Medusa

Henry bit his lip to quiet his growing unease. Doris’s late afternoon walk seemed longer than usual. Streetlights had just switched on. Probably met a neighbour on her jaunt, got to talking. Doris loved to talk. Still. “I think the new people on Splinter are making Medusa,” she’d told him last night. She’d sat in her rocking chair in the living room, moving slightly, and continued to knit, wooden needles moving expertly in her skilled hands. Even with arthritis, she refused to give up her hobby. “Why do you say that?” he’d asked, already suspecting her answer. “A feeling.” Doris and her feelings, he thought as he wrung his hands together, pacing the living room. He seldom doubted her when it came to feelings. It's what had once made her an exceptional journalist. Ever since the heart attack two years before, Henry tired easily. He finally sat down on the edge of the recliner, but he could hardly relax. He stared at the silent tv news while his fingers played a staccato on the leather arm. The banner below the on-screen talent scrolled only more depressing news. Gun violence, explosions, uprisings, hospitals filled, millions dead… all due to Medusa. Medusa. Medusa. Always Medusa. Quick, he left the chair and found himself at the front window curtains yet again. He shifted them to once stare up both sides of the street. He longed for her to round the corner. Not for the first time, he checked the clock on the entertainment stand. She was an hour late, almost. As he again tried to call her, his eyes swung to her rocking chair. He glanced down at the basket parked by the runners, needles poking out from a pile of blue and green yarn. Just where she’d left them last night. She liked knitting at night, she always said. It calmed her mind. Closing his eyes for a second, he could almost imagine her sitting there, the soft click of needles rubbing together, her voice as she spoke, the often-subtle squeak of the chair’s runners as she rocked. Voice mail again. Damn! “A lot of sketchy people in and out of that place is all I know,” she’d continued. “They look like drug addicts.” Henry knew all too well what Medusa did to people, how it eventually hollowed out the face as well as your soul. You could tell frequent users. “Walk the other way,” he'd told her. “I mean it.” “Of course, dear. Medusa right here in little old Napanee. Can you believe that? Make a hell of a story.” “For someone,” he said, gruffer than he intended. He could believe anything in this messed up world. Enough looking out the window. He'd go look for her. She might give him s**t for worrying. Of course, I'm fine, she'd say. I'm always fine. Did she ever slow down? He often wondered if she ever would. If she did, he expected that wouldn’t be the woman he’d fallen in love with over 51 years ago. “Medusa right here in Napanee.” The Medusa name made him cringe as he slowly shrugged on a jacket. Not only was it a highly addictive drug, offering users feelings of absolute euphoria, but its side effect was also that some experienced – and the number was increasing - the ability to read the minds of others just by looking in their eyes. Hence the Medusa name, the woman whose stare could turn mortals to stone. The war on this drug quickly swept the planet, vicious and unforgiving, banned by all countries, but still, it couldn’t be contained and became the worldwide epidemic it was today. He zipped up his jacket, opened the front door and paused. A slow-moving vehicle pulled onto their street, headlights washing the road before it. Apprehension filled him. He moved to stand on the front stoop, a slight breeze ruffling his thinning grey hair. The white van knocked up against the curb in front of their home and just sat there. After a minute, the driver’s door opened and a large, linebacker of a man climbed out. He slammed the door and stared right at him. “Henry?” He barely nodded. “Good evening,” he said. Henry’s heart started to race. “I’m going to look for my wife,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. She’s had an accident, I’m afraid.” Accident? He shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets and made fists while he trembled. “Who are you? What have you -?” “I’m the guy who found your nosy-nosy wife. I caught her looking in my basement window if you can believe that.” Doris was gone. The thought hit him hard. It was surreal to think of his wife gone. But he suddenly sensed it. Maybe he had all night. An empty rocking chair where she would no longer sit filled his mind and filled him with rage. Quickly, he pulled a cell phone from a pocket. “I’m calling the police.” “I’m blocking the signal.” At this, the linebacker gave two quick raps on his driver’s side door. “Isn’t tech wonderful? You should see the toys I got inside.” Henry looked down at his phone. No bars. The man-made nonobese approach him as Henry glanced both ways down the street. “I came alone in case you’re wondering. I take care of my shit.” With that, the man did take a step onto the paved drive. “Stay there,” Henry warned. “I just want to talk, that’s all.” Henry took a step back. “I popped an M and dug deep into her mind, Pops,” he said. “That’s how I knew where to find you. She told you about our little house, huh?” “I don’t know where it is.” “You have an idea.” “No closer!” “We’ll just talk, you and I.” Henry returned to the house. He slammed the door behind him and bolted it. As he took steps back, he watched through the side panels of frosted glass. The man stood there, a smudge that soon drifted away. The garage! Henry spun to head there. He had no doubt the side door into the garage would be open. He never locked it. But the door that led from garage to house? Even as he started there, he heard the quick turning of a locked door. He’d locked it, thank God! He jumped at the loud crash, the splitting of wood. The door had been kicked in. Quickly, he grabbed a kitchen knife off the kitchen counter and shoved it up to his sleeve, letting his hand cup the hilt. The man’s heavy footfalls approached. He peeked cautiously around the corner into the kitchen. “There you are!” Henry backed up toward the living room. “Get out of my home.” “But we haven’t had our chat yet.” Henry whipped out the knife and lunged. Younger and faster, the large man grabbed his wrist quick and squeezed tight. Wincing in pain, Henry’s fingers opened reluctantly, and he dropped the knife. The man then pushed him away and Henry stumbled back, tripping over the rocker’s skids. The hulking figure crouched down next to him as Henry struggled to sit up, kitchen knife in hand. Beneath his jacket, Henry spied a gun. Maybe he could go for it. “She was a fighter, your wife.” “You didn’t have to kill her!” He fought back a wellspring of emotion that threatened to drown him. “But, oh…what a rush it was when I did when I scooped out everything she ever was. I tore her memories to shreds. She couldn’t stop screaming, man, and begging, just begging me to stop.” His fingers curled into a fist, but in that fist, he felt the only softness. He glanced down and saw blue and green yarn looped around his fingers. He must have kicked the basket when he fell. Doris was still very much here, he realized. “The police will wonder what happened to us,” he said, focusing his gaze on the man who’d killed his wife. And the gun. “The police are useless,” he spat, then opened his left palm to reveal a large yellow pill with the big M on it. Henry had seen them on tv. He popped it in his mouth and swallowed and when his eyes closed – Henry rammed a wooden knitting needle through his eyelid, through his eye and into his brain. The hulk stood up fast then, a silent scream caught on his lips. He stumbled two shaky steps before pitching forward, driving the needle further into his brain. The body spasmed once, twice before becoming still. Henry had once been a stonemason. His hands were still the strongest things about him. The End Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it. For business inquiries contact; michelleteye.business@gmail.com