Hands
The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the
device around his neck. He sat down on a nearby stool.
“Mr. Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative
and my examination shows nothing abnormal.”
Adam knew what was coming. “I’m not crazy, Doctor.”
“I’m sorry, but there is no physical reason for why you
occasionally lose control of your hands. A psychologist can help—“
“I don’t need therapy. I need answers. They seem to have a
life all their own. I can’t hold a job. I’m under investigation for assault. I
almost killed my neighbor. This can’t go on. I’ll try anything at this point.”
After two weeks on a new medication, Adam saw no progress
and grew increasingly depressed.
He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was
not a psychological problem. That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a
chair drinking bourbon. Drunk and feeling hopeless, he stumbled to the garage
and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming
blade.
Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several
uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body.
“So what do we got?” he asked, taking in the gory scene.
“This is a weird one, Detective.”
“How so?”
“Take a look at the body. He apparently chopped off his
hands with the table saw and bled to death.”
Armstrong knelt down. “And?”
“And we can’t find his hands anywhere.”
I’m Coming For You
My older brother Paul loves to scare me. He thinks it’s
hysterical to crouch in a closet and jump out or hide under the bed and grab my
ankle. I always yell (okay, scream) and it never fails to crack up Paul.
I told Alex, my best friend at school about it. Alex is
super smart and into inventing things. He said he’d build something that would
scare the crap out of Paul.
A week later I was in Alex’s bedroom and he showed me a
black box about the size of a Rubik’s Cube with a camera lens on it.
“Okay, Debra. Behold.
If I place it just the right distance from the wall and turn it on, you see
this.”
Projected on the wall was a life-size, holographic image of
a zombie-like creature looking as if it is walking forward. There was also a
creepy voice loop, “I’m coming for you, Paul.” I was blown away.
“Wasn’t that complicated,” said Alex. “Put it in your brother’s
room when he’s asleep and the lights are off and flip this switch.”
That night I did exactly what Alex said, and waited. Ten
minutes went by and I heard nothing. I sneaked down the hallway to Paul’s room.
The 3D monster was doing its thing on the wall. My brother was in bed, eyes
wide open, but he wasn’t moving.
“Paul,” I whispered. “Paul?”
I tried to wake him up, but he didn’t move and felt cold. My
eyes widened in horror. I’d killed my brother. Then the zombie spoke.
“I’m coming for you, Debra.”
My husband went to work that morning, but someone else came
home in the evening. It looked and
sounded exactly like Scott, down to the smallest detail, but somehow I could
tell it wasn’t him. I was in the bathroom trying to decide what to do. He was
in bed reading. How could I act calm and in control sleeping next to a
stranger? What was it about him that made me feel that way?
“Kendra?” he called. “You coming to bed?”
Maybe I could trick him into exposing himself as an
imposter. Sitting in bed, I flipped through a magazine trying to look relaxed.
“So how was the lunch I packed for you today?” I asked.
“Good. Bread was a little stale. Should pick up a new loaf
tomorrow.”
Okay, he got that one right. “I thought I’d do seafood
tomorrow night and cook some mussels.”
He lowered his glasses on his nose and looked over at me.
“Are you okay? You know I’m allergic to shellfish.”
“Sorry. I’m a dummy.”
“Besides, I thought we were going to have dinner at your
sister’s tomorrow night.”
“Oh, right, right. I completely forgot.”
Scott set his book on his lap and turned to me. “My wife
Kendra doesn’t have a sister. Who the hell are you?”
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