Woom: An extreme horror

  Copyright©2016 by Matt Shaw and Duncan Ralston

  Matt Shaw Publications

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

  Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

  www.duncanralston.com

  Matt Shaw Presents

  WOOM

  Duncan Ralston

  ROOM 6

  ANGEL OPENED THE door to Room 6 with a key so scratched he was surprised it still worked, linked to a vermillion fob worn by so many thumbs the number was barely visible. The old room was just as he remembered it—this was not a good thing. There was no nostalgia here for Angel, only pain. Some places hold the pain in their walls, in the carpet snags, in the cracks of the ceiling and chinks in the baseboards. Room 6 of the Lonely Motel thirty minutes from the New York-Canadian border was one such place, Angel believed. With quiet apprehension, he hoisted the heavy black backpack onto his shoulder and crossed the threshold.

  "Hello, Mom," he said to the empty room. "It's been a long time."

  Angel dropped the bag on a threadbare carpet the same shade as the key fob, and gave the room a careful examination. The flowery bedspread was new—he supposed it made sense, considering. The solid wood bed-frame, and possibly the mattress if they'd been able to get the red out, were still the same.

  The painting stuck to the wood paneling above was the same: a poor oil rendition of Jonah escaping the whale. The same faux red oak dresser and vanity, chipped in the lower right corner, warped near the top like a carnival mirror, so if you stood on your tiptoes your head would stretch out long and pointy. The ashtray was new, a cheap black plastic one. The last time he'd been here, the front desk had requested no smoking, though they'd smoked anyway. You had to, just to get rid of the smell.

  Angel sat on the bed and kicked off his shoes. He lay back on the pillows (too large and firm—he preferred thin and soft, though it didn't matter as he wouldn't be sleeping), and drew his knees up to his chest. He remained in that position for several minutes, reflecting on the memory of pain while staring at the closet and bathroom doors, one closed, the other open. Cigarettes and cheap perfume lingered alongside the musty stink of the carpet and the eye-watering dryer sheet smell of the bedspread.

  Pain.

  Angel knew a lot about pain. Too much. With any luck, his pain would end today. He would turn the clock back. He would start fresh.

  This room was where it all started, he thought. Fitting that it should end here, too.

  Struck by sudden nausea, Angel got up and staggered to the bathroom. He raised the toilet seat hastily, managing to drop to his knees before a deluge of undigested breakfast burrito and sour mash whisky poured out of him into the bowl, splashing on the rim and the back of the lid. He coughed several times and spat a thick wad of brown saliva into the mess of frothy puke, much of it floating on the surface, before flushing twice to wash away the last straggling chunks of vomit, and rising slowly to his feet.

  The same mirror as before reflected his haggard face. Shaved bald, his tan dome glistened under the too-bright bulb above the mirror. The bags under his eyes were nearly as heavy and dark as the backpack he'd brought with him.

  Angel had always been uncomfortably aware of what most people would consider his "ugly" features. A long, jagged scar ran up the left side of his face, and his head tapered on top like an egg, a feature that had only become noticeable once he'd shaved it. Although not technically a "pinhead," he'd been called it several times by those lower on the evolutionary chain than himself. Dressing well seemed to direct attention away from said features, which was why he wore a crisp pencil stripe Armani dress shirt, black wool pants with a sharp pleat (Hugo Boss), and red silk socks by Paul Smith. The shoes beside the bed were Gucci brown leather, polished so their shine matched that of his head.

  Angel flicked off the bathroom light and gave the tub a passing glance before leaving. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached for the phone on the bedside table, the same old black rotary phone he'd called 911 from the second-last time he'd been here, on his way out the door. He picked up the clunky receiver and began to dial.

  "Yes, hello. I'd like a girl." He paused, listening to the dispatcher. "She has to be heavyset. That's right, the larger the better. Now, the last time I sent for someone the girl wasn't what I'd ordered, so I'm going to say it again: large woman. Attractiveness unimportant. Okay?" He listened. Her dry, nasally apology irritated him, but he kept his anger in check. "China? Shyla. She sounds perfect. I'm at the Lonely Motel, Room 6. Yes, the one near the airport. Thank you."

  Hanging up the phone, Angel hoped they'd get it right. His whole day depended on it. He lay back and waited, thinking again about pain.

  ANGEL WOKE TO a delicate rap on the door. The bedside clock showed he'd been out for an hour. His sticky mouth tasted like a dog's asshole. He'd fallen asleep on top of the blanket in the fetal position, and his knees were stiff. Standing painfully, he shook out his legs before crossing to the door. He squinted through the peephole at the woman he'd ordered. Either the escort agency had gotten it right this time, or the peephole was giving him a more narrow view than normal. She appeared to be out of breath from climbing the stairs, which bode well.

  Anxiously, Angel opened the door.

  Shyla stood there in all her fleshy glory, sun-pinked shoulders exposed, the rest of her upper body draped in a black silk shawl and a gold lamé mini dress (which actually was quite maxi considering her size). Her freckled legs were bare, her chubby little toes—painted cherry red—peeking out from strappy platform shoes. Her chestnut hair with blonde highlights was wrapped and coiled on her head like a cinnamon roll.

  "Hi there. I'm Angel. You must be Shyla."

  He stuck out a hand, and she shook it delicately in her own, her expression making it obvious previous clients hadn't gotten her accustomed to social graces.

  "Please," he said, "come in."

  The escort smiled, and stepped inside. "Such a gentleman," she said, her voice high and throaty. He imagined she'd do well working for a phone sex hotline, but he also suspected she brought in enough cash in her current vocation. The acronym BBW—Big Beautiful Woman—had taken up much of the back pages of the paper where he'd originally found the agency's number. Hers seemed to be the biggest niche alongside “she-male" and Asian.

  "Wasn't this motel closed for health violations?"

  "You know, I think it was," he said as he closed the door behind them and drew the chain lock.

  "I don't mean to be rude," she said, turning back to face him with an undisguised sneer, "but this place is a shit-hole.”

  "I don't disagree."

  He stepped past her, breathing in her sweet perfume and a slight tang of sweat, as she reached into her Chanel clutch purse and took out a pack of cigarettes.

  "You mind if I smoke?"

  "Be my guest."

  He turned the chair in front of the dresser to face the bed, and sat while Shyla lit a long, thin cigarette. She blew a puff of smoke into the wide shaft of sunlight from between the curtains, holding eye contact with him. The not-unpleasant smell of mentholated tobacco filled the air between them.

  "Is that your real name? Angel?"

  "Is Shyla yours?"

  Chuckling dryly, she exhaled a thick cloud. "Touché."

  "You can sit on the bed, if you like."

  She eyed it with distaste.

  "It's
clean. Really, it is. I just slept on it for an hour or so."

  "It kind of smells like puke."

  "I think the maid did a bad job cleaning the toilet," Angel said.

  "That's a lovely thought, isn't it?"

  Hesitantly, Shyla sat down on the bed. The springs squeaked as she sank into the mattress. Flesh hung from every part of her, Angel saw. Her large, swaying hips, her arms, her buttocks—even her eyelids were heavy. He examined her body with clinical detachment: a gynaecologist's gaze. He was neither aroused, nor repulsed. She was merely a vessel. A thing to be filled and then discarded.

  "So," she said, raising her eyebrows suggestively. "Why don't you come a little closer, cutiepie?"

  Angel crossed his arms. "I'm fine here for now."

  The woman blew a smoke ring and shrugged. "If you wanna waste your money talking, that’s up to you."

  He admired her directness, though aside from the few Asian women the agency had sent, all of the escorts he'd ordered had tended to be blunt. "Oh, we'll get down to business soon," he assured her. "I just want to ask you a few questions first. The more questions you answer, the bigger the tip."

  "I hope that isn't the only big thing you got for me," she said, gazing at his crotch with a smirk.

  "Are you a size queen, Shyla?"

  Her boisterous laughter made him grin in spite of himself. "That’s funny. You're a funny guy, Angel. What, are you writing an article? A little exposé about sex workers for HuffPo or something?"

  "I'm not a writer. I do have some stories to tell, but those will come later."

  "I hope they're aren't the only things that come," Shyla winked, and when Angel's mouth became very small from annoyance, she said, "Sure, I'll answer your questions. Go ahead."

  "Do you have children, Shyla?"

  She blew out smoke on a surprised laugh. "Not that it's any of your business, but no."

  He studied her face long enough that she widened her eyes challengingly, taking another long drag of her cigarette.

  "Thank you for being honest," he said. "Have you ever thought of having children?"

  "What woman hasn't?"

  "You speak for your whole gender, do you?"

  "Yes, then," she said with a tone of aggravation.

  "Why haven't you?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Next question."

  "Fair enough." Angel thought carefully about how to phrase the question in a way that wouldn't sound crazy. He didn't want to spook her now that he had her in the room. But since she'd been direct with him, he decided to do likewise. "Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked.

  Her chin wobbled with laughter. "You really are funny, you know that?"

  "I'm serious. Do you?"

  "Is this one of those hidden camera pranks?" She stubbed out her cigarette in a flurry of sparks. "Seriously, is this a joke? Because it's not funny if it is."

  "My mother died in this room," Angel told her, not wanting to admit to it, only saying it so she'd calm down. But the relief of it, letting go of that secret after holding it inside for so long, washed over him like a tsunami. The pain lessened. He reached out to the woman on the bed. "May I have a cigarette?"

  Her hard look had softened. "Sure you can, sweetie."

  As she handed him the pack of Virginia Slim 120's, her long, glossy white acrylic nails grazed his fingers. He plucked a smoke from the pack, his hand shaking badly, and nestled it between his lips. Shyla flicked her Zippo and held the flame under the tip as he dragged on it. He'd quit smoking years ago, only indulging in a puff here and there. Usually the first one felt like razors in his throat, but the menthol and lightness of the tobacco made it feel like he was breathing in minty dust. The nicotine calmed him immediately.

  "Honestly?" she said. "I saw a ghost once. So yes, I do believe in ghosts. Do you?"

  "I'm not sure. I believe pain lingers. Do I believe in spirits? In the supernatural? Probably not."

  She nodded. "Do you mind if I take off my shoes?"

  Angel raised a foot, wiggling his toes under the sock. "Make yourself comfortable."

  Shyla hunched over her belly with a groan, and lifted her right foot with surprising flexibility. He supposed being limber would be a benefit to her profession. She undid the straps, placed the shoe on the floor, and did the same for the left foot. "That's better," she said with a sigh, squeezing her arches.

  "That's a nice color," Angel remarked.

  She smiled down at her red toenails. "You like 'em?"

  "Yeah, it, uh… it matches the carpet."

  Shyla peered down at the carpet, then at the window. "It's called 'Vermillion Dollar Baby.' It also matches the drapes," she added with a sly grin—though considering her hair color, he doubted the statement's veracity. When he didn't take the bait, she said, "Is that all? No more questions?"

  "I have one more. This one is more… metaphorical in nature."

  "Shoot," she said, tugging out another cigarette. Angel handed his to her. She eyed it cautiously.

  "It's okay, I don't have a disease."

  Shyla took it and put it in her mouth. "You fish-lipped it."

  Angel apologized.

  "I've had worse things in my mouth." Shyla shrugged and ran her silver tongue ring over her bottom teeth—clack clack clack, like a can rattling on prison bars. The gesture was meant to be seductive. In conjunction with what she'd said, Angel felt only mild repugnance.

  "Do you think… places… absorb bad things?"

  "What do you mean 'bad things'?"

  "Like betrayal. Anger. Death. When you first walked in here, how did it make you feel?"

  "I felt… disgusting, honestly. Evil. Like I shouldn't touch anything or it might infect me. Now that I've been in here for a bit it's not as bad as it was. It's kind of quaint, honestly." She looked up at the frame above the bed. "That painting's got to go, though."

  "It's awful, isn't it?"

  Shyla raised her eyebrows in agreement. "Is that Moby Dick?"

  "Jonah and the Whale. Do you know the story?"

  Nodding, she said, "The nuns gave us the CliffsNotes version in Sunday school." She seemed to catch something in his look, because she added, "That's right, the prostitute was a good little Catholic schoolgirl."

  "So you know God made the whale eat Jonah because Jonah had turned away from Him. You know he lived inside the belly of the whale for three days and three nights, until he gave in and prayed to God, who commanded the whale puke him out."

  "That's not a fat joke, is it?"

  "I'm just telling a story."

  She looked at him until she appeared to be satisfied he wasn't making fun of her, then she nodded. "Well, good then. Because I'll do a lot of things for money, but I won't stand for that. I'm no carnival freak."

  "Do I strike you as someone who has any right to make fun of the way someone looks?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno. I like bald guys. And that scar makes you look like a James Bond villain, which is kind of hot, to be honest."

  Angel laughed.

  "What can I say?" the prostitute said. "I like bad boys."

  He smiled patiently. "Back to my original point," he said, "I don't believe in ghosts. But I do think places, like this motel room, I think they hold on to bad things, the way people hold on to memories. Grief. Pain. Disease. Addiction. I think when you enter a place that's absorbed enough bad things, it pukes them out at you. It drenches you in them. So a relatively innocuous room, like this one, will appear evil. Because bad things happened here."

  "Like your mother."

  "Like my mother," he nodded. "Like other things. Do you think the whale missed Jonah, when he was gone?"

  Shyla snorted laughter. "What?"

  He tried a different tack. "Do you ever think about luggage?"

  "Luggage?"

  "Bags. Suitcases. Backpacks, like this one," he said, tapping the bag he'd brought with a socked toe.

  "I know what luggage is. Is this another metaphor?"

  Angel ignored her, trying not to l
ose his train of thought. "When something… carries… something else, for a long period of time, do you think it remembers it? Do you think it's possible it absorbs a part of it, on an atomic level?"

  "That's a really weird question."

  "I'm a weird person."

  Shyla nodded. "This is definitely the strangest date I ever had. And I've been with guys who get off shitting in diapers and begging for a spanking."

  Angel raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

  "Honestly," she said, laughing. "You wouldn't believe the kind of things some of these guys want to get into. I guess it's because I'm a heavy woman, it makes them feel smaller. They want me to mother them. Suck on my tits, burp them, that kind of thing."

  "I'm not interested in diapers, Shyla. But that wouldn't be the craziest thing that's happened in this room. Not by a longshot."

  "Oh yeah? Well, like what? Give me an example."

  "Okay." He took in a deep breath. "I'll tell you one, but I have to warn you, it's pretty grim."

  "Worse than a grown men shitting diapers and calling me 'Mommy'?"

  "I think so."

  "Huh. Well, okay. Let's hear it."

  "Just let me decide where to begin." He didn't need time, it was part of the game. He'd told the story so many times he could recite it in his sleep. And so he began, like he always did, with: "See, there was this kid named Johnny, and—"

  CRAM(PS)

  JOHNNY LOVED JENNY, even though they'd only been dating for a few months, and he thought she loved him back. He'd only ever loved one other girl in his life and it had ended badly, so when he met Jenny he decided he would do anything for her. Whatever she asked, there'd always be this little twinkle in her eyes, and he would do it. She was high on life, and Johnny couldn't resist.

  "Let's go bungie jumping!"

  "Okay."

  "Let's go to Vegas!"

  "Okay."

  "Let's try heroin!"

  Obviously, saying yes all the time had begun to become a problem.

  Johnny didn't take to heroin. They smoked it, since neither of them could stand the thought of using a needle, and he puked his guts out. After that he was sweaty and shaky for half the day, like a bad fever. No good effects whatsoever. He was already addicted to oxy from a previous injury, so he thought maybe that was the reason it didn't work for him.