Tales from the Yeller House: A Horror Collection

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Karma had finally caught up to Roger Davis. How the fuck? he thought as he struggled against the heavy nylon ropes that bound him to the chair by his wrists and ankles. The room was dark, save for what moonlight filtered between the boards that covered the windows. I gotta get the hell outta here.

*********

Just a few hours prior -at least, that's what it felt like to Roger; for all he knew, he could have been unconscious for days- he was living his best life. Money, drugs, women...Roger lived his life fast and hard, and his face showed it. At only thirty-six, his face was lined, and gray had begun to show in his hair. And oh, his hair was his crowning glory. If his money didn't make the ladies flock to him, his mullet certainly did. That's what Roger thought, anyway. "Love 'em and leave 'em" was a motto Roger lived by, and he burned through women faster than his money burned a hole in his pocket.

It was Roger's affinity for attractive women that got him into this mess.

*********

Roger sighed and gave up his fight against his restraints. It was no use, he was tied and tied good. Wonder if this is how—what was her name? Candice? Caroline? Oh well, whatever her name was— felt when I tied her to the hotel bed and left her? Even in his state, a smile crept across his lips, and laughter bubbled in his throat. He'd left the girl tied there, legs splayed open, for housekeeping to find, and he'd felt not one bit of remorse. Guilt was a concept that was absent from Roger's personality. Roger did what Roger wanted, and to hell with the consequences. She did have good pussy, though.

A car passed outside the shack, and its headlights briefly illuminated the room. A fireplace, old and dusty, stood in the corner, its mantle rotted away. Roger's eyes fixated on the stonework, specifically a sharp-looking rock that jutted from the rest of the masonry. A brilliant idea began to form, possibly for the first time in his thirty-odd years. He planted his feet on the floor, gripped the arms of the chair, and lifted his body as high as he could and shuffled his feet. The noise the chair legs made against the hardwood made Roger clench his jaw, but he moved what felt like a couple inches closer to the fireplace. "Ha!" Roger barked, and the sound echoed throughout the shack.

He braced himself again, and inched closer. If I can just get to that rock. A bead of sweat rolled down Roger's face and into his eye. Mid-shuffle and without thinking, he attempted to raise his hand to wipe his brow. The sudden motion, combined with the others, threw him off balance, and the chair tipped sideways. Roger's head made a sickening thud when it collided with the hearthstone. His eyes glazed over, but before they closed, he saw her.

Then there was blackness.

**********

The second she walked in the bar, hand in hand with another man, Roger knew he had to have her. Her dark eyes and red lips were framed by her long blonde hair, and Roger caught a whiff of her perfume when she floated by him. At least she wasn't very tall. Standing at five foot seven, Roger despised women taller than himself.

The woman's boyfriend got her settled at the bar, ordered her a drink, and excused himself. Roger all but rubbed his hands together; here was his chance. He picked up his drink, walked to the end of the bar, and slid onto the vacant stool beside her. "This seat taken?" he asked with the fakest of smiles plastered on his face.

The woman didn't even glance up from her phone before she said, "I have a boyfriend."

Roger's fake smile faltered. "Well there's no reason we can't be friends. I'm Roger." He held out his hand. The woman ignored him and continued scrolling. Roger's smile melted. He fished his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a stack of cash. He dropped it on the table in front of her. "This much to let me buy you one drink."