Four Corners Dark: Horror Stories Page 2

  “Ladies how are we doing?” Omar said. “More wine?” His voice had a festive ring.

  She looked around the empty room, opened a closet door and found a silver cane hanging on a wooden peg. She took the cane and felt its weight. It was heavy, made from black ebony and silver. She gripped the cane, wincing from the pain in her hand, and waited to surprise Omar. He returned within a few minutes but wasn’t alone.

  “You will like it up here better than that box car,” he said in Spanish. “But first I need you to do for me one small favor.”

  She peered out the door and saw one of the travelers walking behind Omar. He was an older man whose clothes were covered in soot and soaked with sweat. They walked into the next room.

  Anna followed behind prepared to beat Omar to death. She swung open a door and entered a lavish dining room. The table was set with fine linens, crystal glasses and china. All the chairs surrounding the table were mahogany trimmed with red velvet, except the chair at the head of the table which was scorched black. She reached a door at the end of the train car and saw Omar and the man climbing down from the coal car and onto the locomotive.

  Anna climbed onto the coal car, the wind whipped coal dust into her face as she crawled across the loose coal. She reached the end and peered over the edge, Omar was behind the man in the cab of the locomotive. The door of the firebox was open and the fire burned with blue-tipped flames. The man stared at the fire, dropped to his hands and knees then crawled into the firebox.

  The man’s screams rose above the wind as the fire engulfed him, then stopped leaving only the clacking of the train on the tracks.

  Omar closed the door to the firebox, turned and suddenly appeared at the top of the coal car. Anna stumbled back and tightened her grip on the cane. He began to laugh and spoke in her father’s drunken voice.

  “Hija. You think you can ride for free and not pay for what you did to me?” he asked and began to laugh again.

  Anna felt something wet soaking into the knees of her jeans. The bed of the car was no longer filled with coal but with bodies. She cried out and began crawling back towards the back of the train. She was covered in blood when reached the end of the car, and the cane slipped from her hand as she climbed down the ladder. Sparks flew as it ricocheted off of the tracks and disappeared into the night.

  She jumped across to the Pullman car and fell onto the metal platform. Omar’s silhouette was moving across the coal car towards her. She reached out and grabbed the pin that connected the train cars. She twisted the pin and it began to move, her burnt hand ached from the effort. She pulled harder and when the pin came free she lost her balance and tumbled onto the track between the cars. The locomotive and coal car roared ahead when the couplings disengaged and Omar smashed his fists and screamed in rage. His shadow turned from black to an orange flame then disappeared. The Pullman and its line of cargo cars slowly ground to a stop.

  Anna saw a brilliant flash and awoke lying on the floor of the train depot. The ornate depot was a dilapidated shell, starlight streamed through holes in the ceiling, and the brick walls of the building were scorched and covered in soot. People were waking all around her. Some whimpered but most sat stunned staring in the dark. She climbed to her feet and walked to a far wall where she found Rosa.

  “Gracias” Rosa said as Anna helped her up.

  In the distance a train whistle echoed across the desert. Panicked voices began to rise in the depot. The whistle sounded again this time much closer. Anna grabbed Rosa and ran for the front doors of the building. They joined the other travelers and escaped into the desert night leaving their possessions behind scattered across the floor of the depot.

  RETURN TO

  NOWHERE

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 1st, 1944. 9:01 a.m. The fog formed a dense blanket beneath the orange glow of the bridge. A cold mist infused the wind as cars sped by unaware of a man standing on the brink of death. The man moved quickly and deliberately oblivious to the cold or the cars. He was unlike others who had jumped from the Golden Gate. Frank Reynolds had jumped from this bridge before. Some did survive, battered and broken but Frank wouldn’t take that chance again. He climbed onto the metal railing and held a steel cable for balance. The bed of fog below was twenty-five stories down and ended in granite hard water. He glanced at his watch, threw down his cigarette and jumped head first.

  He fell into the sea of white fog and remembered the first time he jumped, soon after the bridge opened in 1937. He had taken a financial beating in ’29 and lost everything, including his wife and kids. After struggling on for a few years he had reached the end of the line. The sky was a clear blue that day and the water was visible below him. He remembered the makes, models and license plate numbers of every car that passed by. Earlier that day a couple had stopped to ask him directions.

  “Morning fella. Could you tell us the way to the Opal Hotel?” A blonde in the passenger seat asked.

  The couple drove a black Packard One sedan, license plate California 8K4234. The woman smoked a cigarette and was quite attractive. The husband was flustered and impatient. They were up from Los Angeles on their honeymoon. Frank recalled the event, like every other moment in his life, with perfect clarity.

  “Head over the bridge,” Frank answered. “Take Doyle Drive to 1050 Van Ness. The Opal’s on the left.”

  The woman turned to the man behind the wheel and said, “See why you stop and ask directions? We were heading the wrong way.”

  The man just shrugged and said, “Thanks buddy.”

  The moment they drove away he stepped off the new bridge feet first, hit the water and plunged twenty five feet deep. He broke both his legs on the bottom of the bay but didn’t die until the salt water filled his lungs. That first pain-filled drowning taught him something important about himself. He couldn’t really die.

  CHAPTER TWO

  August 31st, 1944. Frank Reynolds was now forty years old, single with few friends. He made his way through life playing cards and ran afoul of a gang called the Black Hand when he won too often. He changed clubs frequently but the reach of the gang had extended and it was impossible to find any action they didn’t run. The Black Hand’s vicious reputation extended as far as Chicago and it wasn’t good for business to get taken by a shark. With a bounty on his head, Frank’s days were numbered and he wasn’t planning to find out what that number was.

  “Morning Mister Reynolds,” the receptionist said. “Please have a seat. Mr. Victor will be with you momentarily.”

  He took a seat in a polished mahogany chair and placed two leather satchels on either side. He felt the weight of a chrome revolver in the pocket of his jacket.

  Charles Victor poked out of a glass door and exclaimed, “Mr. Reynolds, it is so nice to see you again. I am sorry to keep you waiting, please come in.”

  Frank walked into the office and sat across from Victor who managed the Village Bank & Trust.

  “Is everything ready Charles?” Frank asked.

  “Of course Mr. Reynolds. Per your instructions we have liquidated all of your assets,” Victor answered.

  Frank dropped the leather satchels on the desk.

  “Would you care for a coffee or tea Mr. Reynolds?” Victor asked.

  “No. I am in a bit of a hurry Charles. If you don’t mind,” Frank said gesturing towards the empty bags.

  “Of course Mr. Reynolds.” Charles Victor padded across the lush carpeting of his office and began spinning the tumbler of a wall safe.

  Seven, five, zero, Frank knew the combination. Over the years he had observed Victor opening the safe dozens of times, glimpsed the turns and committed the combination to memory.

  “When will we see you again Mr. Reynolds? Soon I hope,” Victor asked.

  “Could be a while this time,” Frank answered.

  Victor placed a bank bag on his desk and sat down. “Here you are Mr. Reynolds. Three hundred and sixty thousand dollars in cash with an equal amount moved to your safety deposit b
ox.”

  Charles Victor watched in amazement as Frank Reynolds stood and walked out the door carrying a small fortune.

  Frank climbed into a Buick coupe and drove north to an isolated point along the Pacific Ocean. The clouds obscured the sun creating a blue haze as the relentless ocean surged against the shoreline. He opened the truck, retrieved a length of rope then climbed down to a ledge and hid the bags in a narrow gap in the rock face. He climbed back up and sat on the bumper of the car and smoked a Chesterfield, holding the cigarette between his lips while he untied the rope.

  Frank drove back into San Francisco and onto the bridge. He got out of the car, climbed the retaining wall and jumped into the Pacific. For the second time, Frank returned to nowhere, the place before birth and the place after death, where he couldn’t remember anything.

  CHAPTER THREE

  September 1st, 1944. 9:02 a.m. Frank regained consciousness in Chicago, Illinois, moments after he stepped off the bridge. He was now Frank Reynolds ESQ, a Chicago attorney with a wife named Winifred. At first his memories were a blur, a combination of old and new lives.

  “Frank, are you okay?” his wife Winnie asked.

  She had a frightened look in her eyes and had asked that question many times over the past weeks. Finally his confusion subsided and the cigarette-smoking, card playing Frank was back. He left only questions from friends and family when he walked out the door and drove to the Chicago Union Station.

  “How much for a ticket to San Francisco? First class,” Frank asked.

  The ticket agent peered at him through thick spectacles.

  “Round trip or one way?” the agent asked.

  “One way. Make it a roomette,” Frank answered.

  “One hundred and twenty-six dollars and eleven cents please,” the ticket agent said.

  Frank slapped down one hundred and thirty dollars. “When does it leave?” he asked.

  “Twelve forty-five sir.”

  Frank looked at his gold pocket watch. He had twenty minutes.

  The agent handed Frank his change and his ticket and said, “Safe travels sir.”

  He turned and walked towards a glimmering streamliner. In fifty hours he would be back on the West Coast and with any luck, have recovered some or all of his money. It all depended on how events had changed in this new life. When he jumped he entered another possible path in the life of Frank Reynolds. This time it was a path where he had excelled at school, attended church and never run into the Black Hand Gang.

  He handed his ticket to the blue-suited conductor and climbed aboard the train.

  “Have a safe journey sir,” the man said.

  “Thanks pal,” Frank replied.

  The trip to San Francisco was uneventful. He slept and read for the greater part of it and smoked on the observation deck when no one else was around. On the second day, he walked the aisles of the train cars and studied the passengers along the way, businessmen in suits, old women travelling to visit family and soldiers on leave.

  He had met many people over the years but didn’t have much use for them. They were passing scenery. His first jump in ’37 had changed and disconnected him. He lived a disposable life in a disposable world. The whistle blew and the train began to slow as it approached the San Francisco station. A few minutes later, Frank hotwired a grey Ford and drove out of the station parking lot towards the point.

  When he arrived he pulled the Ford to a stop in the same spot as the Buick, months earlier.

  A section of the rock wall had crumbled into the sea. He was able to hike down and reach the hiding spot, but his bags were gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank yelled.

  He lit a cigarette and stared at the ocean.

  “Should have buried it,” he muttered.

  He finished the cigarette and stamped it out in the dirt. He got into the car, put the column shifter in gear and gunned the accelerator leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The drive through Pacific Heights had an odd feel and all of his old haunts were gone. Tommy’s Tavern was shuttered up and the building that held the Seville Club was gone completely, only an empty lot remained. Frank’s stomach began to knot up when he approached his old neighborhood. He pulled up and parked in front of his house. The white trim of the hundred-year-old Queen Anne mansion stood against familiar blue paint but the grounds looked different. The oak tree was gone replaced by a swatch of ivy and a marble fountain.

  A woman opened the front door of the house, stepped onto the front porch and left two empty bottles in a metal milk box. He pulled out a cigarette, crumbled the empty package and threw it into the back seat. After waiting a few minutes, he got out of the car and walked around the house to the back garden. He saw the woman through the kitchen window. She was young and pretty and looked to be in her mid-twenties. The kitchen was painted a different color and the house had windows where there hadn’t been any before.

  He peered over a wrought iron fence then opened a gate into the back gardens. The gate hinges made a low groan as it swung inwards. He walked into the yard and stopped in front of a glass greenhouse. The building was two stories high and attached to the back of the house. A mass of plants grew behind the translucent walls. The building had been built over the spot where Frank had hidden the key to his safety deposit box.

  “Dammit,” Frank said and threw down the remains of his cigarette.

  He returned to the Ford and drove towards the ocean to consider his options. He was good for cash at the moment but needed a new plan. The key would not be under the greenhouse. The money, the safety deposit box or even the bank itself might not exist on this new path. He got a room at the Regal Hotel and then went outside to get some air. He saw a familiar face, Stewey Johnson, a grifter he had hired on occasion. Stewey was standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

  “Stewey, is that you?” Frank said with his hand out.

  Stewey didn’t recognize Frank and had a perplexed look on his face. It was a look Stewey often had so it was difficult to tell when he was really perplexed.

  “Do I know you mister?” Stewey asked.

  “Stewey are you wacky? It’s me Frank. I’m a friend of Al’s,” Frank said.

  “Oh yeah,” Stewey said hesitantly. “I think I remember you. My head’s not so good these days.”

  “You and me both,” Frank said.

  Clenching a cigarette between his teeth, Frank pulled out a roll of cash and Stewey’s eyes lit up.

  “I need a piece, can you help me out?” Frank asked.

  Stewey glanced around and then pulled out a black revolver. He handed the gun to Frank. “Watch out, it’s loaded,” Stewey said.

  “How much?” Frank asked.

  “Three saw bucks.”

  Frank slapped thirty dollars into Stewey’s hand.

  “See you around Stewey,” Frank said. He now had a plan.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  December 1st, 1944. Frank sat alone at the counter of Petey’s Diner. The clock on the wall read 9:34 a.m. He threw his napkin on his half eaten food and paid his tab.

  “Come back and see us,” said his waitress.

  “Sure,” Frank lied, then tipped his hat and left.

  He walked down the street towards the Village Bank & Trust and hoped like hell it still existed. A newspaper flew across the street blown by the wind. Morning commuters were busy rushing through the city streets. Frank buttoned his gray overcoat against the cold and ducked into a doorway to light a cigarette. He stepped back onto the sidewalk and let out a puff of smoke. The bank building was one block ahead. He was relieved seeing the bank, but still nervous. What if Victor doesn’t recognize him? What if the cash is gone? Never there in the first place? All was possible on this new path.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and walked through the revolving door into the marble lobby and spotted a familiar face at a small, mahogany desk.

  “Miss Talbot, you look well,” Frank said.

&nb
sp; A woman with grey hair tucked neatly in a bun glanced up at Frank with a stunned look on her face.

  “Mr. Reynolds,” she responded. Her voice was weak.

  The relief washed over Frank. She knew him here and that was a good thing.

  “Is Charles available?” Frank inquired.

  The look on her face alarmed Frank.

  “Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Victor is dead,” she answered.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  She spoke hesitantly. “We were robbed. Mr. Victor was shot during a robbery.”

  The tone of her voice indicated surprise that he didn’t know this had happened. He sat down in the chair next to her with his mind reeling.

  Suddenly tires screeched outside the bank and four policemen burst into the lobby with their guns drawn.

  Miss Talbot shouted, “Over here. He’s here.”

  Frank whirled around the desk and grabbed her. He pulled the gun out of his coat pocket and aimed the pistol at her head.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

  The policeman advanced with their guns trained on Frank. He backed into the bank offices with his left arm wrapped around Miss Talbot’s throat.

  “Back off you’re making a mistake,” Frank shouted at the policeman.

  He pulled the woman into Charles Victor’s empty office and spun to face her.

  “Why did you call them?”

  “Because you killed Mr. Victor,” she said pointing at a leather chair with a half dozen holes shot through it.

  “Why would I kill Charles?” Frank stammered.

  Miss Talbot was shaking violently now. “Because you said he should have your money. He didn’t know what you were taking about. You only had a small sum in this bank.”

  “When was the robbery?” Frank asked.

  “Three months ago. September 1st,” she answered.

  That was the date of his last jump. He had been a gambler and worse over the years but had never killed anyone. Glass shattered and tear gas canisters rolled onto the floor. He left Miss Talbot coughing in the office and ran to the back of the building.