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A Long Drop and a Short Stop

Eric Bonholtzer

    Victor, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten there. It was as if he’d been catapulted into some strange parallel universe with no recollection of how it happened, everything an amnesiac blur in his mind. But the worst part was, despite the uncanny oddness of his situation, Victor seemed to know the place. His surroundings resembled his old hometown so closely that, for a second, he was sure he was back in Kansas. Tears welled in his eyes as he took it all in. There was Peter’s Pharmacy and Old Man Kelly’s Taxidermy standing juxtaposed in the still night air, and the central park, which had played host to so many town events throughout the years, stretching out before him. Victor, though, even in spite of the disturbing peculiarity of it all, felt truly at home, at peace. It was only after looking around curiously that a real sense of disquiet began to set in.
    “Where the hell am I?” Victor said beneath his breath as he surveyed the town square, trying to pinpoint the source of his unease. The windows of Peter’s Pharmacy were dark, but that wasn’t all that odd, as night had fallen. Still, something didn’t set right. Taking a closer look, Vincent could see the utter blackness beyond the windows, suggesting more of a complete vacancy, an absence of being, rather than just the lights out for the night. Victor gazed upon the thick strands of cobwebs lining the windows of the Taxidermy shop and shuddered, thinking of the army of arachnids that must have spun the intricate tapestry. Even the town square itself seemed empty and foreboding. No sound filled the air, not the faint hum of grasshoppers chirping a late-night song or a slight breeze bleating out atmospheric ambiance. There was nothing. No, not nothing, Victor thought, listening closer, hearing a faint trickle of sound that somehow seemed to be coming more from within his own mind than any other source. It was only a whisper of noise, half-caught, like snippets of conversation heard from a broken radio, but the words were ominous, “...willfully and maliciously...death...” and their grim portent made Victor shiver. A part of him wondered if this was the first stage of insanity. They always hear voices, he thought and then shook his head. As quickly as the words had come, they vanished, leaving Victor wondering if he’d even heard them at all. Probably my mind playing tricks on me, he thought bitterly as he began to walk forward, deeper into the town, wanting to leave the central park and its sinister solitude behind.
    Despite the streetlights, everything seemed impossibly dark. Victor turned from Creek Street to Owl Road and continued on, wishing he could escape this nightmare of a town, desperately hoping that it was all a just dream. He felt like a man trapped in the Twilight Zone, awakening only to find that he was the last person alive. Thoughts along those lines stopped abruptly as he took another corner, coming face-to-face with a very tired and haggard looking old man. The relief Victor felt, knowing he was no longer alone, was dashed instantly as the stranger spoke, “Hey Victor, you miss me?” The elderly man chuckled, a hysterical tinge to his laughter. Victor took a step back as the wizened man moved closer. “Oh, come on now, you couldn’t have forgotten me? Not after everything we’d been through.”
    The beggar’s dark-rimmed eyes, deep-set into sunken sockets, fixed him with a stern look. It took Victor a minute, but he realized he really did know the old panhandler. The recognition, though, only made Victor more terrified and he retreated a step further. “Mr. Jones, is that...is that you? But, how?”
    The beggar laughed again, this time fiercer and harder, and Victor could see flecks of blood on the man’s lips as he spoke. “Well, after Johnny was killed, I didn’t have anyone to help me with the shop so I lost my store.” The recollection of Mr. Jones’ old candy shop tugged hard at Victor’s heartstrings. It was a place where he’d spent many summer days when he was a kid. Victor didn’t have time for remembrance as the man continued on, “I was grieving so hard...and, well, I got TB, and I guess now that’ll take me away, too. But that won’t really be so bad, now will it?” Mr. Jones fixed Victor with a glare that was penetrating, knowing, and suddenly Victor felt very, very afraid.
    Turning quickly, wanting nothing more to do with this strange place or its inhabitants, Victor took off running. The darkness seemed to increase as he went and he could once again feel the cool sting of tears in his eyes. Victor took one corner and then another, finding himself on Paradise street. A bright light split the darkness in the distance and Victor ran to it, hoping it was some miraculous way out, a gateway home or something of the like. Only as Victor drew closer did he realize that the glow he saw wasn’t some portal, but merely the illumination cast from an overly-bright street lamp. Two seconds later Victor noticed the silhouette of shadow in the ray of light, and he looked up. That was when Victor saw it, hanging from the crosspiece of the light. “There’s no way....” Up above him, suspended by a noose, hung a corpse, swaying in the still night air. Like everything else about this strange place, the dead body was all too-familiar. “Gerald?” Victor asked, and even as he spoke, he found himself shocked to see the body shaking, the corpse’s eyes opening and fixing him with a harsh, condemning glare. “...Strung me up and left me to die...” came an accusatory voice, but Victor refused to listen, once again continuing his frantic running.
    Within a few short turns Victor found himself back in the town square. “What the hell...” he said, exasperated, his terror magnifying as he realized the town square, which had been so dead, was now alive with activity. The carefully groomed grass was being torn asunder by hands pawing their way up from the dirt. The vengeful eyes and screaming mouths of corpses emerged from the ground, broken fingernails clawing their way free. Victor had seen this same scene many times on the silver screen, the dead once again coming back to life, but, unlike the movies, this was really happening. Six bodies, riddled and marred with various gunshot wounds emerged from the Earth and immediately they headed in Victor’s direction. He recognized one of them as Johnny, the beggar’s son, and instantly the truth of what was transpiring struck him like a freight train coming at full force. Victor felt paralyzed, his memory returning to him and the horror of it freezing him dead in his tracks. The one he’d identified as Johnny spoke up, sounding eerily like the snippet of sound he’d heard earlier, “...and for the malicious and unrepentant crime of eight counts of first degree murder...” Victor shivered, feeling the weight of the corpses’ gazes upon him.
    Victor turned away, only to see the most familiar face he’d seen in this horrible place staring back at him. “Best friends forever, right?” came the well-known voice. There was a smile on the man’s face that was both sad and malicious and then the person who had been Victor’s closet buddy for years spoke again, “...and for those crimes Victor Abrams Johnson, your sentence is death...” Victor didn’t even had time to respond as cold hands seized him, gripping tight. Victor screamed as he was dragged into the ground, but despite the terror, he knew, deep down, that he was truly home.

***

    “Oh God,” one of the witnesses said with a kind of reverence.
    “I know,” another said, “Didn’t show any kind of repentance or remorse, even at the end.” The two men stared at the dead man’s feet which had ceased to kick a few seconds before. It had not been a clean fall.
    “A long drop and a short stop is usually enough to make even the most callous bastard rethink their ways,” the first one said, feeling the melancholy vindication that was commonplace in the aftermath of execution.
    “Yeah, but a guy who can gun down seven of his closest friends in cold blood after hanging Gerald, well, that takes a certain kind of sickness,” the other replied.
    “And don’t forget Johnny.”
    “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones, I’ll never forget your son.” They sat there for a second, even as the sheriffs began to usher people out of the execution viewing room. “You know, maybe that old quote Jackson quote about houses fits people too. Some of them are just born bad.”
    Mr. Jones just sat there for a second before picking up his cane. “I don’t know, I really don’t. But I don’t think anyone is beyond salvation if they ask for it.”
    “Yeah,” the other man said solemnly, “but you just said it. It’s a matter of asking for it.” Neither said another word as they made their way out of a place of death, feeling like they were carrying a piece of it with them as they went, but knowing, that at least now, some things could be put to rest.

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