6 In The Styx

6 IN THE STYX

Stories

BY BRAD CARL

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2018 Brad Carl

All rights reserved.

Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography

Copy editing by Free Range Editorial

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

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INTRODUCTION

I read recently that when Stephen King was asked why he still wrote short stories, he said it was because writing them makes him happy, and he was born to entertain. Boy, can I ever relate to that statement in a number of different ways.

Writing short stories makes me happy, too, mostly because I can go so quickly from concept to completion. I truly do write what I would like to read. I figure if it entertains me, surely it will entertain others, right? Ah, if only it were that easy all the time.

The problem writers have is we're kinda-sorta entertained by everything we write. Notice I didn't say we think everything we write is good. There's a fine line between the two. I've written a lot of trash in my life that still entertained me.

The good news for me is my biggest short story influence is the aforementioned King. I tend to follow his lead in a lot of ways. He's way, way, way better than I am, of course. But several of my organic ideas were born out of evaluating his stories. If you've read my previous story collection, 5 Dead or Alive, you might've noticed this. And you will almost certainly notice it in this book, as well.

But back to the entertainer in me...

Anyone who knows me well knows I've spent a lot of time doing a lot of things — mostly entertaining people in some way, shape, or form.

In the summer of 1987, while I was still in high school, I performed my first concert with my first band at our neighborhood block party. It was just me on guitar and vocals and my friend Steve on the drums.

In 1989 I decided that radio was going to be my thing, and I wound up with a full-time job as an on-air personality before I graduated from college. I kept messing around with the music thing, too — writing songs and even self-recording my first album in 1991. And I can't forget my brief stage-acting career that began with my portrayal of Lennie in Of Mice and Men.

In the late nineties I realized I could make more money and work better hours if I wasn't in radio, so I went out and got an industrial sales job and never looked back. Except that I did look back — all the time.

Since 2005 I've developed and produced two different semi-successful Internet radio shows/podcasts. Truthfully, I was podcasting before it was called podcasting. I've written and independently recorded dozens of songs alone and with friends. I'm the producer of a YouTube channel for craft beer reviews. I've had a supporting actor role in a full-length movie and the lead role in a DVD short. There are probably many other things I've done over the years that could be classified as entertainment.

But it was when I began writing and independently publishing books that something really clicked. I can't tell you how thrilling it is to hear from people who've enjoyed reading something I've written. And the really crazy part to me is that people are paying to be entertained by my writing!

It took me this long to figure out that I was probably born to do this. My only regret is that someone didn't tell me sooner, but who am I fooling? I probably wouldn't have listened to them, anyway. All I can do now is keep doing this until I can't do it anymore.

I truly hope I can write until the day I die and that you, Dear Reader, stay with me that long. Together we will continue to grow as human beings — you as a reader and me as a writer. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. Together we make things happen for each other.

#

Many of my short stories are birthed from dreams. Dead Silent is one of them. My recollection is that in my dream the body was actually discovered under the bed, but it didn't seem feasible to write the story that way. Obviously, I don't have a developmental editor in my sleep.

One of the things I like about this story is that the element of mystery takes a back seat to the protagonist's personal issues. You'll see this in a couple of the pieces in this book. Kevin Bran is a complex individual, and by the end of the story it's pretty clear why his wife has kicked him out. His thought process on how to handle the unusual predicament is difficult to defend, but is it realistic? I don't know for sure, but I can tell you I spend a lot of time in real life puzzled by people's decisions and wondering what the hell they could have been thinking.

Tom Clancy once said, The difference between fiction and reality is that fiction has to make sense. He was, of course, being facetious. But there's also some truth to the statement, and I sometimes struggle with finding a balance. I hope I've found it in Dead Silent.

DEAD SILENT

Kevin Bran lay facedown on the bed, his eyes pinched shut in a deep sleep.

BOOM!

In a flash, he bolted up and looked around, his vision flooded in black as he grabbed his head in agony. After a few more seconds of focusing, Kevin realized the noise had only been a door slamming down the hall.

The hotel room smelled like cigarettes and alcohol. The all too familiar aroma wriggled through the air like a bad taste on his dry tongue.

It was just a business meeting. I promised her I would quit drinking.

Kevin felt the guilt rise in his stomach like bile. He looked at the clock on the nightstand and again felt the anxiety growing. This was his big chance. The head honchos in the company had finally invited him to an executive meeting.

Last night wasn't supposed to happen the way it did, but he had been so damn nervous. It started off as just one drink to loosen up a little. That was the way it always started, though.

He stood up and tried his best to straighten out the wrinkles in his slacks. Kevin had brought no bags or toiletries on the overnight business trip. He literally had nothing but the clothes on his back. His bosses had no idea about his current living situation, crashing at friends' houses and the like. He twisted the gold band on his finger.

She will take me back. I know it.

This was Kevin's final chance. If he could go to her with a promotion and sobriety, he knew she would take him back in an instant. He just needed to convince her that the last fourteen years of marriage meant something. This trip would prove it.

Kevin picked himself up from the bed and began looking for his jacket. Chuck would arrive any minute to catch a cab to the meeting, so he had to at least give the appearance of being refreshed. He searched everywhere for the jacket, knowing there was a good possibility he had forgotten it at the sports bar at the peak of his intoxication.

Suddenly, Kevin caught a whiff of something underlying the barroom odors — flowers? Yes, there it was, lilacs. He followed the scent to the closet but doubted there was anything in it since he hadn't used it. At least, he didn't think he had.

With nowhere else to look, Kevin grabbed the brass handle and pulled the door open.

My God! What the hell... He stumbled backwards, crashing into the wall, open-mouthed at the sight of a woman seated on the floor of the closet. Her frizzy brown hair was arranged haphazardly around her neck, and her hands clutched a piece of clothing.

My jacket!

What are you doing in here? Who are you?

Kevin reached out to tap her to get her attention...

The prickling started in his toes, forming goosebumps up his arms and causing the hairs on his neck to stand at attention. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst through his ribs. A cold sweat began dripping down his back.

There was a reason she wasn't responding, a reason her eyes were glazed and cloudy — lifeless.

She's dead!

Kevin gulped down the lump in his throat and hit the panic button.

Who is this woman?

What the hell is she doing in my room?

Why does she have my jacket?

Touching her as little as possible, as if she were contaminated with disease, he carefully pulled the jacket from her grip and brushed off the spot where her fingers had held it. Then he put it on.

Next, Kevin dashed to the phone and pressed the nine...and then the one...and then abruptly banged the receiver down on its base.

He couldn't call the police. He'd be their prime suspect. They'd hold him until he could prove his innocence, probably take him to the station and interrogate the shit out of him. And then he would miss the meeting.

If he missed the meeting, he had no chance at the promotion. And without the promotion, Lisa would never take him back. Never-ever.

I can't call the police!

He grabbed his left hand with his right, trying to stop it from shaking. The sweat flowing out of Kevin's pores