Shane Kroetsch

Author of dark and introspective fiction

dark fiction

Despite Everything He’d Said

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Grandad gave me a lot of advice when I was growing up.

Stand up for what you believe, but don’t ever go to bed angry.

Tell your secrets to the fireflies and moths, it’s the only way they’re safe outside of your own head.

Actions speak louder than words, especially if the action is a solid right hook.

The one he mentioned more than any other was, stay the hell away from the old Boundary Canyon mine.

I feel bad, thinking back, about how all his advice pretty much fell on deaf ears. For whatever reason, I’m a masterclass in doing the opposite of what I’m told.

Two failed marriages should tell you all you need to know about how accustomed I am to going to bed angry, about how I never figured out how to speak up for myself.

I learned the lesson about telling secrets too late. Sometimes trust isn’t as strong as you think, sometimes friend is a four-letter word.

Never did like to fight. Thought I could talk my way out of anything. Turns out reason isn’t always an effective tactic when you’re staring down an angry red neck.

That brings us to Boundary Canyon, and the opening of the big hole leading to the cold and dark and who knows what else. Except, I do know. At least a little. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here, letting the barricades and bright orange warning signs taunt me. I’ve got a backpack of supplies that probably won’t help a bit, and a flashlight with half-dead batteries flickering in one hand. All going well, I’m about to put to rest the talk about Tom Payne’s bones, a treasure beyond the minerals the ground was opened up for in the first place, that the curse isn’t real, and neither is the ghost. Might even prove that Grandad was wrong at least once in his life. All going well.

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Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash

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Milk Farm

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I woke up on a milk farm, naked and afraid. The smell of cow shit and damp straw infesting my lungs. Damp straw and who knows what else jammed in the crack of my godamned ass. Cogs wobbled in my brain. The chipped teeth ground up against each other until something resembling a consistent rhythm was found. Hazy images of the night before flickered past. The girl from the record shop, the one with purple hair that used to be blonde. The twins that never smiled and their weird sunglasses. Bottle after bottle of absinth. Something that looked like a cigarette hanging out of the left corner of my mouth.

I shook it all away and looked down my scuffed and dirty arms to a tattoo at my wrist. The lines were blue like the ink from an old pen found at the back of the kitchen junk drawer, the skin around it red and angry. At first, I thought it was a key. When I held it closer, I realized, of all the stupid things, that it was a bottle opener. It looked like something beaten into shape out of a rusty railroad spike. The fleeting thought came to me that maybe I was right the first time, a key after all, but what door it would open by removing a crimped metal cap I had no idea.

I propped myself up in the middle of what I thought was an otherwise empty stall. That’s when I noticed the cat, perched on a post at the far end near the slat board wall, its glossy black coat camouflaged among the shadows. Half-closed golden eyes rested on me. I couldn’t tell if it was annoyed by my presence or entirely unaffected. The importance of the question was soon lost. The cat’s eyes widened, pupils and all, staring over my shoulder. Its body tensed, then it bolted away. I froze solid. It was one of those, couldn’t have moved if I wanted to type situations. The skin on my cheek prickled, like a kiss blown from Hell had found its target.

I want to say that’s when I woke up, for real though. That I opened my eyes, and the sun was shining, and I was perfectly all right except for a racing heartbeat. I want to say that’s when the nightmare ended. Unfortunately for me, that was just the beginning.

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Photo by Leslie Saunders on Unsplash

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Teeth

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Her teeth are what I remember most, how white they were, how sharp they looked, framed by lips stretched into a smile wide and bent like a demonic Jack O Lantern. Her teeth. Not the incessant screaming of her victims. Not the blood, both the trajectory and quantity, raining down like a spring storm cloud’s first ejaculatory release.

I had never seen her smile before that day, not once since she arrived at the facility six months before. A prison masquerading as a hospital, one that required no judge or jury to lock someone away for the rest of their life. Bullies and masochists dressed up as doctors, as caregivers to those accused of being insane.

Most of the committed bow down and accept their fate. I certainly did. I thought she had as well. What I mistook for complacency turned out to be patience, letting the rage build and build until, one day, all it took was a small act of aggression, a shove from one of the staff as she shuffled her circles around the maze of halls, that instead of moving her out of the way, plunged her over a dark precipice.

Her teeth are what I remember most from that day. I keep the image of them in my mind while I wander the world, as free as someone can be living in the shadows. I hope to see that smile again one day, to find her and thank her, dedicate myself to whatever journey she takes in life and whatever other injustices she chooses to fight. To ask her to teach me how to keep my teeth as white, and just as sharp.

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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

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Penny District Manufacturing Company

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After the doorbell chimed, Rod snatched a dish towel from the counter and craned to see the clock on the stove as he passed. He wasn’t expecting company, and what a stranger would be looking for at that time of night he had no idea. Standing at the door with mostly dry hands he leaned in for a better look at the live image from the doorbell camera. Despite flickering lines over the distorted figure standing at the edge of the porch stairs, he keyed in the alarm code, slid back both deadbolts, then cracked the door open.

A man in a brown suit, about two sizes too big, stood hunched forward with a sweat stained fedora rolled in his hands. His lips twisted into something resembling a smile. His eyes bulged with a unique mixture of pleading and panic.
Rod planted his foot and opened the door a few more inches, resting it against his raised toes. “Can I help you?”

The man nodded. “Good evening, sir. How are you this…evening?”

Rod flipped the dish towel over his shoulder. “Okay, I suppose.”

“Excellent, sir, excellent.” The man reached into his open suit jacket with one trembling hand. “My name, sir, is J.R. Turner and I am here this evening representing the Penny District Manufacturing Corporation,” the man pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and held it to Rod, “the number one manufacturer of cyborg implants in the world.”

Rod tucked his chin and stared at the crude images. As he fought to find words, he glanced across dot matrix interpretations of night vision eyeballs and hydraulic prosthetics. “A little early for Halloween, isn’t it?”

The man’s broken smile faltered further, as if he didn’t understand what a pending children’s holiday had to do with anything. Instead of acknowledging Rod’s comment, he continued with his sales pitch. “I’ve been authorized, for today only mind you, to offer up to 50% off of our already low, low prices, sir. As always, factory approved installation and 2-year parts and labour warranty are included.”

Rod reached out for the doorknob. “I appreciate it, but I’ll have to pass.”

The men held the paper closer. “I assure you, you won’t see an offer like this again, sir. Please look closer, I’m sure you’ll find something that you can’t live without.”

Rod began pushing the door closed.

“Sir, please.” The man’s right eye drooped, a streak of thick, oily discharge seeped from the corner. “I just need one sale, sir, just one.”

“I’m really sorry. Have a good night.” Rod latched the door. He leaned his back against it, reached out to arm the security system, then waited.

Through the solid door he heard mumbled muttering, then heavy footsteps down the treads of the porch. Soon after came a flash, a hollow thunk, like someone punching an unbreakable pane of glass, and then the silence of the night returned.

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Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

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Pretend I’m Not Here

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“Close your eyes. Pretend I’m not here.”

The woman shifted her position and lifted her head to flip the pillow to the cool side. Her focus on the white ceiling panels faded as her eyes shut. She folded her hands over her torso and settled. “I can hear you breathing.”

The man cleared his throat. His moist lips smacked when he opened his mouth.

“That’s not helping.” The woman cracked one eye. She wondered why it was so popular, this place, and its promises of miracle cures.

“Let’s begin with a count down from ten. Ten, nine, eight. Breath in from your diaphragm. Five, four, three. Good…” His voice flowed like cold oil. “Now, imagine a calm ocean. The sun is warm and inviting. No wind, no sound but the gentle undulation of the waves.” The man slunk forward in his seat. “Can you see it?”

Under closed lids, the woman rolled her eyes. “I see it.”

The man smiled. “Good.” He laid a metal pen along the spine of his notebook and set it on the arm of his chair. “Now, the sun begins to dim. It’s place in the sky is taken by a great blue orb. It radiates calm. It invites you to peace.”

The woman held her tongue.

“You are alone, but content. Feel your body relax. No sensation. No fear. Only the loving glow of the orb.” The man paused, watching the woman’s breath ease, as his own heartbeat increased. “It reflects off of the water. It is the only object in a great void.” He leaned forward on one knee. “The world is fading, but it’s okay. You are safe. You have no responsibilities, no cares.”

The man shifted forward and perched on the edge of his chair. As he scanned the woman, head to toe, the movement of a clock across the room was the only thing to interrupt the silence. The tone of his voice deepened, his paced slowed. “Embrace this new world. Leave the old behind. Can you do that?”

The woman did not respond.

The man swallowed with a click. “Good.” One hand reached out. A tremor emerged as the tips of his fingers grazed the soft fabric of the woman’s blouse, starting near her belt, and moving up.

The woman’s eyes sprang open and locked onto the man. They changed from soft and green to muddied and swirling like a storm cloud. The man froze.

She spoke in a whisper. “Change of plans, you don’t get your jollies today. Hand back.”

The man sat up straight and rested his hand on his knee.

The woman rose up without averting her attention. She ran a hand over her head and pulled her amber hair to one side. “I’m surprised you were brave enough on day one. Maybe brave isn’t the right word. If you’re this careless, I figured someone would have spoken up before they did. Lucky me…” The woman crossed her legs and smoothed one hand over her knee. “I’m going to give you a little control back. Pick up your book. I want you to write something out for me.”

The man sat, unmoving, his eyes wide.

The woman motioned to the arm of the chair. “Go on.”

The man’s hand shook as he lifted the pen and set the tip down on a blank page. His lower lip pushed away from his bottom teeth. Small dark eyes, below the slicked back widows peak and unkempt eyebrows, watched everywhere but the woman’s face.

“I want dates and names. As much detail as you can remember.” She tilted her head. “I’d say you could check the little leather diary you keep in the hidden compartment at the back of your bottom desk drawer, but I’m sure you’ve read back over it enough to remember what I need.”

After a moment of hesitation, the pen scratched in fits and starts. One page filled, then two. As he started the third, the pace faltered. His eye twitched.

The woman smiled. “You just figured out who told me, didn’t you? She probably made a slight movement, or blinked, but you’re so sure of yourself, even as you’ve become so careless. It’s good. Remember her face. Remember who set this in motion.”

The man’s jaw clenched. His body seized as he fought for control.

The woman drew in a deep breath and refocused her attention.

A small noise escaped the man’s pursed lips. The scratching of the pen started once again, slow at first, but soon became frantic. With four pages filled, the man licked at his lips with the tip of his tongue and set the notepad down beside him.

“Good.” The woman snuck a glance to the large horizontal window along the far wall, and the empty air past it. “You know, it’s such a nice day.” She turned her turbulent eyes back to the man. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get some fresh air?”

The man turned his head. He stood and took slow, uneven steps toward the clear pane of glass. A few paces away, he stopped and stared, before looking back to the woman.

She stretched her arms out along the back of the couch and leaned into it. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

The man’s eyes homed in on the oversized executive desk in the middle of the room, and the marble carving of an ancient fertility god perched on one corner. He shuffled next to the statue, hefted it in one hand, then spun and threw it at the window. As the glass cascaded down, the man was already running. With his arms raised over his head, he dove through the bare frame. He made no sound, until the dull thud of his body impacted on the concrete walk below. In the distance, someone screamed.

The woman stood and her eyes cleared. She mussed her hair and undid the top two buttons of her blouse. With a deep breath in, she wrenched her lips and cried out. “Oh my God, someone please help!”

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Photo by Berthomieu Catherine on Unsplash

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