Crunch Crunch

Crunch Crunch

Berta mumbles to herself, “should I? Oh, what the hell.”

Bam! In one quick, swift lift of her flesh, she’s up and she’s on top.

“Lady, lady!” the bartender yells, as he nods to the bouncers.

“It’s not that kind of bar!”

The bouncers walk over to the bartender, “how many has she had?”

The bartender points to her full glass of wine, “none, actually.”

Berta ignores them as she breaks out into her break dance on top of the bar, flopping her hair left and right like a barefoot rock star.

It takes two bouncers to hoist her up, down, then out…the door.

“What about my drink? I’m celebrating!” she yells, as she heads to her car.

Berta hunches in the driver seat, turns on the headlights, and heads back to her office. Head Loan Officer, but a celebration for one wasn’t her idea of making it to the top. She parks in the empty parking lot and heads back in.

As she plants herself back into her chair in her office, a quick flash of skin skims over the reflection of her proud, pompous, platinum lamp, gifted her when she became head Loan Officer of Scarlett Bay Federal Bank; a lamp so glossy, it can pick up the reflection of an ant parking its car in the parking lot, if an ant could park its car in the parking lot. As Berta Sacha searches for an answer to what she just saw, she knows this is no ant reflecting in the darkness of night off her lamp, but she’s almost too scared to face the phantom that looms at her back.

She just had to have that office with the ceiling to floor see-through view. Purchasing informed her during sunshine hours that vendors do not make curtains that large or long or wide. Rather than sport her sunglasses like a rock star behind her desk all day, she rearranged her office so that her back now faces the window, which works during the day, but at night…she’s an open target. 

Berta finally musters the courage to face the nakedness behind her and rubbernecks her eyes into the nefarious night and sees…nothing. 

“I must be getting tired, or hallucinating,” Berta whispers.

She begins to doze so she heads to the kitchen and grabs a cup of mud, an almost burnt cup of coffee.

“You know what would go well with you, don’t you?” Berta murmurs to her cup of mud, “chocolate.” She grabs a few caramel truffles on the end of her desk and begins to munch.

Berta then continues her search of land owners and heirs from the year 1808 as she mutters under her breath.

“Errol Mae.”

“Oda Mae.”

“Opal Mae.”

There it is again, a fleeting flash of flesh glides over the reflection of her lamp. Click.

Berta shuts off her light and ducks down under her desk.

Crunch, crunch, a crackling noise like fire spitting off sparks passes through the glass windows. Berta squeezes up against her credenza as a shadow lurks through the window and hovers.

The shadow steams up the window pane with its breath, “puhhh.” 

Then the shadow wipes it clean, squeak, squeak, squeak.

The shadow does it again, “puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Berta gapes in shock at the feature show, which is no chick flick, crisp and clear in the reflection of her sleek, revered, yet smug, lamp. 

The shadow begins carving out individual letters...slowly, methodically, torturously, though Berta can’t quite make out the backward writing.

“Puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Almost reading Berta’s mind, the shadow begins to speak, “there, that’s much better, clean slate, shall we try again?”

Berta hears every word, but is unable to discern whether it’s a man or a woman speaking.

Then the shadow begins writing in the opposite direction.

“Puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak..

Berta wants to choke that lamp for being so stupid and prizing her career over just about everything else, including Carter, home alone with his whiskers and morsels.

“Puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

The shadow breaks her trail of tragic thoughts as the letters splash across the reflection like a bolt of lightning striking a copper kettle. Questions race through Berta’s mind: is it worth it for a lamp, is she next, and is this the killer?

A killer surfaced again recently, and Berta, along with others, search for clues and connections every chance they get. 

The third victim is less fortunate and is found dead at the scene. Detective Dutch Donahue, Scarlett Bay Police Department, arrives first as Officer Olga Ossippee pulls up right behind him.

Officer Olga checks out the skid marks in the sand from the body, “she was dragged quite a ways, so we’re looking for somebody…”

“I can bench press three twenty-five with one arm,” Brick Brannery burps as he slurps down a smoothie, flirting with a blond at the Scarlett Bay Pomp and Chomp Gym and Protein Pub.

“Herculean,” Detective Donahue finishes Officer Olga’s sentence. “Maybe a laborer, or farm hand, someone who lifts heavy loads on a regular basis.”

Detective Donahue and Officer Olga stare at the long line of crooked, rigid ruts the shoes of the victim carved in the earth, ruts that spell out a not so uniform pattern.

“And what about that?” Officer Olga points to a substance that appears to have fallen from either the victim or the killer.

Detective Donahue squats down, “get some samples for the lab to analyze. Our perp might be getting sloppy, it could be some sort of...”

Crunch, crunch, Brick Brannery tosses peanuts into his mouth as he stands at the protein shake counter.

“Crumb?” Officer Olga finishes Detective Donahue’s sentence this time.

“I hate to be hasty but it could be anything, from debris to doughnuts to danish to...dandruff,” he mumbles.

Victim number three…this year, is Bonnie Hiker. Three weeks prior to her death, Bonnie gazes out her office window as the sun’s glare shines like a flare off the adjacent building, the glass castle. The secretive minds with eavesdropping ears inside that glass castle compel her to pay a visit. As Bonnie enters the building, aromas of oil, pencil and paper, and some sort of greasy…

Crunch, crunch, Beverly Brownstone bites a chip, swigs a sip, and stares, like she’s watching an episode of her favorite soap. As soon as Bonnie hits the stairs, Beverly glues her nose to the security cameras as Scarlett Bay Property Records blinks across the screen in neon green banners. Bonnie skips and double skips the steps like a child.

“Here she comes,” Beverly rolls her eyes at her coworker, Clara Narvell.

Clara turns her back to Beverly, just long enough for Beverly to take a swig from a trusty little buddy she keeps close to her bosom.

“Ahhhhh,” Beverly lets out a delightful gesture.

“I saw that,” Clara scorns Beverly.

Beverly caps her sauce and tucks it in her breast bumper like a spy hiding a scroll of secrets, then shifts her bosom left and right in search of her falling...

Plop!

Flask, which now sleeps on the floor.

“Don’t worry Clara, it’s spill proof, made in Germany, and one of the last great war tools to survive in our family bloodline,” Beverly brags.

“Booze?” Clara stares at her perplexed.

“Booze was...is big business, Clara. It’s how our family made a living for hundreds of years...illegally and legally. We had to manually lift those eighty pound barrels until motorized machinery materialized,” Beverly snaps, as she tucks her pickle and potato chip sandwich in her drawer.

Ding ding ding! Bonnie jumps on the bell before her feet finish walking up to the desk, as she smiles like an impatient kindergartener.

“We can see you Miss Hiker, we can see you, no need to hit the bell,” Beverly chides as she gives Clara the nod to help Bonnie.

Clara leads Bonnie to the microfiche machine, then smiles,“it’ll just take a minute to warm up, you know these old things, temperamental, kind of like ol’ Ms. Brownstone out there, temperamental, with her pickle and potato chip sandwiches.”

Crunch…crunch.

Bonnie bends her brow, “did you say potato chip sandwiches?”

“Oh, yes ma’am, I swear she’s been eating pickle and potato chip sandwiches since…the invention of microfiche!” Clara pats the microfiche machine and skips off.

Bonnie scans the perimeter for the listeners before she flips through the microfiche, “let’s see, Scarlett Bay Federal Bank.”

“Ernie Mae.”

“Ella Mae.”

“Ossie Mae.”

“Now where are those bank entries?” Bonnie whispers.

“Finding everything you’re looking for?” Beverly mumbles from the aisle.

Bonnie jumps from her chair as a red-eyed Beverly leans over the pint-sized wall as her demon beams laser down and her fire breath of a drunk dragon smokes up the cubicle, at least 192 proof, as she exhales, “puhhh.”

“Ms. Brownstone, I didn’t see you there. Yes, I think I am...finding everything,” Bonnie replies as she tries to hold her breath, fearing inebriation from breathing in Beverly’s. If she only had a match...ka...boom!

Beverly sways off hiccuping.

Bonnie shivers and continues flipping through microfiche records of Scarlett Bay Federal Bank.

“Essie Mae.”

“Otta Mae.”

“Ethel Mae.”

“Here it is, Scarlett Bay Federal Bank. What the?” Bonnie flips the microfiche back and forth as she frantically searches. She catches a glimpse of Beverly behind her, reflecting off the microfiche screen. Bonnie freezes, then flips the microfiche several pages over to cover her trail.

Beverly leans sideways on a cubicle as she struggles to speak.

“I always like a little tipple in the afternoon, it really keeps me on my toes. Hah. That’s a good one, tipple on the toes,” Beverly jokes as she pulls her bottle from her bosom, twists off the lid, takes a swig, and glides down like a puppet.

Slam!

Beverly lands spread eagle on top of the cubicle panel.

Bonnie freezes…again, at the reflection of a skirt gone rogue and a butt unleashed.

Clara rushes over, “Beverly! Beverly!”

Clara shakes Beverly, turns her over, pulls down her skirt, then begins to serve...baloney...

“Diabetes…you know, low blood sugar.” Clara fibs. 

That was the last known trip Bonnie Hiker made to Scarlett Bay Property Records.

All victims reside in the city of Scarlett Bay, which has not been a typical close knit community of residents for hundreds of years. An inheritance has been bequeathed from generation to generation, in an unknown bloodline which dates back at least to the year 1800: a legacy, a heritage, a birthright...the right...to murder. 

Beverly Brownstone wakes up in her office with her face splat down on her desk. She tries to open her eyes, then realizes they are open…as Clara, no doubt, left her in the dark again claiming, “you know, Beverly, we can’t leave the lights on all night long while you snore off your latest slosh fest.” She tries to stand up with the rubbery legs of a newborn, to no avail, so she wobbles them back into her chair.

Beverly spins in her chair and peers out the window into the black hole of the night, only the flicker of a parking lot light with a short blinks intermittently. When it blinks on, she catches an image on the other side of the glass gaping in at her with the grin of the big, bad wolf and the teeth of virgin snow that blinds her eyes. Beverly gasps and freezes like an icicle on the tip of a snowman’s nose. Too scared to swivel her chair the other way, she shuts her eyes. When she finally gets the guts to face the wolf, she opens them to the silence of just a blank window. She breathes a sigh of relief as she convinces herself there is nothing to be afraid of outside that window...only to be greeted by a hand on her leg…

“Ahhhhh!” her scream reverberates back to her like a hollow cave. She bolts out of her chair and trips over a body, a body that begins to pipe.

“Help me, hellllllllllp,” the body squeaks.

Beverly crawls on her knees and peers over the desk, “I gotta start drinking less…or maybe…more.”

Glug, glug, glug. Beverly polishes off the rest of her juice…had it all been a dream?

“Please, I … I … I,” the body cries out.

No, no dream, there’s a body down there, somewhere. Then a clue wafts up. Is that...hummus? A strong odor of garlic drifts up her nostrils. Is she about to kiss the cave man flat on the floor? Or was she sticking her head in the trash can? Beverly holds her nose, inhales like it’s her last breath, and plunges her head straight down into the floor ever further.

The body wraps its fists around Beverly’s neck clutching the air out of it.

Berta wonders how she ended up here, sitting on the floor while a psycho squeaks the alphabet to her through a reflection on a lamp.

The shadow breathes steam on the window again to conceal its face, “puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

The shadow wipes the window clean of steam, then moves to the other end of the credenza, directly above Berta, steams up the window, and carves letters in its breath, “puhhh.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Berta wants to block her ears with her hands, but fears the shadow will see her movements.

The shadow breathes again, only this time lower down, and carves letters through its breath in light strokes.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Berta stares at the letters in the reflection of her proud lamp.

I.C.U.

Berta searches her tired brain for answers. ER? Emergency? Most of the victims end up there...departed.

The shadow, almost reading Berta’s mind, begins to whisper, “no...no hospital.”

The shadow traces the letters after it speaks, like a child learning to write.

“I,” squeak.

“C,” squeak.

“U,” squeak.

Berta stares at the letters as her adrenaline pumps and her brainpower dwindles.

“I,” the shadow takes a breath and breathes.

“See,” the shadow takes another breath and breathes.

“You,” the shadow takes the longest breath and puffs like a fire breathing dragon.

“I see you,” the shadow snickers. 

Berta holds her breath, as that message, she got loud and clear.

“I…..see…..you,” the shadow repeats itself, like a robot.

Fight, flight, or freeze…Berta’s thoughts are fast, fleeting, and interrupted by chaos. Can they see me, are they bluffing, do I call their bluff, check…mate, sit or stay or...

Smash!

A hand reaches through the shattered glass window and over the credenza as Berta jumps up and books it down the hallway. That was her last thought...run...like your hair’s on fire.

Crunch, crunch.

The shadow continues to bust through the remaining shards of glass, then shimmies over the credenza and makes its way down the hallway.

Berta heads to the bathroom and closes the door cautiously as she debates leaving the lights off and the door unlocked, in attempts to trick the shadow into believing it’s empty; but her gut tells her to lock it up like she’s at Fort Knox guarding the gold.

The shadow hovers outside, planning another sick, twisted game. It begins to scratch the bathroom door, slowly, softly, seductively, like nails on a chalkboard, up, then down, left, then right, then left and right again.

Schwick…schwick…schwick…the shadow scratches faster.

Berta stands silently on the other side of the door. Her mind begins to wander again and she remembers it’s a weekday, which means the staff should be showing up in only…ten hours.

Schwick…schwick…schwick…schwick…schwick…schwick…

Berta stills and wonders, where is that burglar alarm and are the police on their way?

Bam! Bam! Bam! The wood on the bottom of the bathroom door begins to splinter. She may not have…ten hours to spare.

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! The alarm pops on to add more terror to Berta’s thoughts.

The shadow is getting in before the cops get there. It’s getting in and it’s getting…Berta.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Berta grabs the shadow’s arm and begins to twist as it busts through the splinters. The shadow tries to pull its arm back through the door as it grabs on to Berta’s arm, then police sirens sound in the background.

Bam! Bam! Bam! The shadow pulls Berta’s hand through the broken shards of door and scrapes her wrist, as she loses grip of the shadow’s arm and yanks her hand in the door. The shadow tramps off down the hallway.

The police pull up to the building and cover all corners as they jump out of their patrol cars in full tactical gear, ready for resistance. Bank alarms equal armed, dangerous...and desperate.

Crunch, crunch. A few officers walk through broken glass as Berta cups her arms in her hands and silently waits for a rescue.

“Right this way,” Clara skips until she gets to the microfiche machine. She smiles at the patron, a newcomer to the Scarlett Bay Property Records, “it’ll just take a minute to warm up.” The patron whispers to himself as he searches for clues to the latest murder.

“Bernie Mae.”

“Emma Mae.”

“Elouise Mae.”

Crunch, crunch. “Finding everything you’re looking for?” Beverly mumbles, as she chomps on chips and grins at him. Crumbs tumble to the tops of her shoes as she reaches for her stash in her breast bumper. Then she makes eye contact with her daughter across the cubicles...Clara Brownstone Narvell.

Detective Donahue scopes out the shampoo section searching for a tincture that better controls flakes.

Officer Olga Ossippee grunts and presses two fifty as she watches Brick Brannery flirt with a blond at the pool like an insecure teenager.