Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Full of Malice

Episode Date: January 4, 2023

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The gate rolls shut behind me with a clatter. I take a moment to turn around and flip the guards the bird as they head back into the prison. Screw you! I scream. One of the guards, Shillard, stops and turns to look at me. He smiles from the other side of two razor-wire topped fences. See you again soon, Penzance. He shouts.

We'll be right here waiting. I flip him off again and shake my head. I'm never coming back. Never. her, but I don't tell him that, just in case. Turning to face the parking lot again, I scanned the cars for a familiar Buick. She said she'd be here. I allow myself to feel some kind of relief that she's not here to greet me.

Maybe she's gone for good. Maybe she's taken up with some other ex-Con. Maybe she's forgotten about me in the month since I talked to her. Hell, maybe she's fucking dead. A guy can hope. It was the middle of a sweltering summer when I got my ass tossed into this prison. Now it's a bitter January day, and I have no warm clothes. I'm wearing a pair of black jeans with holes in the knees,

my red-wing work boots, and a thin Hawaiian shirt. I hug myself and look out past the parking lot at the road, lined with barren trees. A crow perches on a branch across the street, cawing sporadically. Patches of dirty snow sit in divvits and around tree trunks amid the rugged brown grasses that struggle to survive in the frigid temperatures. My breath comes out as vapor, and I feel the residual warmth from inside the prison whisking away in the wind. The gray sky presses down close, as if trying to suffocate the land. It gives me more than a little claustrophobic anxiety, which is funny, considering I've just been living in a tiny cell. familiarity breeds contempt, I guess,

and I'm not familiar with wide-open spaces and horizons stretching out before me. Not anymore. I look at the ground and turn my mind to other things. There's $76 in my wallet, which means there's $76 to my name. Stamping my feet as I head out to the road does little to warm me up.

I walk about 100 yards before I see the sign for the bus stop. I think of all the things I'm going to do when I get back to town. First, I'm going to buy me a couple of McDonald's burgers. Then, I'm going to buy me a pint of whiskey and a motel room, all to myself. Then what the hell am I going to do? I'll be out of money. I shake my head, telling myself to leave tomorrow for tomorrow. Motion catches my eye, and I turn away from the road to see a rabbit twitching in the ditch. It's a little cottontail rabbit, and it looks like it's been clipped by a car. Its right leg looks to be broken.

The cry of a far-off bird puts me on edge, and I move in to swoop up the little rabbit before a raptor can come get it. The poor little guy is barely bigger than my hand, and he's truly terrified. I'm not the guy for you, I say to the rabbit, his wide black eyes staring up at me in terror. No, I don't think so.

I can't. I'm not the one. The rabbit doesn't seem to understand. So I run back to the prison gate, cradling the furry creature against my chest as I move. I bang on the gate and yell. Open up! I got a rabbit. I can't take it with me. Please, come take this rabbit.

There's no answer for a long time. Then a voice comes blasting out of a loudspeaker, telling me to back away from the gate or they'll call the police. I flipped them the bird one last time for good measure. You didn't want to go in there anyway. I say to the rabbit as I hurry away from the gate. A bunch of bastards in there. Believe me. I was one of them.

Unsure what else to do, I head back to the bus stop. I've just added, locate a veterinarian to my list of things to do when I get to town. Then I'll get to the McDonald's and the whiskey and the motel room. I hold the rabbit to my stomach as I wait for the bus. So far, life on the outside is just as shit as it was on the inside. I suffer through several more frigid minutes before the bus comes around the bend on the two-lane road, chugging along with the cloud of vapor behind it. The vehicle comes to a loud halt,

the hiss of hydraulics working as it lowers to let me on. The driver, a large woman in an unflattering blue uniform, looks at the rabbit like it's growing out of me. No animal's on the bus, she says. Come on, I say. Look at him. His legs all busted up. I just want to find him a vet.

He won't be any trouble, I swear. I can see the woman's defenses break down as she looks at the little bundle of fur. Fine, she says. It's three bucks for a single trip and five for a transfer. I pay the five and get a flimsy bus card in return. The ragged few already on the bus glanced for me to the prison and back again. They know I'm a criminal, freed on the world like a plague, accidentally slipped from a lab on the bottom of someone's shoe.

They don't seem to notice the rabbit. Maybe it's a scene that doesn't make sense to them. A hardened ex-con and a harmless little rabbit. Whatever, I don't care what they think. At least it's warm on the bus. I sit as the vehicle pulls away from the stop. We travel under watery gray skies, approaching the distant, low buildings that denote the town's outskirts.

But before we get halfway there, a car pulls up alongside the bus in the wrong lane, swarving and honking. Oh, Christ, I whispered to myself, recognizing the car. It's a boxy old Buick half-eaten with rust. The paint that's left is more gray than black. The wheels are all missing hubcaps and the tires are all bald. I hear the bus driver cursing, unsure what to do about the crazed motorist.

She picks up her radio, probably to call the police. But I jump up and run to the front of the bus before she can get more than one word out. Wait! I tell the driver. I know her. She's trying to make you stop for me, so just pull over and I'll get off. The rapid moves against my stomach, squirming and twitching. The driver looks at me for a moment before pulling over to the side of the road and yanking the door open. The Buick pulls diagonally ahead, blocking the bus's path.

I pause and look out the windshield, dreading what's waiting for me in that car. Well, go then, the bus driver says. I step off the bus. and turn around, just as the driver's about to close the door. Wait, I say, holding up the bus pass. Can I get my $5 back? No! She yells, pulling the door shut, making me jump back out of the way.

I trudged to the Buick and opened the passenger door, tossing myself gently onto the threadbare maroon upholstery, so as not to jostle the rabbit too much. Missy Tellard sits in the driver's seat, grinning at me with her perfectly straight, tobacco and wine-stained, teeth. She's a skeletal figure, with skin so tight it seems like she's made of clay. Her stringy blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her red lipstick stands out against her mottled white skin. Willie! She says, reaching across with one hand to pull me into a kiss. Her mouth tastes like a strange

combination of ashtray and gasoline. Her tongue is the rough texture of a cat's as it reaches in and drags across mine. The kiss lasts in eternity before the bus driver starts honking, and Missy pulls her lips away. Fuck you! She screams toward the bus, thrusting her left hand out the window

in an obscene gesture. She then turns her attention to operating the vehicle, hitting the gas, and causing my side of the car to drop down off the road as she writes the Buick and tears toward the town.

You didn't wait for me like I told you, she says. You weren't on time like I. I told you. Oh, aren't we a little testy today? What's wrong? You miss your boyfriends? Missy cackles even as she lights a cigarette. I grumble, folding the rabbit against me with both hands again. I look down at it, wanting to voice some words of encouragement, but knowing that it would only draw Missy's attention. Cigarette in mouth, she reaches across the bench seat and digs the fingers of her right hand into my thigh. Missed you, babe, she says. I look out the window.

You got any money? Of course I got some money. What you think I've been doing out here while you abandoned me? At least it's one of her good days, I think. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. We need to find a vet, I say. What, like a soldier? Why?

You got something planned? No, like an animal vet, a veterinarian. What the hell for? Missy says, pulling her hand away from me to take the cigarette from her lips. She swerves out around a friend. farm truck, doing 20 over the speed limit. I found an injured rabbit, I say, reaching back to pull on my seatbelt. Missy's head swivels toward me with the exact look on her face I didn't want to see. It's the kind of look I've come to associate with ruthlessness, the kind of look she uses

to ferret out weakness and exploit it for all its worth. Her pupil seemed to overtake her irises as she looks at the rabbit in my hands, noticing it for the first time. Instinctively, I turned my body away from her, shielding the rabbit from her gaze. Later, she says after a moment. First, we're going to have some fun. I don't get McDonald's. I don't get whiskey. But I do get a motel room.

Unfortunately, I have to share it with Missy. But at least there's two beds. The first thing I do is grab a towel and create a little nest for the rabbit, who I've decided to call Harvey. I put him in the little towel nest on a pillow on the, the bed nearest the bathroom. Then I duck inside to use the toilet. I come out of the bathroom and glance over at the nest, but Harvey's not there. Missy sits at the small table near the door, blood running down her chin. She smiles around a full mouth and my knees buckle as I see

Harvey's headless body in her right hand. My elbows hit the mattress as my knees hit the carpet. Missy crunches down on something in her mouth, and I try not to think about Harvey's cute little black eyes popping between her teeth. I get to my feet, my mouth opening and closing as I move toward her, cold fury making a fist out of my heart. My hands wrap around her skinny throat, but I'm somehow too weak to strangle her. The next thing I know, I'm hitting the ground hard and she's on top of me. She bites my neck in that way she does and strips my clothes off.

I can smell the blood in her mouth, Harvey's blood. I want to vomit as Missy looks into my eyes and speaks soft. softly to me, saying all those things that she's been saying to me for years. Those things that somehow slip past my defenses and get me to do all the things she wants me to do. Everything turns into a blur of papery skin and love bites and a strange sort of sickening ecstasy. She gives me drugs at some point, lines of white powder and needles filled with brown liquid. Then things get really blurry. But through it all, I keep remembering Harvey. Looking up at me, as I held him against my stomach.

I keep him in my mind because it's important to remember what she did, not just this time. But every time she's destroyed something I've cared about. Harvey's just the latest and the long line of unforgivable trespasses. And it needs to be the last.

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There's blood everywhere. It's all over the bathroom floor. I push myself off the carpet next to the bathroom, blinking the drug-induced sleep out of my eyes. Yes, I'm seeing it right. Blood is splashed on the mirror. Streaks of the drying crimson liquid make the toilet look like red and white zebra print.

There's a gun near the base. board by the bathroom door, right within reach of where I was laying, a small Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver. I stand up on my knees and peek into the tub, expecting to see Missy's body, but there's no body, just blood, lots and lots of blood. Bending back down, I bring my nose close to the gun and sniff. Smells like spent gunpowder. My pulse pounding like an alarm during a prison riot, I pick up the gun, open the chamber, and dump the 38 special cartridges out. Three of the six bullets have been fired. I dropped the gun in the shells to the ground and stare at them, trying to remember. Lurching to my feet, I checked the motel room, but there's no body. Unless you

count Harvey's headless corpse in the corner where Missy chucked it however many hours or days ago. The clock is unplugged, and I don't have a phone. Shades are drawn, and I'm not seeing any light around them. In short, I have no fucking clue what time it is, what the hell happened, or how long I've been here with a bathroom full of blood. I make my way over to the door and peer out the peephole. It's dark outside, night or early morning. Stepping back from the door, I knocked myself in the head trying to jumpstart my brain.

My head swims with soggy, half-formed ideas. Whatever the hell Missy gave me is still coursing through my bloodstream. My gaze moves over to Harvey's body. My eyes go blurry with tears of rage, remembering what she did, but she always does. I move back to the gun, putting the three bullets back into the Smith and Wesson revolver. I line the cylinder up with the hammer so I can fire all three in quick succession if I need to. Worried my prints are on the cartridge casings, I pick them up and pocket them. Sticking the gun in my waistband under my Hawaiian shirt, I moved to the door,

checking my pockets to make sure I have my few worldly possessions. After a quick check through the peephole, I open the door and step out into the night, and then step back into the hotel room, closing the door. It's below freezing outside, so I look around for something I can wear to keep warm. I consider taking a comforter off one of the beds, but decide against it when I find a fluffy fur coat in the closet. It's a woman's coat and tight around the shoulders, but I couldn't care less. Two minutes later, I'm back outside, hunched against the biting wind, walking down a deserted

street. Missy's Buick wasn't in the parking lot. There was no sign of her keys in the room. Did I dump her body with the car? I don't remember. It's all a blank. The wind and the cold helped to clear my head, and before I've put a mile between me and the motel, I know what I need to do. I come across an all-night gas station and ask the old

clerk, who's separated from me by multiple layers of bulletproof glass, where the nearest police station is. Well, the old timer says, his cheek full of chewing tobacco. That depends on what kind of police you's looking for. You see, we ain't in the city limits out here. Oh, sir, but we in there's county limits. You got that right. So you can either head yonder into the city to the city to police station, about 10 miles, or you can walk about two miles north to the sheriff's station. Dem's your options. I look around for a clock, locating a branded one above the beer cooler. It's nearly one in the morning.

Is the sheriff's office open all night? I ask. Far as I know, the old timer says. You got emergency? I can call 911 for you, but you got to have emergency. They get mad if it ain't emergency, you know. I nod and thank the clerk and head back out into the night. As I pass a trash can outside, I dig the three cartridge casings out of my pocket and drop them in. Thirty minutes later, I'm nearing a small building with a brick sign out front and silver letters reading Collins County Sheriff's Department. But before I reach the place, I detour into an alley between a post office and a drugstore.

I stick the gun underneath and behind a dumpster. The sheriff's office is dark, and the doors are locked. But a light comes on after I bang on the door for a minute. I'm coming! Just stop that god-awful pounding! A voice calls from inside. A moment later, a large graying man in a straining tan uniform shirt and brown trousers appears on the other side of the glass double doors. He has the wind-bitten face of a farmer and the large, meaty hands of a mechanic.

The belt around a sizable gut could wrap around me twice. What do you want? He says. I need to report. A crime, I tell him. What crime? I hesitate. Murder, I say.

I killed someone. Who'd you kill? He asks. Eyes narrowed in suspicion. I guess it's not every day that someone shows up in the middle of the night and confesses to murder. A woman, I tell him. He opens up the door. Come on inside.

And don't make any sudden moves or I'll have to shoot you. He says it matter of factly, not changing his tone at all. I step inside and he closes and locks the door. You armed? I shake my head. What did you kill her with? He says, leading the way deeper into the dark station. I think I shot her.

He stops and turns around. You think? I don't remember what exactly happened, I tell him. But I woke up and there was blood everywhere. She must have stumbled out and died somewhere else, I guess. He brings one large, calloused hand to his expanding forehead, rubbing his temples. Why don't you start from the beginning?

He says, showing me a seat next to a desk. After I'm done with my story, I wait with Deputy Jacobson while another deputy-owned patrol heads over to the motel. Around 2.15, Jacobson's radio comes alive. Is your guy sure the room number was 2.31? The deputy on the radio asks. Jacobson looks at me, eyebrows raised. Yes, I tell him.

I'm sure. He's sure. Jacobson says into the radio. There's nothing here. The voice says back. Only body here is a rabbit's in the corner. Poor little bastard had his head ripped off. Tell him to check the bathroom, I say, growing frantic.

Jacobson leans back in his seat, studying me with his pale eyes. He brings the radio up to his mouth. Did you check the bathroom? Of course I checked the damn bathroom, the guy says. No blood, nothing. Looks so clean you can eat off it. All right, Jacobson says. Thanks for Jack and Dulles.

No. I say standing up for my seat. I know what I saw. There was blood. And the gun. The gun had been fired three times. And where is this gun? He asks.

I stashed it nearby. I can get it for you. I'm an ex-con. I'm not supposed to have a gun. You can arrest me if I have a gun, right? Listen, Mr. Panzance. Jacobson says. If you're worried about this, missy woman, I can put you in a cell here for the night.

Maybe you'll think things differently in the morning. I mean, you don't really want to go back to prison, do you? You just got out, right? If it gets me away from her, I say, it's a deal I'm willing to make. Sure, she sounds like a real piece of work. But how about you sleep things off here tonight? Revisit things in the morning. You really want me to bust you for a parole violation?

I'll do it. but I have a feeling you'll see things differently. I swallow, looking around the office. Yeah, I say, a little breathless. Yeah, okay. Jacobson leads me to the cells in back. They're all empty, and he puts me in the one nearest the door. As I sit on the thin mattress, he looks me over.

I don't need to take your shoes and your belt, do I? He asks. She's bad, but she's not that bad, I say, smiling weakly. Okay, Jacobson says, I'm locking you in. I'll check on you in a few hours. A nod, lying down on the cot that's fastened to the wall. A stainless steel toilet with a small sink above it takes up the head of the small cell. I close my eyes and think of Harvey. Sleep comes slowly, and I doze off.

I wake up sometime later to screaming from beyond the door to the rest of the station. I stand up and go over to the bars, but I can't see out into the office. There's no window in the heavy metal door. It's a man screaming. Jacobson. There are two muffled gunshots, followed by a loud crash. Then silence. The metal door opens, revealing Missy,

looking at me with that evil smile in her face. What have you done? She says, wagging a finger at me. I back up, shaking my head. The backs of my legs hit the toilet, and I have nowhere else to go. Missy produces a key ring and locates the next to the next. and locates the numbered key for the cell.

Come on, baby, she says. Let's go. She opens the cell door and looks in at me. I lower my gaze, but make no move to leave the cell. Come on, Willie. She says, her voice like velvet. I look at the floor. If I look into her eyes, I'll be done for.

Don't make me come in there, she growls. Her voice tinged with demonic menace. I shuffle out of the cell without looking up. As I step beside her, She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is like ice, and I shiver, even though I'm still wearing her fur coat. We step out into the office area of the small sheriff's station. Splashes of crimson catch my eye, and I can't help but look up.

Jacobson's headless body is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Blood dribbles out of the ragged wound where his head was once attached. His feet have been jammed through and somehow secured above the acoustic tile ceiling. The scene makes me want to vomit, and I look away quickly as we move past. Missy's hand still on my shoulder. I can't help but think of Harvey. The way his blood dribbled down her chin as she crunched on his furry little head. We step outside.

It's still dark out with the faintest suggestion of morning on the eastern horizon. This way, baby, Missy says, directed me toward the alley between the post office and the drugstore. The gun, I think. Get the gun, end this now, kill the demon. I've always suspected Missy was different, but now there's no doubt. She's evil, pure evil. Her Buick is idling in the alley,

the exhaust pipe spitting poison vapor. We stop at the rear of the vehicle, and she steps in front of me, putting both heavy, freezing hands on my shoulder. Look at me, she whispers. Before I know what I'm doing, I start to look up. But a vision of Harvey's little headless body rushes into my brain and I catch myself.

Really? She says. Look at me, baby. Her voice seems to slither its way into my brain, numbing my defenses like a drug. When I still don't look up, her fingers dig painfully into my shoulders. I slowly bring my head up,

remembering Harvey, remembering Jacobson, remembering all the terrible things she's ever done to me. I look into her soulless eyes. Be a good boy and do what I say, okay? I feel drowsy. The world seems to disappear as she becomes everything to me.

The only thing that matters. Fight it, I think. Remember Harvey. I nod. Get in the car, she says. I nod again and turn to walk to the car. Missy does the same, walking to the driver's door. Instead of turning to open the door, I burst into a run,

making it to the dumpster in moments. I reach under and behind it, finding the gun easily. When I straighten up, Missy is standing. Three feet away from me, curiosity on her face. I level the gun at her. The Buick's headlights provide stark illumination. Finally, for the first time since we met, I see her clearly. She's not a woman at all.

She's not even human. She's a demon. Black is insanity and full of malice. This other her, the real her, hulks above her like a shadow. It hunches, arms reaching out to me, ready to pull me back into her deceptions, to pull the wool over my eyes once again. She discs, shaking her head. head. Baby, what are you? I fired the gun, putting two bullets into her chest and the third into her

head. The gunshots echo off the alley walls, making my ears ring as she collapses to the dirty asphalt. She's dead. She's finally dead. I stare at her limp body for a long moment, unable to believe that the mess of blood and brains on the alley floor and wall are really hers. Could she really have such human-looking insides? Snapping out of it, I moved to the car, sliding behind the wheel, and setting the pistol down on the seat beside me. I pull out of the alley, driving over Missy's body for good measure. I head out of town.

I'll go as far as I can on the $71 in my pocket and whatever cash is in the car, if any. The sun is brightening the eastern horizon as I stop at a bridge and put the car in park. A slow, gray river flows past underneath, headed for parts unknown. I dropped the gun into the water, glad to be rid of it.

As I head back around the front of it, with the car to get in the driver's seat, I hear a scraping sound from the back of the Buick. Thinking something's wrong with the exhaust, I stepped that way, only to see Missy getting her feet under her. She's dirty, bloody, and has little bits of brain stuck to the hair at the back of her head. That's the second time you shot me tonight, she growls. There won't be a third. She stands, her broken bones cracking as she straightens them. The bullet holes in her forehead and chest are slowly closing. I back up, take up. error filling my heart. She follows. My back hits the bridge railing. I need to run, but my legs

don't want to work. I can't breathe. I can't think. Missy lunges at me, her mouth open, fangs extending. As she crashes into me, the only thing I can do is wrap my arms around her and hold tight, pushing with my legs and throwing us over the bridge. The freezing water takes my breath as we hit, but I don't loosen my grip on Missy, whose teeth puncture my neck as we sink. I know I'm about to die, but maybe, just maybe. can take her with me.