Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Priscilla

All I wanted was aquiet drink. It had been a long, hard, exasperating day, and Iwas tired and disenchanted with the world and its inhabitants.The public house was one of those new ones, got-up to look likean old one, with dim lighting and wooden-screened alcoves formingcosy, segregated nooks. It being early evening, there were only acouple of other lone drinkers in the place, silent, hunchedfigures, propping up the bar. As I was in no need of company,this was fine by me. I obtained half a pint of beer from thesurly barkeeper and carried it to the furthest corner of theestablishment.

For the first time that day I felt something approachingcontentment as I settled at a mock-aged table in a small,panelled booth and took a drink of the surprisingly acceptablebeer. There, by the light of the artificial gas lamp, if Iignored the smell of new wood and carpets I was almosttransported to a bygone, quieter age. I was able for a shortwhile to forget the long hours spent dealing with irascible andungrateful members of the public, and lose myself in a morepeaceful, less commercial era.

It was fated that this rare contentment could not last, however.For I was snatched from my fantasy of a stress-free world backinto this one by the sudden intrusion of a rough, deep voice:"Hello there, Archie, I haven't seen you for ages. How youdoing?"

Startled, I looked up to find myself confronted by the largestman I have ever encountered. He was large both in height andwidth; he completely blocked the entrance of the booth andtowered over me like a huge building. "You're a sight forsore eyes an' no mistake, Archie, me old mucker," he boomed,his voice seeming to emerge from a dark, subterranean depth. Withthat, he reached a long way down and patted me on the shoulderwith a hand like a spade as if I were a toy dog. Without furtherado and completely uninvited by me he somehow contrived toinstall his bulk into the seat opposite me, this necessitatinghim pushing the table towards me, thus trapping me in my own seat.

I must state at this juncture that my name is Arthur, not Archie,nor have I ever regarded myself as anyone's 'mucker', least ofall of someone of my unwanted companion's character. I am ahonest, income tax inspector of thirty years standing, law-abidingand God-fearing; I instinctively doubted that the mountain infront of me had any of these qualities and was most probably astranger to the payment of taxes. I had my mouth open to say asmuch, but something in the man's small, hard, glittering eyesmade me reluctant to argue with him. There was something a littlefiendish there, something not quite sane.

No, if this huge, frightening man professed I was his long-lostfriend, then his long-lost friend I was. Instead I mumbled,"Ah, hello there, er..."

As if this were a signal for closer intimacy, he brought hismassive, rugged, unshaven face close to mine and washed me withhis evil-smelling breath, "It's really good that I've bumpedinto you like this, Archie, me old mate, I've got something herethat's right up your street." So saying, the giantmercifully withdrew his face, leaned back, and from somewhereabout his person produced a supermarket carrier bag containingsomething round and lumpy. With a furtive look around the nearly-emptypublic house, he put the bag on the table and thrust it towardsme, "Here, put it away; we don't want everybody knowing ourbusiness, do we Archie?"

What could I do? I was loath to antagonise this horrible mountainof a man, whose manic little eyes were fixed on me sounnervingly, by refusing his gift. In a confused daze, Ireluctantly reached to my side, opened my briefcase and put themysterious package inside. Fortunately, the case is a large one,as I often take home copious amounts of work to while away thelong evenings; even so, it was a tight squeeze, the package beingabout the size of a large cabbage, though somewhat more solid.

A look of relief crossed the giant's gnarled face as the carrierbag and its contents passed from his possession to mine. It wasas if a burden had been lifted from him. This strange transactionhad taken moments to complete, so rapidly that I had no time toconsider the implications. It was only after I had fastened mycase that it occurred to me that I had most probably just becomeentangled in something highly questionable. I opened my mouth toprotest, at the same time reaching again to my briefcase toretrieve the package and return it to this undoubtedly criminalthug.

The mountain, apparently misinterpreting my actions, hurriedlysaid, "Oh there's no need for that, Archie. I don't needpaying. If I couldn't do an old pal a favour, where would I be?No, you have that on me." Forestalling any furtherremonstrance I might have made he then started to rise, in theprocess pushing the table even further in my direction. "Doyou know?" he said, all in a rush, "I've justremembered there's a bit of important business I've got to see to.Can't stop. It's been good seeing you after all this time. MaybeI'll bump into you again one day."

Then, remarkably quickly for someone of his proportion, hecrossed to the opening of the booth, cast a guilty glance aroundthe public house, and was gone. I, for my part, was left with mymouth opening and closing like that of a beached fish, stilltrying to express my reluctance to accept his gift, the slam ofthe exit door ringing in my ears.

What a dilemma! There I was, my briefcase bulging with whatsurely must be the proceeds of some illegal activity. What was inthe package? Money? Jewellery? My mind raced: why had themonstrous man deposited it on me? Were the authorities pursuinghim and he had used me to dispose of the evidence? He hadcertainly been in a hurry. Was I about to feel the weight ofanother hand on my shoulder?

In almost the same manner as the mountain, I looked stealthilyaround the public house. To my relief all was as it had been whenI entered: the same solitary figures were slumped over the barand the bartender was morosely wiping its surface. No blueuniforms were charging in, handcuffs at the ready. I breathed alittle easier for a moment. Then another thought struck me.

Oh my Lord, did my briefcase contain a bomb? Had I been in thecompany of a terrorist intent on blowing the public house fromthe face of the earth? Making sure I was unobserved, I leaned tothe side and apprehensively put my ear to the case. It wasblessedly silent; no ticking emanated from inside. Feelingvaguely ridiculous, I straightened up. Why would anyone want toblow up an inoffensive, near-empty public house? Moreover, why goto the trouble of planting it on an innocent tax inspector, whenthe mountain could more easily have secreted it anywhere in thebuilding?

No, the carrier bag did not contain a bomb. The question was:what were its contents and, more importantly, how was I going torid myself of it? For I certainly wanted nothing more to do withit.

The best solution was to leave the package there on the seat andexit the public house as quickly as possible. Just as I began tounfasten my briefcase to perform this act, the bartender chosethat very moment to come and clean my table. I must have appearedhighly suspicious, for he gave me a look so penetrating that Iwas sure he knew what I was about to do. In a sudden guiltypanic, I stood up hurriedly, almost upturning the table and atthe same time knocking over my unfinished beer. I mumbled anapology and scurried from the public house as fast as my legswould carry me, clutching the bulging briefcase in front of me.

Out in the street I was at a loss what to do. The street wasbusy, so I could not just casually drop the package on thepavement and walk away; someone would surely pursue me and returnit. Besides, I am not the kind of person who litters publicthoroughfares. My mind in a quandary, I joined the queue at a busstop, where I waited uncomfortably for a bus to take me home,paranoiacally certain that everyone there knew the secret of mybriefcase. At last, the bus finally arrived and I climbed aboardand made myself as inconspicuous as possible at its rear. The busbeing full of homeward-bound passengers, I was forced to abandonthe idea of leaving the package behind me on the seat, and so itwas that I disembarked outside my apartment, my briefcase stillguiltily heavy.

Once inside my apartment, the door locked securely behind me, Ideposited the case on a table and for a long time sat staring atit, reluctant to open it. Finally summoning the courage, Iremoved the carrier bag and looked inside. Wrapped in newspaperwas a spherical object, quite heavy and hard. I removed it fromthe bag and began to unwrap it. There were several layers ofpaper from a common tabloid I would not normally associate myselfwith; as I removed each one I noticed they were slightly moist.

With the removal of each sheet of newsprint a mounting suspicionand fear overcame me - surely they could not contain what Ithought. It could not be. Nervously I peeled away more sheets,and as I did so, it became increasingly terrifyingly apparentwhat they concealed. The shape, the consistency, the feel of ittold me what my brain refused to believe. An unwholesome,fascinated curiosity drove me to strip off the last few sheets ofpaper until the object was finally revealed in all itsgruesomeness.

There, on my carefully polished coffee table, amid the luridpages of gutter journalism lay a recently severed human head.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement; I was horrified,appalled, sickened and revolted. What had the horrible mountainof a man meant by giving me such a thing? What was he: a lunatic,a crazed murderer, a mad axeman? Moreover, what was I going to dowith it, now that I had it? I could not take it to the police andtell them a man in a public house had given it to me; they wouldclap me in irons and throw away the key. What could I do?

It seems strange to relate now how as I sat there, my mind in aturmoil, a gradual calm began to descend on me. The head was thatof a beautiful young woman, the eyes were open and looked back atme; such incredibly blue eyes, tranquil and clear like placidpools of cool water. They held me, hypnotised me, drew me towardsthem. The face they were set in was angelic: delicate, china-whiteskin, a small, upturned nose, slightly pouting pink lips and anelf-like chin. It ... she was so perfect. As I stared into thoseexquisite eyes my revulsion disappeared and was replaced by adifferent emotion, one I had never experienced before.

I reached out and touched the face; the flesh was cool, likealabaster, but soft and pliant. I ran my fingers over the subtlecontours of the nose, across the smooth forehead, stroked theslightly arched, blonde eyebrows, caressed the soft, firm lips.To my irritation, I saw that the rough paper in which she hadbeen wrapped had sullied her skin with newsprint, marring herclean perfection. Her hair too, short, fine and blonde, wasdisarrayed and soiled. How could I let her remain so despoiled?

Gently, almost reverentially, I lifted the head from the tableand carried it to the bathroom. There, I ran a little warm waterinto the sink and with extreme care proceeded to wash the face,being especially careful to avoid those beautiful soft eyes. As Idid so I noticed how expertly the head had been severed. It hadbeen cut off neatly and cleanly at the base of the neck so as notto cause any disagreeable raggedness or other such superfluousdamage. In addition, any fluids seemed to have been drained away,hence if one ignored the rawness of the neck end, my task wassurprisingly pleasant. Particularly enjoyable was the washing ofthe hair; it was so soft and fine like silk in my fingers.Although I am selective in my choice of cleaning products, I madea mental note to purchase more suitably feminine soaps andshampoos as soon as possible, as it seemed somehow inappropriateto use my own.

Returning to the lounge, I first cleared away the crumpled, dirtynewspaper from the table, then placed a soft, velvet cushion inits centre. Upon the cushion, I then rested the head, ensuring itwas snug and comfortable and unlikely to accidentally roll off. Ithen began probably one of the most satisfying tasks I have everperformed: that of brushing the golden, silken hair, now shininghealthily from my efforts in the bathroom. I think it was thenthat I realised I had been talking softly to the head for sometime. I am not sure what I spoke of; probably I simply mademumbled endearments; for by now I had become exceedingly attachedto the object on the cushion.

It would also be about this time that I christened the head. Icould no longer continue to consider it as merely a thing; notwhen my feelings towards it were blossoming as they were. Thename I chose was Priscilla, for some time a favourite of mine. Tome it implies purity and virginity, qualities so apparent in thepale beauty resting in the centre of my coffee table.

I have always found it difficult to communicate with women; to methey are intimidating creatures, scornful and haughty when oneattempts to approach them, which is why I have always refrainedfrom associating with them. Priscilla was different. She did notlaugh at me or mock me; she did not scorn or reject me. Shelistened to me. I could speak to her without fear of rebuff.

Long into that evening, I sat and chatted to Priscilla. Sherested on her cushion and gazed intently at me from her clear,blue eyes, absorbing every word from my lips. I spoke of mylonely life, my frustrations, the absence of love, the misery ofmy existence. I told her of my empty youth and my emptier middleyears, of my resignation to being always alone. I poured out myheart to Priscilla, and I know that she listened to me andsympathised and cared. Never before in my life had I spoken solong and so meaningfully with anyone. Never before in my life hadanyone listened so keenly to me.

At last, I talked myself out. It was the early hours of themorning and I needed to sleep. I carefully picked up Priscillaand her cushion and carefully carried her to my bedroom. There, Icleared a place for her on the bedside table and prepared myselffor the night. Before I turned out the light I considered givingher lips a goodnight kiss but thought perhaps that would be toopresumptuous on our first day together, so instead I merelywhispered a fond "sleep tight" to her. I then sleptsoundly and peacefully with Priscilla close by my side.

The next morning, I was sorely tempted to take the day off andspend it with Priscilla. However, as I have never missed a day atthe office it may have caused undue concern and inconvenience ifI had, so reluctantly I was forced to leave her on her own. Theday was long and tiresome, but not without its compensations.For, I found I had acquired an inner happiness and a new self-confidence.I was able to handle everyone I met with tolerance andcompassion, though I was a little disconcerted by the knowinglooks of my colleagues at the spring in my step and the smile onmy face. Often I had to refrain from the desire to sing andwhistle to myself, as I have never been known for overt displaysof cheerfulness.

At last, the day ended and I was able to rush back home and findPriscilla waiting uncomplainingly for me. After preparing andconsuming a light meal, I settled down to another evening ofconversation with my attentive and delightful companion. What joyit was to tell her of my day, to share with her the trials andtribulations of life in the income tax service. How eagerly shelistened to my every word without hint of boredom.

Thus, the pattern of the next few days was set. I would go out towork each day secure in the knowledge that someone waited for myreturn. My life was complete at last after all the years ofloneliness.

It was into the next week when things began to change. Sadly,Priscilla's beauty started to fade. When I picked her up, Inoticed her flesh was getting soft and squashy, unpleasantliquids started to emanate from her and dampened her cushion, anda noxious odour arose from her. Worst of all, the brightnessbegan to disappear from her lovely eyes; they gradually cloudedover and lost their sparkling intensity. When I spoke to her, itwas as if she no longer listened to me, as if she were going awayfrom me.

I was distraught. How could she do this to me? As time pastmatters got worse, I am loath to say it but Priscilla becameugly, unattractive to look at. When one day I attempted to strokeher previously tender cheek and her skin came away in my fingersI knew the culmination had come. Priscilla had left me. No morewould she wait patiently for me, no more would she benignly andamiably hear my words of love and devotion. She had spurned me.

There was nothing else for it. I could not have her mocking,unsightly and unseeing face in my apartment. I found an emptycardboard box and placed her in it. For one last time I strokedher silken though now moist hair and closed the lid. Making sureI was unobserved, I deposited the box in the dustbin andconcealed it with rubbish. As the bin would be emptied that day,there would be little chance of discovery.

Seated once more in my empty apartment, a new and deeperloneliness descended upon me. To have had so much for it to betaken away from me in such a way was unbearable. I could notreturn to those long and desolate days of old. I had discoveredthe joys of companionship and craved their resumption. I had tohave them back.

So it is that I sit here in that same public house, waiting,waiting. Is that the door? Yes! And yes, there he is: the man-mountainin the same disreputable clothes. Ah, and yes, in his hand is acarrier bag - and he is coming towards me with that shifty,secretive look on his face.