Debt Relief
By
Barlow Crassmont
Ryker Hawlins stared at the depressing score with eyes that bordered on weeping.
The game was in his team’s favor only moments ago. But a few bad passess and a poorly missed open shot was all it took for his sure-fire bet to slip away, like a wiggly eel through wet hands. Now, with two and a half seconds remaining, the Longhorns were up against it - as was he. Ryker was already in too deep with Lester Lamuel, and another lost wager would put him out of the gangster’s good graces.
He’ll break my legs - this time for real. There’s nothing I can do to make up for the losses… unless...
But no. No, he couldn’t possibly. He shouldn’t. Either way, he promised he wouldn’t. No, he’d find a way to settle his debts in an honest way. And perhaps he would’ve thought of a way, had several people not already lined up in front of his booth.
Behind him, a shoddy house stood tall and ominous, covered in fake cobwebs. Plastic skeletons hung from several of its walls, and jack-o-lanterns were the sole illumination glowing from within the dark windows. The customers’ bombastic questions woke Ryker from the brief reverie.
“Is the haunted house scarier than it was last Halloween?” the large bearded man asked. “My children were not impressed with the tour a year ago.”
“It’s the same,” Ryker exhaled, looking away from his phone.
“Same? In other words, lame?” The man looked at his children, and shrugged with a noticeable frown. Behind them, half a dozen people got the message, and sighed in disappointment.
Minor profanities ensued, directed at no one in particular. Sighs and murmurs followed, and within seconds the atmosphere among the small group was as dispirited as a funeral.
Ryker could’ve lied, and said that it was scarier, more terrifying than ever, and sold some tickets for a change. He needed money worse than arrogant criminals in premature retirement. But that would’ve served little purpose. The dissatisfied group would’ve returned within minutes, frowning and grunting and cursing, demanding their money back.
Meanwhile, the line was thinning out again, and the potential customers were meandering away, pondering their next move as the sun vanished behind the horizon. Money was walking away from Ryker’s cash register, and there was little he could do to entice them back. He had several dozen unsold tickets, and he needed to unload them - at a mark-up, if possible. He needed money, a lot of it, and the sooner the better. Yet making it up honestly was a task as insurmountable as a hike up Mount Everest.
Had a blonde, long haired teenager from the back of the line not yelled, “This place sucks! You should demolish this dump and turn the land into a graveyard. Then it might actually be scary!”, the ticket seller may have had sufficient time to figure his way out of the present conundrum.
Instead, Ryker stared at the boy from afar in silent defiance. What would you know of fear? The kind that keeps you up during countless nights? You’ve never even imagined it, much less experienced it.
The fat bearded man yelled out, “Ryker’s Revulsion is a joke! I’m gonna write a negative review as soon as I get home, to make sure no one ever wastes their money on your shitty haunted house.”
And there it was: the final straw. They could’ve just walked away, like the civilized disgruntled, without resorting to insults. But alas, it was not to be. I said I wouldn’t, but screw it. Desperate times, and all that. Plus, they’re acting like a bunch of jerks.
Ryker closed his eyes, cleared his throat, brought the microphone close to his chapped lips. Then, he spoke with the fervor of an announcer in complete control of his pitch.
“Wait.” The word resonated like muffled thunder under cloudless autumn skies.
The dispersing crowd of nine stopped and turned, their flabby arms and legs jiggling as if on momentary vibration.
“You want to be scared?” Ryker asked.
“Hell, yeah!”
“Whaddya think we came all the way out here for?”
“It’s Halloween, isn’t it?”
Whistles and cheers followed, their precise origin undetectable from the excitable group, some who resorted to clapping in anticipation of Ryker’s next remark.
“Are you familiar with Brayden Manor?” Ryker asked.
The small crowd gaped at Ryker behind his glass booth, their reflections staring back at them, like transparent spirits. At length, several of them nodded, with mouths halfway open.
“Real horror took place there, some eight years ago,” Ryker said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened. It was national news. You say you want to be scared, and that my haunted house just won’t do. In that case, let me take you to the Brayden Manor, and you can tour the property where five people were disemboweled, like Texas cattle. It won’t cost much, only twenty per head.”
“Isn’t that place off limits to the public?” someone yelled out.
“To most public, yes.”
“You have access to it?” the fat man said.
“Sure do,” Ryker said. “Been the caretaker of the grounds for a few years. No one else has the guts to go near it. I doubt that any of you do either, but I’d thought I’d suggest it anyway, since ya’ll seem so tough and all.”
The ensuing silence was long and eerie. Children of the fat man tugged at his sleeves, and pleaded with him. The three teenagers, at length, laughed it up, downplaying Ryker’s bluff. And the middle aged couple, meanwhile, shook their heads, waved the offer away, and left.
“The offer’s enticing, for sure, but might be a bit too much for my young boys,” the fat man said, with twisted lips. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow, with the wife alone.” With slumped shoulders, he led his children towards the car in the decrepit parking lot.
“I guess it’s just gonna be us,” the blonde haired teenager, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear, said to Ryker. Under the boy’s arm, half of a six-pack protruded.
“Pay up front,” Ryker said. “Sixty in total.” The trio handed him three crumpled bills, at which point Ryker made a phone call. It lasted but a few seconds, and he nodded and whispered in the affirmative before hanging up. “You can’t take your car. Only my van is allowed on the Brayden property. It’s over there. Come on.”
Ryker and the three young men embarked the rusty blue vehicle, and were on the road promptly. Gravel crunched under the large tires on the dark road, and soon robust trees gave way to famished branches absent of leaves and vegetation, resembling skeletal limbs of wood instead of flesh. Numerous crows cawed the closer they approached the cursed property, and an undeniable stench was soon sensed in the night air - even with the van’s windows closed.
“What the hell is that?” one of the boys said, pinching his nose.
“There’s a garbage site closeby,” Ryker said. “Half of the state dumps their refuse there.”
“Smells worse than death.”
If you only knew. Ryker’s mind was a racetrack where mayhem ruled in lieu of order. This is the last time, I swear. It would’ve been better had everyone come, but what could I do. Three should do for now, and get me on a somewhat even keel with Lester. Once I settle the debt, I’m out for good. I’ll never gamble again.
The van turned into a sideroad, where it passed a sign that read, ENTRY PROHIBITED! KEEP OUT. The vehicle left it in its wake, like so much dust that swirled about.
Soon, the Manor was visible under the pale moonlight. It was a decaying, crumbling structure. Distant howling echoed around it, like a tune from a bygone century. In appearance, the Manor was rather flat, its color either black or dark brown, and many of its windows missing or broken. At its ghastly sight, faces of the three teenagers lit with newfound jubilation, and they high fived each other as each opened a new can of beer.
Ryker pulled up some forty yards away, and turned off the vehicle.
“You have twenty minutes, and not a second longer,” Ryker said, handing them a singular flashlight. “Use this to guide you, since there’s no power in there. I’ll wait here.”
“It’s safe to go inside, right?” the blonde teenager asked, apprehension shaking in his voice for the first time.
“That’s right. No one lives there - not anymore.”
“But people did die there, didn’t they?”
“So what?” Ryker said. “That was years ago. Besides, there’s no reason to fear the dead. They’re buried six feet under. It’s the living that instill fear - the living that can still wound and harm.” His wink concluded a soliloquy that not everyone found enticing.
The chubby boy swallowed, his hands clearly jittery and anxious. “I don’t know about this…”
“Don’t be a pussy,” the blonde boy said, having regained his composure. “Besides, this was your idea.” He exited the van. “Let’s go.” The chubby boy hesitated, then followed along. The third boy, sporting long, greasy dreadlocks past his shoulders, hardly said a word; but when he moved, his wobbliness indicated the extremity of his intoxication. He rushed towards the nearby tree, and relieved himself, much to the chuckle of his friends.
Ryker was glad when all three were out of his vehicle, walking towards the cursed property. He followed their trajectory by the flashlight’s illumination, until the boys entered through the front door, at which point he lost sight of them.
Looking at his phone, Ryker saw several messages of threatening nature. The sender was a familiar name, and the delivered theme was one and the same: “have the money tomorrow - or else!”
I’ll bring it first thing in the morning, was Ryker’s response. Then, he put the phone away, and waited. It took less than a minute before the first scream resonated from within the Brayden Manor. Ryker could picture the timbre of the voice with the appropriate face. It’s only right the loudmouth is the first to go. Then, the other two joined the collective shrieks, and the horrifying wails became so acute and piercing that Ryker could not help but cover his ears - eyes closed and all.
I’ll burn for this someday, but there’s no going back now. We’ll all burn, for the time of saints is long gone; only sinners roam the modern landscape.
Several minutes passed, and after the last scream faded, and final chill had passed through his skin, Ryker sighed, and exited his van. His walk towards the manor was less apprehensive than it was the first time he graced the property - back when his hairline hadn’t receded to this degree, and when he still possessed a spine worth admiring. With an escalating heart rate, and a breath that bordered on shortened, he waited on the doorstep, hesitating to knock. Perspiration formed on his brow, and by the time he wiped it, the door gradually creaked, opening to indiscernible darkness that smelled of faint iron and freshly spilled entrails.
An old gentleman, thin and lanky, his figure resembling a skeleton, appeared. His head was smoother than an egg, his skin as white as snow. Eyes darker than two black olives protruded out of his head. At Ryker’s sight, he gave a noticeable smirk.
“Only three?” the man said, in a deep, ominous voice.
Ryker nodded. “I tried getting more, but they scattered away.”
“These boys will hardly satisfy the Master’s hunger. He’s famished, after having fasted for months.”
“I did all I could,” Ryker said. “Can I have my money?”
The man sighed, then pulled out a wad of cash. When he handed it to Ryker, the latter rummaged through the bills with narrowed eyes.
“Whoa! That’s not —”
“Inferior quality begets inferior payment,” the old man said. “They’re full of drugs and alcohol. Not exactly nutritious material.”
“This isn’t fair, William, and you know it!”
“Fair has nothing to do with it. Times are tough - for your kind, and ours. The Master’s been out of work for —”
“You have any idea what I’m risking by doing this?” Ryker cried.
“The Master appreciates all you do, rest assured. Bring us plumpier prey next time, and we’ll reward you accordingly.”
Ryker could do little but accept his current predicament, unless he chose to voice his dissatisfaction to the Master directly. Not a chance. Best to leave well enough alone, and make due with what I got, even if it’s less than what I anticipated.
“Be sure to dispose of the remains thoroughly - the bones, the clothes - everything!” Ryker said.
“Of course,” William said. “Our thoroughness is second to none.”
Second only to mine. “I’ll make sure their car is never found,” Ryker said. William nodded, then closed the door. The stench dissipated with its shutting, and as Ryker walked towards his vehicle, he could still hear the everpresent muffled wails - obscure and secluded. Distant voices calling for help from the beyond.
No one hears them but me. My curse for the life I lead. But no more. This was the last time. This money will keep Lester from hurting me. He’ll get the rest before the week’s over.
On the way home, Ryker drove with eyes half shut and half awake. He likely would’ve fallen asleep behind the wheel, had his phone not been bombarded with several incoming messages from his bookie, Zachary Gavin.
“Boston vs Detroit pays +250. It’s a lock! I’m getting swamped with bets. Should I put you down for a cool G? You’d be crazy not to.”
Ryker’s eyes suddenly widened, his pupils expanding as if on psychedelics. His previous fatigue vanished, imitating dew under the midday sun. He briefly contemplated the offer, then typed a response with his left thumb while his right hand remained on the wheel.
Ok, but this is the last time. I will not gamble again - ever!
Ryker’s foot fell heavier on the gas pedal, and his shoddy van sped up and penetrated from the waning darkness, accidentally drifting to his left, and into the lane of oncoming traffic. By the time he saw the headlights around the curve, accompanied by a loud honk that made him look up from his phone, it was too late.
The crash was cathartic and instantaneous. Ryker’s wish, at the very least, did come true: he never made another bet again.
Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Sudo Journal, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.
By
Barlow Crassmont
Ryker Hawlins stared at the depressing score with eyes that bordered on weeping.
The game was in his team’s favor only moments ago. But a few bad passess and a poorly missed open shot was all it took for his sure-fire bet to slip away, like a wiggly eel through wet hands. Now, with two and a half seconds remaining, the Longhorns were up against it - as was he. Ryker was already in too deep with Lester Lamuel, and another lost wager would put him out of the gangster’s good graces.
He’ll break my legs - this time for real. There’s nothing I can do to make up for the losses… unless...
But no. No, he couldn’t possibly. He shouldn’t. Either way, he promised he wouldn’t. No, he’d find a way to settle his debts in an honest way. And perhaps he would’ve thought of a way, had several people not already lined up in front of his booth.
Behind him, a shoddy house stood tall and ominous, covered in fake cobwebs. Plastic skeletons hung from several of its walls, and jack-o-lanterns were the sole illumination glowing from within the dark windows. The customers’ bombastic questions woke Ryker from the brief reverie.
“Is the haunted house scarier than it was last Halloween?” the large bearded man asked. “My children were not impressed with the tour a year ago.”
“It’s the same,” Ryker exhaled, looking away from his phone.
“Same? In other words, lame?” The man looked at his children, and shrugged with a noticeable frown. Behind them, half a dozen people got the message, and sighed in disappointment.
Minor profanities ensued, directed at no one in particular. Sighs and murmurs followed, and within seconds the atmosphere among the small group was as dispirited as a funeral.
Ryker could’ve lied, and said that it was scarier, more terrifying than ever, and sold some tickets for a change. He needed money worse than arrogant criminals in premature retirement. But that would’ve served little purpose. The dissatisfied group would’ve returned within minutes, frowning and grunting and cursing, demanding their money back.
Meanwhile, the line was thinning out again, and the potential customers were meandering away, pondering their next move as the sun vanished behind the horizon. Money was walking away from Ryker’s cash register, and there was little he could do to entice them back. He had several dozen unsold tickets, and he needed to unload them - at a mark-up, if possible. He needed money, a lot of it, and the sooner the better. Yet making it up honestly was a task as insurmountable as a hike up Mount Everest.
Had a blonde, long haired teenager from the back of the line not yelled, “This place sucks! You should demolish this dump and turn the land into a graveyard. Then it might actually be scary!”, the ticket seller may have had sufficient time to figure his way out of the present conundrum.
Instead, Ryker stared at the boy from afar in silent defiance. What would you know of fear? The kind that keeps you up during countless nights? You’ve never even imagined it, much less experienced it.
The fat bearded man yelled out, “Ryker’s Revulsion is a joke! I’m gonna write a negative review as soon as I get home, to make sure no one ever wastes their money on your shitty haunted house.”
And there it was: the final straw. They could’ve just walked away, like the civilized disgruntled, without resorting to insults. But alas, it was not to be. I said I wouldn’t, but screw it. Desperate times, and all that. Plus, they’re acting like a bunch of jerks.
Ryker closed his eyes, cleared his throat, brought the microphone close to his chapped lips. Then, he spoke with the fervor of an announcer in complete control of his pitch.
“Wait.” The word resonated like muffled thunder under cloudless autumn skies.
The dispersing crowd of nine stopped and turned, their flabby arms and legs jiggling as if on momentary vibration.
“You want to be scared?” Ryker asked.
“Hell, yeah!”
“Whaddya think we came all the way out here for?”
“It’s Halloween, isn’t it?”
Whistles and cheers followed, their precise origin undetectable from the excitable group, some who resorted to clapping in anticipation of Ryker’s next remark.
“Are you familiar with Brayden Manor?” Ryker asked.
The small crowd gaped at Ryker behind his glass booth, their reflections staring back at them, like transparent spirits. At length, several of them nodded, with mouths halfway open.
“Real horror took place there, some eight years ago,” Ryker said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened. It was national news. You say you want to be scared, and that my haunted house just won’t do. In that case, let me take you to the Brayden Manor, and you can tour the property where five people were disemboweled, like Texas cattle. It won’t cost much, only twenty per head.”
“Isn’t that place off limits to the public?” someone yelled out.
“To most public, yes.”
“You have access to it?” the fat man said.
“Sure do,” Ryker said. “Been the caretaker of the grounds for a few years. No one else has the guts to go near it. I doubt that any of you do either, but I’d thought I’d suggest it anyway, since ya’ll seem so tough and all.”
The ensuing silence was long and eerie. Children of the fat man tugged at his sleeves, and pleaded with him. The three teenagers, at length, laughed it up, downplaying Ryker’s bluff. And the middle aged couple, meanwhile, shook their heads, waved the offer away, and left.
“The offer’s enticing, for sure, but might be a bit too much for my young boys,” the fat man said, with twisted lips. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow, with the wife alone.” With slumped shoulders, he led his children towards the car in the decrepit parking lot.
“I guess it’s just gonna be us,” the blonde haired teenager, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear, said to Ryker. Under the boy’s arm, half of a six-pack protruded.
“Pay up front,” Ryker said. “Sixty in total.” The trio handed him three crumpled bills, at which point Ryker made a phone call. It lasted but a few seconds, and he nodded and whispered in the affirmative before hanging up. “You can’t take your car. Only my van is allowed on the Brayden property. It’s over there. Come on.”
Ryker and the three young men embarked the rusty blue vehicle, and were on the road promptly. Gravel crunched under the large tires on the dark road, and soon robust trees gave way to famished branches absent of leaves and vegetation, resembling skeletal limbs of wood instead of flesh. Numerous crows cawed the closer they approached the cursed property, and an undeniable stench was soon sensed in the night air - even with the van’s windows closed.
“What the hell is that?” one of the boys said, pinching his nose.
“There’s a garbage site closeby,” Ryker said. “Half of the state dumps their refuse there.”
“Smells worse than death.”
If you only knew. Ryker’s mind was a racetrack where mayhem ruled in lieu of order. This is the last time, I swear. It would’ve been better had everyone come, but what could I do. Three should do for now, and get me on a somewhat even keel with Lester. Once I settle the debt, I’m out for good. I’ll never gamble again.
The van turned into a sideroad, where it passed a sign that read, ENTRY PROHIBITED! KEEP OUT. The vehicle left it in its wake, like so much dust that swirled about.
Soon, the Manor was visible under the pale moonlight. It was a decaying, crumbling structure. Distant howling echoed around it, like a tune from a bygone century. In appearance, the Manor was rather flat, its color either black or dark brown, and many of its windows missing or broken. At its ghastly sight, faces of the three teenagers lit with newfound jubilation, and they high fived each other as each opened a new can of beer.
Ryker pulled up some forty yards away, and turned off the vehicle.
“You have twenty minutes, and not a second longer,” Ryker said, handing them a singular flashlight. “Use this to guide you, since there’s no power in there. I’ll wait here.”
“It’s safe to go inside, right?” the blonde teenager asked, apprehension shaking in his voice for the first time.
“That’s right. No one lives there - not anymore.”
“But people did die there, didn’t they?”
“So what?” Ryker said. “That was years ago. Besides, there’s no reason to fear the dead. They’re buried six feet under. It’s the living that instill fear - the living that can still wound and harm.” His wink concluded a soliloquy that not everyone found enticing.
The chubby boy swallowed, his hands clearly jittery and anxious. “I don’t know about this…”
“Don’t be a pussy,” the blonde boy said, having regained his composure. “Besides, this was your idea.” He exited the van. “Let’s go.” The chubby boy hesitated, then followed along. The third boy, sporting long, greasy dreadlocks past his shoulders, hardly said a word; but when he moved, his wobbliness indicated the extremity of his intoxication. He rushed towards the nearby tree, and relieved himself, much to the chuckle of his friends.
Ryker was glad when all three were out of his vehicle, walking towards the cursed property. He followed their trajectory by the flashlight’s illumination, until the boys entered through the front door, at which point he lost sight of them.
Looking at his phone, Ryker saw several messages of threatening nature. The sender was a familiar name, and the delivered theme was one and the same: “have the money tomorrow - or else!”
I’ll bring it first thing in the morning, was Ryker’s response. Then, he put the phone away, and waited. It took less than a minute before the first scream resonated from within the Brayden Manor. Ryker could picture the timbre of the voice with the appropriate face. It’s only right the loudmouth is the first to go. Then, the other two joined the collective shrieks, and the horrifying wails became so acute and piercing that Ryker could not help but cover his ears - eyes closed and all.
I’ll burn for this someday, but there’s no going back now. We’ll all burn, for the time of saints is long gone; only sinners roam the modern landscape.
Several minutes passed, and after the last scream faded, and final chill had passed through his skin, Ryker sighed, and exited his van. His walk towards the manor was less apprehensive than it was the first time he graced the property - back when his hairline hadn’t receded to this degree, and when he still possessed a spine worth admiring. With an escalating heart rate, and a breath that bordered on shortened, he waited on the doorstep, hesitating to knock. Perspiration formed on his brow, and by the time he wiped it, the door gradually creaked, opening to indiscernible darkness that smelled of faint iron and freshly spilled entrails.
An old gentleman, thin and lanky, his figure resembling a skeleton, appeared. His head was smoother than an egg, his skin as white as snow. Eyes darker than two black olives protruded out of his head. At Ryker’s sight, he gave a noticeable smirk.
“Only three?” the man said, in a deep, ominous voice.
Ryker nodded. “I tried getting more, but they scattered away.”
“These boys will hardly satisfy the Master’s hunger. He’s famished, after having fasted for months.”
“I did all I could,” Ryker said. “Can I have my money?”
The man sighed, then pulled out a wad of cash. When he handed it to Ryker, the latter rummaged through the bills with narrowed eyes.
“Whoa! That’s not —”
“Inferior quality begets inferior payment,” the old man said. “They’re full of drugs and alcohol. Not exactly nutritious material.”
“This isn’t fair, William, and you know it!”
“Fair has nothing to do with it. Times are tough - for your kind, and ours. The Master’s been out of work for —”
“You have any idea what I’m risking by doing this?” Ryker cried.
“The Master appreciates all you do, rest assured. Bring us plumpier prey next time, and we’ll reward you accordingly.”
Ryker could do little but accept his current predicament, unless he chose to voice his dissatisfaction to the Master directly. Not a chance. Best to leave well enough alone, and make due with what I got, even if it’s less than what I anticipated.
“Be sure to dispose of the remains thoroughly - the bones, the clothes - everything!” Ryker said.
“Of course,” William said. “Our thoroughness is second to none.”
Second only to mine. “I’ll make sure their car is never found,” Ryker said. William nodded, then closed the door. The stench dissipated with its shutting, and as Ryker walked towards his vehicle, he could still hear the everpresent muffled wails - obscure and secluded. Distant voices calling for help from the beyond.
No one hears them but me. My curse for the life I lead. But no more. This was the last time. This money will keep Lester from hurting me. He’ll get the rest before the week’s over.
On the way home, Ryker drove with eyes half shut and half awake. He likely would’ve fallen asleep behind the wheel, had his phone not been bombarded with several incoming messages from his bookie, Zachary Gavin.
“Boston vs Detroit pays +250. It’s a lock! I’m getting swamped with bets. Should I put you down for a cool G? You’d be crazy not to.”
Ryker’s eyes suddenly widened, his pupils expanding as if on psychedelics. His previous fatigue vanished, imitating dew under the midday sun. He briefly contemplated the offer, then typed a response with his left thumb while his right hand remained on the wheel.
Ok, but this is the last time. I will not gamble again - ever!
Ryker’s foot fell heavier on the gas pedal, and his shoddy van sped up and penetrated from the waning darkness, accidentally drifting to his left, and into the lane of oncoming traffic. By the time he saw the headlights around the curve, accompanied by a loud honk that made him look up from his phone, it was too late.
The crash was cathartic and instantaneous. Ryker’s wish, at the very least, did come true: he never made another bet again.
Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Sudo Journal, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.
