Midnight Motorcycle

A short horror story. My entry to the Macabre Monday competition.

It might not be the best horror story I’ve written, but I had a go. The premise is fairly simple. Yeah, no luck this time, I didn’t do well at the competition. But now I have this new story to share with you.

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It had been two glorious months. Two months since I looked at his pale face in the flower-decorated coffin and felt nothing. No anger, no fear. We were even. At least I thought so.

And to think, I’d put up with him for years! His last days were a small comfort, and even that he managed to ruin by spitting in my face when I shoved food in his feeble mouth!

By the look on their faces, I saw the funeral guests knew what I did. None blamed me. They wouldn’t dare. Maximillian was a monster. My youthful naïveté tied me to him, the fear of his real face kept me by his side. He only revealed his true nature when I was completely under his control, charmed by his bad-boy vibes.

He was James Dean in the flesh, leather jacket, tough guy on his motorcycle. Oh, his noble steed! The motorcycle was the only thing he loved, all else he despised. He’d spent his evenings polishing every detail of that thing, and very soon those hours became my only remedy. How I laughed when his only love betrayed him!

After the ten years I had suffered every kind of violence imaginable, he laid at my mercy, paralysed by an unfortunate motorcycle accident, a dying man nobody would miss. Some might call me merciful. An angel of death. I was no angel; I enjoyed every second I held that pillow pressed to his face with all my strength.

I wasn’t surprised when I began hearing a motorcycle driving at night. I knew he’d never let me win. Autumn was the time of the restless spirits, and Maximillian was definitely one.

Every single night at midnight hour I heard a dark roaring noise driving back and forth by my house. Never onto the driveway. He wouldn’t dare, would he?

Every night the roaring came closer; he was coming. I began sensing cigarette stench through my open window, haunting my late hours. Maximillian loved smoking. I had thrown out all his stuff, but even after two months I found his cigs and lighters hidden all around the house. I never dared to enter the garage; if Maximillian’s spirit was lurking around, that would’ve been the place he’d go.

Ironically, Halloween was Maximillian’s favourite holiday. He wouldn’t even need a mask; he was a monster underneath. I knew it better than anybody. He wore a charming facade over his rotten soul. If he had one.

I took a swig of his best whiskey. I needed it tonight. Yesterday the motorcycle lingered roaring near my house, I felt the usual cigarette stench, his presence was almost tangible. I was obviously losing my mind. I should’ve moved out after his death, but I didn’t. I could not let him win.

I tried sleeping pills. Whiskey. Sleeping pills and whiskey. Nothing stopped me from hearing the midnight motorcycle every autumn night.

The trick-or-treating kiddies were long gone, asleep in their beds at midnight.

There it was again. The motorcycle driving toward my house.

“Drive by, drive by, go on,” I thought intensely, clutching the bottle in my hand. It did. But then it came back. Roaring low, a monster torturing me again and again. I looked out the window. Obnoxious glittering skeletons, Halloween decorations from the neighbour’s yard greeted me with the empty sockets of their eyes squinting in a smile. No motorcycles driving on the street.

I popped some pills into my mouth and washed them down with the whiskey. My eyes grew heavy, I laid down in our bed, the same one he died in. Lying in it without him gave me a sense of empowerment; this is where I won! The very place I had suffered for years was the place I made him suffer.

My thoughts hovered between wakefulness and sleep; I relived the pleasure of watching his lifeless face right here in this bed.

The booze and the pills did their job; I wasn’t surprised to hear the door slamming and the stairs squeaking under the heavy footsteps. It had been my daily routine. The all-familiar fear of Maximilian coming home. Apathy had become my defence reaction. The smell of cigarettes filled the air. He always smoked like a chimney.

I snapped out of the drowsiness only when the footsteps came near the door. This couldn’t be happening! He was dead! He was dead! Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. An inhuman force slammed the door open; I heard the floorboards moan under his steps. He came to me slowly, he knew I was powerless, paralysed by fear, like I always had been.

I didn’t get to make a sound before I was pushed into the bed forcefully. I knew his habits well. The first thing Maximillian did when he came home was having sex with me. Whether I wanted or not. I felt a cold force lying on me, pressing me down, ripping my underwear off. A pillow covered my face, I tried to fight it, suffocating without a sound. It was usually worse if I screamed. I was well-schooled.

“All Saints, have mercy!”  Nevertheless, I yelled before the invisible force had violated me. My words made it loosen its grip just enough for me to roll out of bed, scramble to the door and run down the stairs. I had barely made it out the house when the same force pulled me back by my hair. His favourite move. He loved my long hair.

I ripped my hair from his grip screaming from the pain. Suddenly I knew what to do. If our forces were not even, I’ll make them! I ran to the garage. Maximillian’s motorcycle stood there covered like a giant corpse. His pride and joy. I had tried to sell it, but no luck.

 Everything was just the way he left it on the day he crashed. The police had brought the motorcycle back and I covered it.

Now I pulled the cover off, grabbed the first can of chemicals at hand and poured it over the motorcycle.

The garage door slammed open. This time he had taken a shape with his deadly pale face staring at me emotionless. The chains on his leather jacket jingled, maggots crawled out his decomposing nose, ears, and open mouth. The empty, black sockets of his eyes moved closer to me.

 Maximillian didn’t hurry. He always enjoyed the slow daily torture he put me through. I wasn’t going to wait for it this time. I grabbed cans and cans of everything I could get – petrol, turpentine, anything – and dumped it over his beloved motorcycle.

“Honey, I’m home…watcha doing?” he hissed. I grabbed a lighter from the garage table, one of the million lighters lying around the house.

“Making our chances even! See you in hell, Maximillian!” I set the motorcycle ablaze. All caught fire, the vehicle, my clothes I had inevitably poured some petrol on. All burned in red flames of hell, but it was worth it because the moment before the burning pain had driven me insane, I heard Maximillian yelling “noooo!” at the sight of his precious motorcycle burning.