Dead Ends

By Bart Hopkins

Three sinister stories—tales from dark places, where things don’t always end well. 

Recalculating 
Maggie loves garage sales—the thrill of the hunt—as she might call it. Of course, some deals are too good to be true. 

Sweet Lenora* 
In 1930s Pennsylvania, girls are expected to behave a certain way—or else. 

Donations** 
Clarissa, the librarian, works too much. Her new secret admirer aims to change that—permanently. 


*Previously published in Paranormal Anthology With A Twist 
**Previously published in Stalkers: A Collection Of Thriller Stories

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bart Hopkins
• Release date: Oct 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781536518146

Bart Hopkins

Bart Hopkins is originally from Galveston, Texas, but has lived all over the world during his 22 years in the Air Force. He was born in the middle of the 1970s, owned an Atari, and loves 80s music. He can use a card catalog like nobody's business. Now, Bart likes to travel, enjoys pretending he's a photographer, and shares as much time as possible with his beautiful wife and three awesome children.  They own a Westie Yorkie named Lulu ... or maybe Lulu owns them. Subscribe to Bart's newsletter for updates on new releases and giveaways. http://www.barthopkins.com/blog/news Website:  http://www.barthopkins.com Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/barthopkinsauthor Twitter:  https://twitter.com/bart_dead_ends Bart has written three novels, a novella, and a book of short stories ... with plenty more on the way.

Book preview

THREE STORIES

THREE DEDICATIONS

––––––––

Recalculating

For all the authors that brought me here—thanks for lending me your shoulders.

Sweet Lenora

For my beautiful daughters, Racquel and Jacqueline—you’ll always be my babies.

(Previously published in Paranormal Anthology With A Twist)

Donations

For Perla ... I’ll always be your Stalker.

(Previously published in Stalkers: A Collection of Thriller Stories)

Recalculating

Maggie pulled her Honda Civic to the curb and cut the engine.

It was her second stop of the morning, garage sale number two.  And, boy, is it a big one! she thought.  People were clustered alongside the road, ambling eagerly toward the lawn further down the block that was dotted with tables and knick-knacks.

She gingerly grabbed her purse from the passenger seat, put on her sunglasses, and after looking both ways, stepped out onto the blacktop.  Even at 9:00 a.m., the Texas heat threatened her sanity and Maggie briefly regretted leaving the comfort of her air-conditioned car.  She closed her door with a gentle shove and joined the veritable crowd of people that seemed to be increasing in size by the minute.

The neighborhood was comprised mostly of older, lower- and middle-class homes in good repair, the kind you’d see on an episode of The Wonder Years or The Brady Bunch.

Maggie made her way to the sidewalk, but stopped short as she got a closer look at the spectacle before her.

Wow, she thought.  I’ve never seen anything like this!

It was the mother lode of garage sales, the world series of cheap, the season finale of used wares.  There were easily twenty-five tables distributed around the yard, piled high with everything a person collects in life.  Maggie watched the motley crew of shoppers sifting through the gold mine of goods, searching for that proverbial golden nugget.

There were a few men, but not many.  From her experience, men at garage sales were looking for something specific.  That or they were making a business of selling used things, and, as such, were business-like in their doings.  Devoid of spirit.  Zero magic.  No gleam in their eyes, only dollar signs—the calculation of potential profit.

Most of the customers were women, which didn’t surprise Maggie.  And most of those women were older ladies; again, she wasn’t surprised.  Despite the age differences, there was a universal sparkle in the eyes of the ladies—magic—anticipation of the treasures waiting to be found and bought for ridiculously low prices.

Hmm ... so many of the ladies are shabbily dressed, Maggie observed, same as always.

She was a veteran at the garage-sale game and had seen this dozens of times.  Her studied conclusion was that some—no, the majority—of those women dressed down intentionally.  She suspected they dressed in their worst clothing, specifically set aside for garage sales, feeling they could more effectively haggle prices if they looked poor.

Maybe they get that used 5 x 7 picture frame for $1.00 instead of $1.50, Maggie mused, almost laughing aloud at the memory that popped into her head.

It was one of her first garage sales, years before, and she was rapidly becoming an addict.

She was delighted that day when she discovered a medium-sized flowerpot with a price tag of only $5.00.  It was the sort of thing that would sit in the mulch along the side of their house, more decoration than function, but she’d never seen one so cheap.  It was, quite literally, a steal, and she had no intention of trying to get it for a lower price, which she rarely did anyway.  Some people were hagglers—she was not.

She gleefully marched toward the lady with the cash box, but stopped quickly when another lady abruptly jumped in front of her.  The interloper was tall with brown hair in curlers; it was the sort of thing you don’t venture out in publicly.  Interloper’s threadbare gray dress added to the impression that she was far from wealthy.  What happened next shocked Maggie.

The woman proceeded to badger the seller for nearly five minutes over the price of a picture frame.

Think about that ... count to ten silently to yourself ... and then count to ten another twenty-nine times.  That was literally how long Mrs. Interloper, Mrs. Picture Frame, argued over the matter of fifty cents.

Maggie felt her own joy wane as the lady repeated herself again and again.

I’ll give you one dollar for it, but nothing more, she’d say.

Look, I’m sorry, but it’s already priced so low... the response came.

One.  Dollar.  The reply was steely, almost rude. 

Maggie was on the verge of plunking two quarters down herself, just to move things along, when there was a swift and palpable change in the air around them.  Sure as anything, Maggie felt the change before she heard the words.  It was like the cool breeze from an outflow boundary that might precede rain showers.  There was something charged, something electric, in the air.

Maggie glanced quickly at the lady with the cash box, the lady whose eyes were now fixed on Mrs. Picture Frame’s hand.

Maggie looked down.  That’s when she saw the game changer: Mrs. Picture Frame’s ring finger.

On that finger, almost defiantly, sat a massive rock—the mother of all diamonds—easily worth $15,000.

That’s a lovely ring, Mrs. Cash Box purred.  Her voice had a new tone to it—sarcastic and triumphant all at once.

There was a moment of silence when time seemed to stretch out, and all movement became slow motion.  Maggie looked at Mrs. Picture Frame.  Mrs. Picture Frame’s eye twitched.  Mrs. Cash Box’s smile broadened.  It was comical and crazy, all at once.

Well, I never! Picture Frame finally hissed.  She slammed two one-dollar bills down and stormed off.

Tell your friends! Cash Box called after her.

Maggie smiled, handed over a five-dollar bill for her pot without a word, and walked away.  She barely made it to her car before breaking into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

Yep.  There were people like that out there.  People ready to dress up and deceive to save fifty cents on what was, really, just junk anyway.

Of course, some of these ladies were probably