in the silverware and fine-China settings.

When Sarah’s phone rang, she first looked at her husband, then, walked through the kitchen and out the back door to stand on the porch. John took the opportunity to visit the restroom, but on his way, he couldn’t resist taking a peak at whatever his wife had found so interesting on the computer.

On the screen was a man’s video-chat image. A handsome man, dark, deep-set eyes, and full lips that broke into a smile of glowing-white teeth when John took the liberty of typing, “I’m back.” He had unplugged his wife’s camera and explained it would be working shortly.

As he read, any fool would have known his wife’s lover. Honey, darling, and sweet baby aren’t words used to address strangers. A rush of emotion came over him. Bowing his head into his hands, he wept, and tears poured drenching the desk and keyboard. Then, almost as quickly as he had broken down, he sat straight up in a stare, stood, and walked away.
    
Sarah came in calling, “John, Jo-o-h-h-n-n, were did you go, sweetheart?” After she had walked throughout the bedroom and his bathroom, she started toward the living room, but as she walked by the steps to the basement the door flew open and a hand reached out and pulled her in. She let out a blood-curdling scream. Then something thumped and banged from the top to the bottom step.

All was quiet for a minute, and then came a sickening sound, close to what might resemble a machete thrust into a pumpkin. Then again, and again, turning to a dull thud, before the final clang of metal against concrete.
  
Teddy, her lover, was still sitting and waiting for Sarah to come back when John wiggled the mouse to re-activate the computer screen and flipped the on switch to her camera.

His face frozen in distorted panic, all Teddy could see was a hand full of raven hair and his lover’s twisted face, wide-open bulging eyes and drawn mouth of her decapitated head that dripped blood from her severed windpipe, veins, and arteries’ dangling tendrils.

John leaned down and gave Teddy a big grin through the camera.
 


Recognized


My second attempt at getting close to writing flash fiction. Now, I just have to cut another couple hundred words while still being able to maintain the intensity of the story. Personally, I'll just leave the extra fluff so that I can keep slipping up on the readers. :-)
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