The Midnight Hour

By Dakota Kirkpatrick All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Thriller

Chapter 4

I pull up into the motel parking lot and hop out of the car, grabbing the glass box as I go. I walk over to room 203 and place the box in front of the door. The lights are still on inside, but I don’t see any movement. Dean’s truck is still absent from the lot. He’s in for a surprise when he returns.

I walk back to my car and pull out of the lot to watch from a safe distance, reclaiming my parking spot by the curb. I turn the car off and sit, staring at the parking lot, waiting for his return. I’m going to have to get a bit more creative with him.

It’s just about six a.m., the sun is starting to show as its rays glint over the buildings, as Dean pulls into the lot. He parks right in front of his room, quickly hopping out of the truck. He is wearing an old flannel, it’s unbuttoned revealing a large beer belly. He walks up and stops dead by the box. He stares at it for long minutes, then turns around vomiting all over the gravel lot, leaning against his truck.

“Who did this?” He shouts into the air. “I’ll get you for this.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the words. Get me? I’m already coming for you. He quickly retreats into the motel room, his shadow on the curtain moving erratically. His hands waving in the air as he paces. A large smile creeps across my face.

I start my car and pull away from the curb, driving back into the city. I’ve gotta get some new tools for this one. I pass by several buildings on my way through the bustling morning traffic. Everyone mindlessly driving to work, like zombies on the road.

I turn off, pulling up to a pharmacy. I hop out of the car and walk in the front door. A bell chimes as the door swings open.

“Hello, how may I help you today?” The man behind the long counter asks.

“Oh, just looking for some cold medicine.” I lie, pretending to browse the shelves throughout the small store.

“Okay, if you need any help just holler.” He says.

I give him a thumb up in acknowledgement. The man retreats to a small office in the back, I watch through my peripherals until he’s out of sight. I carefully sneak behind the counter and browse through his supplies. My eye catches sight of one in particular labeled succinylcholine, the package containing a small bottle with a syringe stating it causes muscle paralysis, perfect.

I quickly snatch the package up and retreat back to the shelves, stuffing the package in my jacket pocket. I grab a pack of cold tablets, and walk over to the counter, sitting the tablets on it.

The pharmacist walks over with a smile. “This all for you today?”

I nod. “Yep, that should do it.”

“That’ll be four ninety-five.” He says.

I reach in my back pocket, grabbing my wallet. I pull out a five and hand it to him. “Keep the change.” I say, turning to leave the store.

“Have a good day.” The man says.

I give him a wave as I push open the door and hop back into my car. I start the engine and back out, then shift into drive and start my journey back to the motel.

I reach the motel and pull up against my spot at the curb again. I watch, waiting for my moment. The lights are now off in the room, maybe he’s asleep. I decide to go in for a closer look. I pull the syringe and bottle from my pocket, filling the syringe full of the liquid.

I carefully place the needle in my jacket pocket then hop out of the car, slowly walking toward the room. I stop in front of the door, double checking for any movement through the curtain. I grab the knob, it’s unlocked, the moron.

I open the door slowly, the room is dim, only the dim glow of the sun rising illuminates the area. The room smells disgusting, like a rotting animal. Dean lays fast asleep on the old dirty mattress centered in the room. The wallpaper covering the entirety of the room is peeled mostly off, revealing old drywall.

I slowly tip toe across the room towards Dean, stopping just over him. I pull the syringe from my pocket, yanking the cap off the needle. I quickly jab it into his neck, pressing down the plunger. His body twitches for a moment, but he doesn’t wake.

I yank the needle out and toss it on the ground, no longer any use.

“Wake up you piece of shit.” I shout.

His eyes flare open with a jolt, he jumps into a sitting position. His eyes try to focus on me, squinting.

“Who’s there?” He questions.

“You don’t remember me? Well, you will.” I state.

He leaps from the bed to his feet, his stance shaky as the drug begins to kick in.

“What did you do to me?” He asks, trying to gain balance.

I laugh as his legs give out, making him plummet to the floor. He tries to crawl towards me, his muscles giving up.

“I gave you a little something to relax.” I joke.

His head now too heavy for him to lift falls, resting on the dirty carpet. I grab his arms and drag him back onto the bed. I look over and notice a small microwave placed under the motel counter, could be useful.

His body now completely paralyzed, but not his mind, he can see, can watch as he meets his end. He still manages to squeak out some words.

“W… Why?” He whispers.

I stare death at him. “Why! You want to know why? Here’s a question for you.” I get close to his face shouting. “Why did you and your men kill my family? Who is the third man that was there? Why do you deserve to live and not them?” I scream.

He stares blankly at me, now remembering who I am. His eyes stare with no remorse, no care at all about what he’s done.

He smiles at me, with a strained chuckle.

“Because we could.” He whispers.

Rage floods through my body, adrenaline and anger consume me. I send my fist into his face repeatedly, into his nose, then his eyes, anywhere I could hit him. I punched him again and again with no stopping point in sight. I can’t control myself, the rage dragging the beating on and on.

I grab his legs and toss him from the bed, he smacks with a thud on the ground. I grab ahold of his balding hair and smash his head against the motel room counter a few times. I then swing open the microwave door and jam his head in it, setting it to high, pressing start. I let the small microwave finish the work for me. He chokes on his screams, unable to move away. His hair catches fire, blisters cover his skin, singed flesh fills the air, as his skin melts away.

His eyes bulge from his skull, turning bright red. The microwave lets out a loud beep as it finishes cooking. Smoke and steam rise from his burnt head as he lays there unmoving, finished. I walk over and stomp on his body for good measure, anger still pulsing through me.

I let out a yell, then turn and head out the door. I walk over to my car and hop inside. I start the ignition and begin driving, I don’t know where, I just keep driving.

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