Worth A Second Look

By Roberto Scarlato

In 2009, people were introduced to stories of hit men, specters, crooks, playful spirits and empowered heroes. Now, a new batch of stories have come alive.

Come to a place where mice gain the ability to speak, where super humans work middle class jobs, where a mythical man grants chances to feeble victims and where science has created murder rooms or genetically mutated monsters. Discover worm holes, the supernatural and a bit of lunacy. Encounter the unexpected.



Contents include:

Mr. Goodly - a story about a murderer who uses cement to preserve his victims.

Emergency Hold - suspense story about a woman who has a break in.

The Dinner Pit - a horror story about a strange nightclub's policies.

Richard, the Garbage Man - a drama about a man standing up to his own mother.

The Hole in My Room - a sci fi thriller about a man finding a wormhole.

High Technology, Low Tolerance - a comedic tale about a man taking his reluctant son on a camping trip.

The Murder One Room - sci fi thriller about two technicians fixing a room designed to dispatch burglars.

Working Class Hero - sci fi fantasy about a man who exhibits his superpowers at work.

The Million Man - a horror novella about a young man finding a painting in his room that unlocks a terrifying genie.

The Man Who Quit on Clark Street - a short story about a man who sheds his corporate job for a little fun.

Readily Restricted - a story about life's restrictions and how they may be getting the better of us.

Squatter's Rights - a sci fi horror about two scientists who hold up in a shack, trying to escape a mutated beast.

The House Edge - suspense story about a young couple who encounter a corrupt pit boss.

The Damage Sacrifice - suspense story about a married couple who grapple with premonitions.

The Nightmare Tank - sci fi horror about a government project that becomes too deadly to contain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Scarlato
• Release date: Feb 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386431558

Roberto Scarlato

Roberto Scarlato is an author, blogger and audiobook narrator. He writes speculative fiction, mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, horror and crime. Scarlato grew up in a small suburb of Chicago, where his love of a good story was cultivated by shows like “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone.” A bibliomaniac from the moment he learned to read, he began weaving together his own tales at an early age.  In November 2014, Scarlato quit his day job. He now writes and narrates full time. He married his high school sweetheart in 2010 and they have a daughter.

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Follow him on Twitter as well:

@robertoscarlato

Worth A Second Look

Copyright © 2010 by Roberto Scarlato

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written

permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in

critical articles and reviews.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Worth a Second Look

Another collection of stories

Written by Roberto Scarlato

For Tony,

the brother like no other.

Stories included:

Mr. Goodly

Rats Left, Rats Right

Face it

A Cold Dish

Only 30 Pages

Emergency Hold

The Dinner Pit

Richard the garbage man

The Hole in My Room

High Technology, Low Tolerance

The Murder One Room

Working class hero

The Million Man

The Man Who Quit on Clark Street

Readily Restricted

Squatter’s Rights

The House Edge

The Damage Sacrifice

The Nightmare Tank

Mr. Goodly

October 20 th , 1956

My name is Mr. Goodly...

...And I’ve killed 10 people.

I can only imagine the cluster cloud of thoughts that might be parading through your mind. Were they an act of revenge? No, they were not. Were they bad people? Some were, some weren’t. Did they deserve it?

Did they deserve it?

I can’t really answer that one. That, I’m sure, is something for you to decide. Understand, good friend, that I am not an animal nor am I a man who kills brutally. I arrange my killings properly, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’ve given these ten memorable souls the power to be remembered forever.

But then again, you can’t truly take my word on that, can you? After all, what good is the word of a killer? Curiously, you are still reading on.

To begin, I shall open with crows. Now, these crows are not diseased, filthy, or even visible. These crows are unseen and yet everywhere. They are invisible, at least, to me they are. I remember when I was seven years old and living with my grandmother on my mother’s side that I was prone to having panic attacks.

All of them were due to grandmother.

Almost every week for three years my grandmother would come barging into my bedroom, eyes wild with disgust and a face like a corpse.

With her candle, yes, she still kept candles even though electricity had blessed us with no outages of any kind, she shuffled across the room.

Crip, Crack, Crick.

She did it so frequently that I memorized the sounds the floorboards would make. One, maybe two nights a week, and always the same sounds.

Crip, Crack, Crick.

Completely unnerving.

Every time she would slam open my door, I could feel just a little urine  leak out as I bit my covers.

In the dim candle light, the glow would never complete her face. Instead the light would only hollow out her features. Light, even at its dimmest, could not penetrate the deep lines.

She pressed her face against the small glass window, darting her eyes across the vast open field.

It’s the crows, lad! she’d say. The crows! Look at them! They’re everywhere! The damned things never stop! They fly to and about and through solid walls! All of them, all at once, I tell you! All at once!

After another minute at the window, she’d turn to me, wipe the sweat off her creviced brow, nod foolishly, and blow out the candle. The walk to her bedroom left me uneasy and on edge. I always found it peculiar that when she left, she closed the door quietly.

That was that.

I do believe, looking back on this, that those three years broke me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or my family tree, but there is something broken within us.

Aside from her nightly outbursts, she would do the most puzzling, things. She would prepare a gourmet feast for me and, with no warning, toss it out just as quick as I could sit down to eat it. She would beat me for hours at a time, and not even remember that she did it.

Senility has no bearing, sir.

It was the thing that was broken inside of her.

I’d heard from my father when he was still alive, that one tiny imperfection could shatter a wall of glass; all you needed to do was push. I’ll never know if it was me, my parents, or a long lost love that pushed her, but the shattered look on her face always prepared me for harsher times and even harsher truths.

Before my parents left me in her care she had always been a soft-spoken gentle creature to me even though I was a shy boy to begin with.

I begged my parents to stay, but they were young, flighty, and not too concerned with their only child at the time.

One horrible fall day, nearing my eleventh birthday, grandmother croaked for me to pick up a paper at the store. It was a long walk and since grandmother never let me read the paper I’d read it on the way back. So as not to arouse suspicion, I’d sneak into a neighbor’s yard and wash the incriminating ink off my hands. Couldn’t possibly do it while residing in my new home. My grandmother would surely be on the lookout for phantom crows.

As I was just about to hop over the fence to use the hose, I came across the obituaries section.

And found my last name.

Beloved, treasured, gone. My parents; soon to be buried. Of course, it didn’t tell me how they died.

What I read led me to my breaking point. I did not cry, I did not fall. But my spirit left, flew somewhere warmer and with a better atmosphere. For all I know, it might’ve drifted over the field in front of grandmother’s house, and I hoped she would jump out of her chair in hysterics, mistaking it for one large, black crow of doom.

GETTING THROUGH THE front door and up to my room was not the issue feeling this incredible void, as if I were absent of myself. The issue was when my grandmother saw me from the kitchen, no paper in hand, only inky fingers, and tried charging up the stairs after me.

She was old, frail, pushing against age to climb the stairs in a rush. She thought she could catch me, give me a good licking or two. She could not.

Instead, as I turned I could see her eyes swirling with madness as I slowly, softly closed the door. If there was a chill that was supposed to rise in my shoulders, I could not feel it. In defiance, I locked the door. Doors were never locked in my grandmother’s home. She had this feeling that locked doors mean secrets. ‘If you lock ‘em,’ she’d say, ‘mark my words, youngin’, you’re locking the devil in there with you. Too much time to yourself and you’ll have the devil creeping all up in your frail head.’

Any other season, any other day, nay, any other hour, I would never intentionally defy my grandmother. Yet, as my parents had departed from this world, my fears ran along with them.

Gracious for the comfort of a firmly locked door, I swayed from side to side, on the heels of my feet, breathing deep. Those fools, I thought to myself. Those awful dreaded fools. I hardly knew them. Am I not their son?

Screech, crack, tink. That would be her, making it to the top of the steps, the determined old bird.

In no rush at all, I turned to take in my room for the first time with my glazed eyes. I pulled the chair out from my writing corner and dragged it to the window. The beam of morning light promised sanctuary. I pursued it. I plopped into the chair, stared out the window, listened to grandmother huff as she caught her breath at the top of the stairs. You see, sir, I am the one who helps her to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I help her walk diligently so she doesn’t rush and accelerate herself to risk. But now was the time for my rest.

My deserved rest.

I stared for a time, getting lost in the brilliant blaze that was the sun. For what felt like eons my thoughts were clear, unmoving, uncaring.

Then came the knocks. Oh, she knocked repeatedly, giving off this air of saturated discontent.

Boy! You let me in! The beast will get you, you stay in there too long! I want my paper! Where is it, confound it? I want my paper!

When I didn’t answer, she broke even more.

Filthy mongrel! I’ll tear your hide! You will fetch me that paper! I will put the fear of God back in you!

Nothing changed within me.

I’ll get you, she taunted. If I don’t see this damn door swing on open I’ll get you! I’ll get you while you sleep!

She taunted on.

I’ll get ya! You are my property and I’ll be damned if you find any lick of courage to defy me the way your parents do!

My neck hurt before I realized what was going on. At first I thought something had stung it. Something may have even pecked it. But no. No, it was something else. That something else turned my head for me, made my eyes burn fierce and made my tongue swell hot with sweet malice.

Come, whore! The crows are with me! An army, I say! I let them in through the window! They’ll tear and gouge and pick your old bones apart! They have no prejudices! They are crows! They are real! And they will come through the walls!

The wail was loud, gurgling, in fact. It reminded me of the time I saw a cock fight. After the winner pecked his brother to death, he let out a sharp soulless cry that felt similar to my grandmother’s frightened scream. That night, after the winner had his day, my parents purchased him, took off his head and cooked him. We ate him that night.

It occurred to me.

No winners in the game of life.

Only losers.

Losers who claim to be righteous.

My grandmother retreated to her room, slamming the door. She cried herself to sleep.

No guilt.

I turned back to the window.

It was a beautiful day.

Now I could see.

I could see them all, swirling around the field, like they had been there for a century. My day of independence was here. The holiday of my freedom.

Crow Day.

I COULD ONLY IMAGINE that my parents’ funeral was sweet and thoughtful. Their decent into the cold damp ground was not something I wished to see, yet I saw it in my head constantly.

Defiant still, I stubbornly snuck out of the house to have that day, that moment to myself in the cemetery of my departed parents. I walked many miles, hitched three rides to get there, just to sulk. Was it worth it?

Oh, yes.

It must’ve been.

My only alone time with my parents and they couldn’t even hear me. Should have guessed defiance runs in the family.

I stood shivering against the wind and the rain, my body begging for warmth even with the old charcoal coat I found in grandmother’s closet.

THAT’S ENOUGH, INMATE, said the guard as he slipped his hand between the bars and pulled the stationary away from prisoner 58744. The man looked up from his pencil and glared at the guard for interrupting his thoughts.

I wasn’t finished, he said, eyes burning.

You know the rules, the guard countered, Three pieces of paper per inmate and whatever you write is looked over by the prison, same as your mail.

The inmate, who called himself Mr. Goodly (the guards merely called him Goodly or goody, they didn’t feel he earned the title of mister), broke his pencil in half and sulked back into bed. On death row the rules were phony, the food was indigestible, and the facilities were rusting, reeking factories.

Mr. Goodly pulled the covers over his head, not wanting to be seen. All he wrote down were his early memories of the change. He would never give them the benefit of details regarding his works, those he kept locked away in his mind. He was not sorry for what he did, and he was well prepared for the consequences of getting caught.

No one ever wrote to him, no one knew his true name. In the papers he was referenced by his prison number. They refused to publish a name as ridiculous as Mr. Goodly.

As he lay, breathing evenly and waiting for his next course to come through the bars, he remembered his last wishes and his previous works of art.

He remembered Mr. Gary Sharp, the eighty-year-old whose neck broke when he slipped on the stairs Mr. Goodly had greased for him. He placed Mr. Sharp in a tub, turned the water on, ripped open the bag, and poured in the cement. Later Mr. Goodly snickered when he read in the papers that the police had to chisel the man out.

Then he reached deep into the recesses of his memories, to remember the night when he came home after visiting his parent’s plot and found his grandmother dead, twisted at the bottom of the stairs. He knew from the look of her that she must have fallen from the very top of the stairs, eager to retrieve the paper, no doubt, since he had gone missing.

It was hours before he called an ambulance. He just couldn’t stop staring at her, having never seen a dead body before. She looked like an elegant statue or lost in a dream.

After the paramedics came and declared her dead on the scene, some of the officers tried to console him by wrapping him in a blanket. They gave him a cup of warm cocoa to settle his nerves. He sipped it at fifteen second intervals. He did not hear one word they said. All he kept thinking about was his grandmother and how peaceful she looked.

He wished he could acquire that special brand of peace.

WHAT ARE HIS SINS? the priest asked.

He killed ten people, padre, the warden said, pulling a smoke from his private pack. With a firm hand he brought the match up to the cigarette. The murders started in late 1954. They caught him in early May 1956. He reflected on this for a moment and spoke again. Those are just the ones we know of.

My word.

Yes, sir. Each one he’d make it look like an accident. He’d always grease the steps to make them fall. Every one of them. Afterwards, the sick pup would load them into a tub, their car, or a suitcase, whatever he could find, and cover them up with cement. You wouldn‘t believe the hours of manpower we‘ve spent trying to extract these people from Goodly’s little graves.

At this, the priest clutched his bible to his chest. The warden thought he might shove it into his ribcage; a perfect substitute for a mortal heart which could not fathom the evil of men.

Why, this boy needs Jesus.

What he needs, padre, is to dance the Charlestown two-step at the end of a rope and that’s just what he’s going to get. The only reason I’m letting him see you is he tried a hunger strike. Seems important to him that his soul gets cleansed.

He will be.

But I warn you; do not let him touch you or get inside your head. He thinks himself educated. He’s stubborn and will do anything to get his way.

I promise you, as a man of God, he will not corrupt me.

The warden eyed him as he said that. With practiced ease, he removed his jacket from the chair to slip it back on. As he buttoned up he said, "You don’t need to tell me that."

IT WAS NINE IN THE morning when the police cruiser pulled into Baremont Cemetery. In the back, Mr. Goodly sat shackled and smiling, but his eyes still spelled mischief. The warden, after hearing the pleas from the priest, sent the chaplain away. The priest was blabbering about breaking through to Mr. Goodly’s soul, that Mr. Goodly wanted to be washed of his sins. The inmate convinced the priest that the only way he could feel totally whole again was to visit his parents’ graves and beg their forgiveness. This man is now a follower, anything he does now he does in hopes of redemption, said the priest. "He broke down crying