Strange Tales for Cozy Nights: 2

By Brian Bakos

Ten bizarre stories to unsettle your cozy nights. From alternate realities and paranoid ramblings to ritual murder and the sweet joys of vengeance, these stories are for you if you enjoy a little “dead” in the dead of night. Grim up!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Bakos
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463700426

Brian Bakos

I like to write and travel. I'm from the Detroit area originally and try to see other places as often as possible. My most recent travels have been to China, Ecuador, and Belize. Am thinking of my next destination. It's wonderful how travel inspires the writing process. Attended Michigan State University and Alma College.Not much more than that. Anything else I have to say comes out in my books. If you really want to know more, please contact me through my website, https://www.theb2.net/. May life bring you many blessings!

Book preview

STRANGE TALES

FOR COZY NIGHTS – 2

by Brian Bakos

Howdy, folks!

cover art: Tony Ortiz / photography: Brian Bakos

Copyright 2022, Brian Bakos

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to anyone else. If you want to share this book, please buy an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and obtain your own copy. Thanks for respecting the author’s hard work.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Suicide Weather

Summer on Stupid Farm

Autumn Picnic

Scratch-Off Man

The Missionaries

RBU

It’s a Wonderful Death

The Green Building

Last Trick or Treater

Moving On

Postscript

Connect with the Author

Other Books in the Series

Prologue

A word from the author:

Are you the sort who enjoys a little dead in the dead of night? Do horrors creeping outside your window hold a special attraction? If so, these stories are for you. They occur in a variety of settings, so with a little imagination, you can put yourself into at least one scenario.

Please do not worry. Even the worst nightmares aren’t real. Or are they?

Suicide Weather

1. Unwelcome phone call

Beyond the garage door is suicide weather, thick clouds pressing down like the upholstered lid of a giant casket. Night fog rolls in and chokes the world with the stillness of a strangling victim’s grave. Only the occasional car hissing along wet pavement dispels the impression.

I close the door and turn to my old sedan. Brenda took the SUV when she left with her latest bum… and Chelsea.

I pat the hood. You and me again, Old Paint.

How many adventures had this car transported me on during my reckless youth? Concerts, parties, dodging the cops—seats loaded with yowling friends and the beer flowing. Now it’s a wreck but still has enough spunk to take me on one more ride.

As I wrench the door open on its crying hinges, my cell phone erupts from the passenger seat.

Goddammit!

It’s my ‘big brother’ Greg calling—my only sibling—the high school quarterback, college jock, and rising star in his company. The smug, condescending one who’s marrying the hot girl. You just know things will work out great for them. Why the hell is he bothering me now?

I switch off the phone and toss it in the glove box next to the revolver. That ought to shut him up. I start the engine and enter the house through the connecting door.

Here inside our home, the atmosphere is more pleasant. My mind relaxes for the first time since everything went to hell. I enjoy the peace of certainty, and the hamster wheel in my head slows. The bourbon relaxes me; it’s quality stuff with a good aroma. Car exhaust fumes mingle into the whiskey smell.

This little passageway to the garage is a comfortable spot, especially with the reclining chair I’ve lugged in. Everything is set up—door to the house closed, door to the garage open, Old Paint’s exhaust pipe belching fumes.

How long will it take? I wonder between sips of bourbon.

A garage would be a low place to end one’s earthly existence, so I chose the comfort of my favorite chair. I take a healthy swig of liquor and close my eyes.

Little Chelsea’s face appears. I’ll never see the real one again. She’s in danger… maybe it’ll be okay… her mom would never harm her intentionally. What about her boyfriend, though? I can’t do anything about it… perhaps a better man could.

The landline phone rings in the house, just beyond the closed door.

Damn!

My answering machine voice kicks in, much too loud. We are not available to take your call. Please leave your name and number, and we’ll get back to you.

Such a pompous sounding fool! When did I record that message? A month ago? Little did I imagine the nosedive my life would take in that time.

Beep!

Greg’s voice booms over the wires. Are you home, Bob? I’ve been trying to get through to your cell.

Get lost, Greg! I snarl at the answering machine lurking beyond the door. Why the hell did I keep that old landline, anyway?

Listen, Bob, I’ve checked out an excellent divorce attorney. She specializes in winning child custody for men, and she’s got a solid reputation. She works with top investigators. You ought to go see her. If money’s a problem, we can make some arrangement…

"Listen, Bob." How many times have I heard those patronizing words? "Excellent, solid, top"—the usual pep talk adjectives thrown at us loser types. Does this solid reputation lady specialize in putting crushed men back together?

Greg is speaking again. Something’s wrong. I know you’re there. Look, I’m coming over. Stay put.

Of all the lousy timing! The absurdity overwhelms me. I can’t help but laugh. Yeah, sure, come on over! I shout at the now silent answering machine. Join me in a little bourbon and carbon monoxide.

If Greg jumps in his car immediately, he’ll be here in ten minutes, less if he doesn’t mind running a stop sign or two. What if he calls 911? The cops might get here even sooner.

I lurch out of my chair, upending the bourbon bottle, and head into the garage. The atmosphere is thick and hazy; the exertion makes me light-headed. Should I stick my nose into the tail pile and inhale deeply? Would the poison gas work quickly enough to foil the cavalry charge?

Not a good idea. I’d be found on the oil-stained concrete like some bag of garbage, a real bum at the end. And what if they revived me to live on as a brain-damaged vegetable? That would be a real achievement. Brenda could visit me at the meat locker.

I punch the garage door switch, breaking the plastic and cutting my knuckles. The door groans open. Still night air clears my head a little. I yank open the driver-side door and slide onto the cracked vinyl seat. The old sedan slumps around me, the ideal companion for this assignment. We roar out to the street.

2. Into the night

Good riddance, Brenda, along with your booze and dope! I curse the empty night. Why’d you have to take Chelsea? What possible good is a four-year-old girl to you?

I try to shove Chelsea out of my mind. She’s gone, lost, better off without me. I’d been an idiot to spill the bourbon now that I need it so much. I motor through the darkness.

What will Greg think when he gets to my house? He might be there now. I can imagine his puzzlement at seeing the open doors and the spilled bourbon. Go ahead and sponge some up. The drink’s on me!

He’d warned me about Brenda. She was a sleazy, unreformed party girl, in his opinion. This created a major rift, and the two of us barely spoke during the past five years. Greg had been right, though, as always.

He won’t be able to find me as I move through the night in the old car, revolver in my glove box. No one will see me again in this life.

I’m driving on autopilot, somehow maneuvering the car safely while my mind is far away from the task. My soul is on the hamster wheel, going round and round, absorbed with the horror of my situation. Memories of my lost loved one gnaw at my mind—not Brenda; I recognize my mistake with her, but little Chelsea, gone forever.

The .38 Special will have to do the job.

Funny thing is, I purchased it for Brenda. She said she didn’t feel safe trekking the parking lot at work and driving after dark. This complaint came with the edge that if I made more money,