Tuesday, October 17, 2017

DAVID BERNSTEIN: The Deadly Truth


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THE DEADLY TRUTH
David bernstein
Copyright © 2017 by David Bernstein



Marla slept beneath the plush down comforter. Her breathing was even and relaxed. She was the epitome of tranquil. Staring at her, Bob cringed. His wife's peaceful form was not giving him the serenity it always had.
He was disturbed to say the least.
His wife, his love, of eighteen years, had betrayed him. 
            He had never strayed from her, or she from him for he would have surely known. Marla reeked with the scent of another man. A man that had been inside her, a part of him still there.
            He crawled into bed after arriving home, not bothering to turn on the lights. Seeing in the low light was never a problem.
            Sitting up, he glanced around the room.
            Nothing was out of place.
            Removing the covers, he slid out of bed and walked silently across the carpet to the bedroom’s lavatory.
            The toilet seat was down. If it had been up he’d have been disappointed. His wife was no dummy.
            The toothpaste tube resting on the sink was a bit more compressed now, indicating the amount a single person would have used over the course of a few days. It was a minute thing to notice. Something no normal human would detect, but Bob’s senses were beyond ordinary.
            He examined the sink, eyes scanning the surface for traces of another human.
            His wife cleaned well.
            Bob crouched, getting on all fours and searched the base of the commode for signs that a male had been there. Men often dribbled when in a hurry. Closing his eyes, he inhaled through widening nostrils. Even with sanitizers and air fresheners smells lingered like old ghosts no matter how well a person cleaned. Soap, shampoo, sweat, and even his wife’s bodily waste were all present, but no male odors were detected.
            Bob stood in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, his saddened reflection staring back at him.
            He aged slower than most men. His salt and pepper hair still encompassed his entire scalp. He only had a few wrinkles under his eyes and around his chin, nothing more than a thirty-eight year old would have. He was forty-eight.
            Most women found him attractive, often coming on to him, but he had always refused their advances. It appeared his wife had given in to temptation.
            Was it his monthly trips to the country house that had finally made her stray, the constant reminder that her husband was locked away like a caged animal?
            They had dealt with, and accepted, his curse. They’d come to terms with it. The mornings when Bob came home soaked in blood, the narrowing escapes from law enforcement, the pieces of human flesh and bone left in his teeth and the horrible odor of death on his breath. And all the while he never remembered what he had done or where he had been. Marla knew there was no cure and that none existed. But he was worth it, she always said whenever he brought up leaving her so she could move on and have a normal life.
            The cage had been her idea.
            Using a part of their savings, they purchased a remote summer home in Upstate New York. It was a place the beast could be kept in check. Bob would travel to the house alone a day or two ahead of the full moon, depending on how he felt. The wolf’s approach sometimes brought with it an uncontrollable rage, making Bob extremely irritable. When it was time, he locked himself in the steel prison until he was himself again—the beast not understanding how to use a key.
            Bob walked back into bedroom. His wife’s serene slumber intensified his rage. Her beauty was tainted by an unseen presence; their relationship destroyed by her unfaithfulness.  
            He wanted to wait until the next full moon; let the beast have her—a suitable punishment for her betrayal. She had been his loyal wife for twenty-one years, known her for twenty-eight. They’d been college sweethearts, falling in love quickly and staying strong throughout their time together. She was his princess, he her prince. At least Bob had thought so. He would have to be the one to end her, not the beast.
            He dressed in slacks and a button down shirt—no tie—and left the house. He drove to his medical practice on Main Street, returning within the hour. Back in the bedroom, he found himself standing over his wife’s sleeping form.  
He could wake her. Denounce her. She would deny everything, knowing it was hopeless in the end. She knew about the beast’s attributes, what it gave its human counterpart—increased strength, speed, focus, smell, and hearing. She had simply been careless. Foolhardy.  
He decided not to confront her, not wanting to listen to her lies. Her baby blues would plead as they begged for forgiveness. Or would those eyes tell a different story? Maybe they’d be cold. Distant. Maybe she was leaving him, her body the only part of her that remained. Bob sighed, tears forming and blurring his vision. It was too late for her to leave now.
            Whatever the case, her treachery could not be excused.
            Pulling a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, he slid them on. He bent down and quietly undid the latches on his briefcase before opening it. Reaching inside, he grabbed a rag and bottle of chloroform. After dousing the cloth, he covered his wife’s nose and mouth with it. Her eyes shot open in bewilderment. She struggled, grabbing his wrists, her voice a muffled cry. She was a fighter, but seconds later she lay in a defenseless slumber, the harsh chemical doing its job. Now he would end her peacefully, leaving her corpse pristine for burial.
            Bob placed the items back into his satchel.
            He picked up one of the pillows—her pleasant and familiar odor emanating from it—and waited for the clock radio’s time to change. The forty-five became forty-six. He pressed down gently over her innocent looking face. Anger took hold as he muscled the pillow down, making sure no air seeped through. Tears rolled down his reddened cheeks. The clock’s numbers blurred, but he could still make them out—the seconds ticking by like the pulse of doom. The clock seemed stuck, not wanting to change. When the forty-six finally became forty-seven he let up. He put his fingers to her wrist, checking for a pulse, and found none. She was dead, but still retained the divine beauty that would always be hers.
            Bob carried his deceased wife to the woods behind their house and buried her. He marked her grave with a piece of slate that had fallen off the roof. No words written upon it, its function remaining his and her secret.
            That night Bob slept restlessly. Nightmares plagued his dreams, not for the murder, but for the pain inflicted by her treachery. His memory of her was forever blemished.
            He awoke some time later to the sound of the house phone ringing, the afternoon sun pouring into the still bedroom. Not wanting to, he picked up.    
            “Hello?” he asked, his voice cracking.
            “Hi, Doctor Malstrom?” a cheery female voice asked.
            “Yes. May I help you?”
            “Your wife said you wouldn’t be home until tonight.” Now the woman sounded confused.
            “Who is this?” he asked, sitting up in bed.
            “My name is Barbara. I was your wife’s nurse. How’s she feeling?”
            “Nurse? What are you talking about?”
            “Your, wife, is she home?”
            “No, she stepped out. What’s this all about?”
            “Guess she didn’t get a chance to speak with you, yet.” The voice was merry again. “Over the weekend Mrs. Malstrom had a little accident. Sliced herself with a box-cutter, penetrating her right thigh, barely missing her femoral artery. She lost a lot of blood.”
            “Oh, my . . .” he managed, finding it difficult to catch his breath. His body suddenly felt thick and heavy, as if he’d drank way too much the night before. He understood now. His mind was spinning; he did not want to hear anymore.  
            “She had about twenty stitches and a blood transfusion. Her hemoglobin levels were quite low, but I don’t have to tell you, doctor.” The nurse sounded as if she was about to giggle. 
            Bob said nothing.
            “Doctor Malstrom?” the nurse’s tone deadening. “Are you okay, sir?”
            “Yes . . . yes I’m fine. Shocked is all. I have to go.” He replaced the phone to its cradle.
            The beast, it seemed, had always been a part of him. He didn’t need it to kill. Full moon or not he was a monster, the cage proving itself useless.
            Was it the lingering effects of the beast that caused his murderous deed? Or was it the human in him? The beast for all its cage-less hours roaming and hunting had never hurt his wife.
            There was only one cage that suited him now.
            Bob went to the bedroom’s walk-in closet, retrieved the weapon he and his wife had hoped never to use. He put the gun to his heart and pulled the trigger sending the silver bullet home.
 
* * *
GIVEAWAY
GREAT story, but author David Bernstein is not done. Why? Because it’s GIVEAWAY TIME!!!! Up for grabs are THREE ECOPIES OF WITCH ISLAND!!!! OH YEAH!!!
To enter: Click on back to the FB Event Page, find today’s post featuring David and comment, “I WANT TO WIN!” in that post!!! Good luck to all!!!

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A witch's curse from beyond the grave!
https://www.amazon.com/Witch-Island-David-Bernstein-ebook/dp/B071D77QQS/ref=la_B0030MYLS2_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1506967183&sr=1-1Witch Island used to be feared. Even the bravest would not dare go there. Legend said a witch had been burned alive at the stake, and upon her death she cursed the town. Terrified residents performed rituals to keep her spirit trapped on the island where she was buried. Now, over a hundred years later, a group of high school seniors have decided to forgo the local graduation parties and have a small gathering of their own–on Witch Island. They don't fear the legends. They scoff at them. But the group will soon learn these particular legends are nothing to scoff at. And Witch Island will prove far worse than they could have ever imagined.

AUTHOR BIO
I am a dark fiction writer, a horror writer. I write the gamut, from atmospheric horror to extreme gory horror to dark fiction and dark thriller, oh, and the occasional bizarro tale.


Gory: The Unhinged, Damaged Souls, Witch Island, Apartment 7C, Amongst the Dead

Extreme horror: The Unhinged (you were warned)

Horror with a twist: The Tree Man, Apartment 7C

Zombie fiction: Machines of the Dead trilogy. Amongst the Dead.

Darkfuse horror: Relic of Death, Surrogate, Skinner (coming July 2015)

Dark thriller/supernatural/ action: Tears of No Return, Toxic Behemoth

Monster horror: Toxic Behemoth (Deep Sea/Kaiju book)

Bizarro/Gross out/funny horror: Fecal Terror


Please visit me at davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com for more about me and my work or on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3
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