Anonymous Jay

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Erotic Horror  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Nite-Owl

Halloween is right around the corner.

Anonymous Jay

Two deadbolts secured his flat’s door, and bars protected his garden-level windows.

Anonymous Jay lived in a rundown section of Baltimore.

The street, a bus stop, and an empty pocket park sat beyond his blackout window shades. The interior of his apartment had a short breakfast bar separating the kitchenette from his living space, bedroom, and closet-sized bathroom. He’d sparsely furnished these spaces: a dining table, two chairs, a laptop, a couch, a stained mattress, and a rickety bureau.

A stalker appeared each time Jay approached his bathroom mirror, a terrible visage with facial moles, a pitted nose, and a rash of whiteheads.  The man wasn’t elderly, but his approach was broken, ungainly.  Flakes from his infected scalp coated his shoulders; he was victim to a speech impediment, and his mumblings were accompanied by a spray of saliva that left specks on the mirror. You’re nothing better than I am, he wanted Jay to know.

Jay’s neighbors in the tenement didn’t see the stalker shadowing Jay, nor did his coworkers at the widget factory.  But Jay sensed his presence, always. No, that isn’t me. I am a well-bred, sophisticated man.

On workday mornings, Jay peeked out his window while waiting for the bus to arrive, always the same riders, ghosts on their way to the industrial park. He had 90 seconds to grab his lunch of spam, mustard sardines, and olive loaf, throw the locks on his door, then hurry to the bus before it left, leaving him stranded amongst the race mongrels.

He’d climb the bus’s steps, drop his token, and start down the aisle, a gauntlet of the unwashed. The men pretended gallantry but were jealous of his easy charm. The women suffered apoplectic sexual ardor from a contagion that Jay called his animal magnetism. They were a lot of nobodies, a lot of liars pretending to have good humor, sharing anecdotes or pictures of loved ones as they whizzed along from one pickup point to another.

On the job, Anonymous Jay was a captain of industry, pushing a cart of ready-to-assemble boxes to the widget lines or hiding in toilet stalls for hours.

Tucked comfortably atop his shitter, he’d scribble a misogynistic dissertation on the walls around him.

Trixie, one of the factory’s custodians, often complained about the writing, citing race-baiting and misogyny as a basis for her complaints.

Ilene, a line worker, and Trixie’s sister-in-law advised Trixie to steer clear.

“You leave God to sort that man out,” she said, “You know, ole’ Lester told me that crazy sonofabitch had a sister, but it wasn’t any God-given sister because it turned out she was his mother. But that wasn’t the end of it. Mr. Jay and his mother were unnatural together, and soon, she had a baby. That baby came out deformed. Then that mother and baby died in a house fire, and Mr. Jay came up from Mississippi, and there was a string of murders in his wake. So here he is in Baltimore. Don’t you say nothing to that man. He’s screwed up with hatred, miss Trixie. The men hear him scratching away in that stall. He’s a sick boy. You know, I saw a movie once that scared Jesus out of me. It was called “White Dog.” You know, a hateful man raised a dog to hate any man that wasn’t white. That’s what Mr. Jay is; he’s a mad dog. That boy is crazy as fuck, so don’t you fret about it, miss Trixie. He won’t be coming to a good end.”

At shift’s end, Jay rode the ghost-bus home, locked himself safely within the confines of his cracker box, and logged on to an erotic website. He read slowly, mouthing the words while his stalker dragged a finger along the lines, lingering on erotic passages, saying, “That’s what your sister did, remember? Call her Jay. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

“Mother?”

“Call the baby, Jay. Do you remember how it smelled with its little claw hands?

Jay smiled and looked beseechingly into a hand mirror.

“Like powder? Powder and gasoline? Mother? No, not my mother. Sister Samantha.”

“That’s right, Jay. Samantha.”

“Mother?”

“Mother and child, sister and little Jay.”

“With hook hands?”

“Go to the shed, Jay. Get the gasoline.”

“For Samantha?”

“For the clawed abomination. For your mother.”


Submitted: October 14, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Laird. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:

Comments

Amy F. Turner

Not so anonymous anymore if he uses that gasoline. He'll be looking for another town to hole up in until the voices start egging him.

Sun, October 16th, 2022 3:37pm

Author
Reply

Haha! I got the inspiration for this creepy little piece from the last time I was in Baltimore. I was visiting Poe's grave. Then I went to a neighborhood where he'd supposedly lived. The streets were empty, and so was a park near his house. Where is everybody? I wondered. Then it dawned on me; these are mean streets; better bag it and get back to the aquarium.

Mon, October 17th, 2022 12:11pm

Nite-Owl

Yeah that was creepy. Well done. Goosebumps and they're not the good kind.

Mon, October 17th, 2022 3:15am

Author
Reply

Thanks, Nite-Owl. I think I even creeped myself out with that one.

Mon, October 17th, 2022 11:53am

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