Arrow of Time
By Howard Koenig
A man walked past me in the supermarket. Not too conspicuous a man. Six feet tall, give or take and inch. Two hundred pounds. Short black hair, slicked back, and a clean shaven face with a bright, happy smile. He bought about a dozen apples, a loaf of bread, and a T-Bone steak, paying with a tattered twenty. He specifically went to checkout number two where he waited behind an old woman with three loafs of bread, tomatoes, and a dozen cans of coke, despite checkout number four being empty. He put it all in one bag - first the apples, then the steak, and lastly, the bread - before hurriedly running out the door.
He walked a mile or two before entering what I assumed was his home. He frequently turned his head, almost as though waiting for somebody to grab him. The house was old, maybe a hundred years, cold and foreboding. I walked up to the window where I saw that the man was being greeted by a young, startlingly attractive woman perhaps fifteen years his junior. He kissed her before taking the bag of groceries and putting the contents in the kitchen.
The woman followed him after turning on a record player. Strangers in the Night played and they began to dance. I was about to leave when I heard a scream. I became attentive again and I saw the man holding a knife, trying to stab her. They struggled; her face from lip to forehead was slashed, blood poured everywhere. She picked up another knife from the sink and stabbed it into his eye. He fell seconds before she dropped herself to the ground.
I ran inside to help, cell phone in hand ready to call the police or an ambulance. I forced open the door. Seated in the shadows was an old woman of at least eighty-five. I called for her to help the young lady, to do anything. She didn't move. I approached her and saw that, between the thick wrinkles which had devoured her face, a long scar could be seen running from the right side of her lip to her forehead, barely bypassing her eye. I ran to the kitchen, only seconds earlier covered in blood. Though it was quite dirty - dust and cobwebs throughout the poorly-lit room - not a speck of blood could be seen.
I looked around and saw that the furniture had changed. The record player was gone and the wallpapered room was now painted a dull gray color. I thought back and remembered that checkout number four had only been added a few years ago.
- - -
Born and raised in Canada, Howard Koenig has been a lifelong lover of horror and the macabre.
By Howard Koenig
A man walked past me in the supermarket. Not too conspicuous a man. Six feet tall, give or take and inch. Two hundred pounds. Short black hair, slicked back, and a clean shaven face with a bright, happy smile. He bought about a dozen apples, a loaf of bread, and a T-Bone steak, paying with a tattered twenty. He specifically went to checkout number two where he waited behind an old woman with three loafs of bread, tomatoes, and a dozen cans of coke, despite checkout number four being empty. He put it all in one bag - first the apples, then the steak, and lastly, the bread - before hurriedly running out the door.
He walked a mile or two before entering what I assumed was his home. He frequently turned his head, almost as though waiting for somebody to grab him. The house was old, maybe a hundred years, cold and foreboding. I walked up to the window where I saw that the man was being greeted by a young, startlingly attractive woman perhaps fifteen years his junior. He kissed her before taking the bag of groceries and putting the contents in the kitchen.
The woman followed him after turning on a record player. Strangers in the Night played and they began to dance. I was about to leave when I heard a scream. I became attentive again and I saw the man holding a knife, trying to stab her. They struggled; her face from lip to forehead was slashed, blood poured everywhere. She picked up another knife from the sink and stabbed it into his eye. He fell seconds before she dropped herself to the ground.
I ran inside to help, cell phone in hand ready to call the police or an ambulance. I forced open the door. Seated in the shadows was an old woman of at least eighty-five. I called for her to help the young lady, to do anything. She didn't move. I approached her and saw that, between the thick wrinkles which had devoured her face, a long scar could be seen running from the right side of her lip to her forehead, barely bypassing her eye. I ran to the kitchen, only seconds earlier covered in blood. Though it was quite dirty - dust and cobwebs throughout the poorly-lit room - not a speck of blood could be seen.
I looked around and saw that the furniture had changed. The record player was gone and the wallpapered room was now painted a dull gray color. I thought back and remembered that checkout number four had only been added a few years ago.
- - -
Born and raised in Canada, Howard Koenig has been a lifelong lover of horror and the macabre.
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