In This Room...

PREFACE

Here is my fair warning. This story may shock, frighten, and disturb you. At times, it can be brutal, horrifying, and unsettling. It might strike your nerves and punch you in the gut. You’ll find it has its share of violence, sex, and death, and midway through this tale, you may likely ask how I can write such dreadful and horrible things. How can I put these characters through such torment? What kind of sick and twisted mind do I possess? Well, my friends, the answer is simple: I know how the story ends, and believe me when I tell you, nothing is as it seems.

Suppose you’ve read or listened to my previous novels; you should know by now, in my fictional universe, you can expect misdirection. After all, my entertainment comes from creating yours. I like to play around with all the buttons and switches when you allow me access to your mind. You may not notice my sliding hand or where I strategically place certain clues. You may not recognize the methods I use to make you second-guess yourself. But don’t worry. At the end of this hell-bound rollercoaster ride, I promise to return you safely to the gate.

I’ve always had a thing for dark thrillers and not-so-happy-endings. When I was younger (around freshman year of high school), my grandmother introduced me to a woman named Ruby, who lived across the street from a Hardee’s restaurant in my hometown of Evansville, Indiana. Ruby was a former ghostwriter for the original Twilight Zone series, a show I was, and still am, very much a fan of. Imagine my surprise when she showed me a certificate signed by Rod Serling and a few manuscripts she had written that later became televised episodes. More than anything, I wanted to be a storyteller in some shape or form, but throughout my youth, it just wasn’t in the cards.

Fast forward to 2018, when I’m helping a recently divorced friend of mine move his belongings from his half-million-dollar home into a small apartment. While touring this beautiful house, I discovered each room had a story to tell, and not all of them were pleasant. Despite his losses, my friend’s life had changed for the better, in that his past no longer plagued him. By then, I had written my first (or maybe second and third) book, and needless to say, on our ride back to the city, the premise and title for another popped into my head. I thought about it for days while working on whatever project I had going on at the time, and without an outline or structure, inevitably, In This Room… remained an idea I had to set on the back-burner.

As many people know, writing is not my only passion. Around the time I began this venture, I was also a paramedic responding to 9-1-1 calls on an ambulance. Not once have I entertained the idea of writing based on my career. With no offense to those who do, I personally feel basing a story on my experience at a job to be a crutch. Exploiting other people’s misfortune doesn’t sit right with me; however, it does tend to spawn new ideas. There’s a popular phrase in my profession: You can’t make this shit up. Granted, I create fictional stories involving medics and EMTs, which I have done in the past, but only when it’s beneficial to a more creative purpose. With that said, here’s the part where I’m a hypocrite, but keep in mind, it’s for a good reason.

My unit was called to a person suffering from a mental breakdown. When I arrived on the scene, I was greeted by police officers who told me they had responded to a domestic dispute. Inside this home, I found a young man (early twenties) on a rampage, shouting and screaming at his wife, members of the fire department, the police, and of course, at me. His gorgeous wife (also in her early twenties) stood in the kitchen, crying to us that she didn’t have a clue what caused her husband’s outbursts. She was more concerned about their son, a toddler, in his bedroom.

Everyone tried their best to talk this guy down to a calmer state of mind, but our efforts were useless, and he kicked us out, even the police, and told us to mind our own business. A little over an hour later, we were dispatched to return to the same address; only now, the incident had escalated to a hostage situation and a SWAT standoff with the police. The husband had his child in the home and refused to come outside. His wife had been trying to get in, but the doors and windows were locked.

The situation lasted a few hours and eventually ended with a peaceful surrender. Still, for some inexplicable reason, the entire event seemed to fit perfectly with my ideas for a novel about a house where good things go bad. At the time of writing this, that specific call is the only real-life experience I have used as inspiration.

So I had two (and a half) main characters to stir together in a dramatic story, but I needed a cause, a reason for someone to go crazy and drag his family on through his torment. Again, I had to let In This Room… simmer on the stove while I tended to other projects.

Hopscotch to 2019 and land on two other projects that made their way to the top of my list: Bodhi Crocodile and Anastasia Euthanasia. How it came about, I have no clue, but the idea of writing and releasing three standalone stories linked together had tickled my brain. Having each one connected by nothing more than a row of businesses on a downtown street in some big city seemed to be a challenge I was willing to accept. A diner, a massage parlor, and a hair salon, sharing the same block. Bodhi Crocodile would reference the restaurant, Anastasia Euthanasia would reference the massage parlor, but I needed a third to involve the hair salon. What better project to integrate than In This Room… for the hair salon?

Of course, what I didn’t know at the time was that Bodhi Crocodile would take on a life of his own, and the other two projects would essentially have to wait until his story expanded into a three-part series. However, if you read or have read Bodhi, you can find the other businesses mentioned, as well as Addelyn Delacroix, a supporting character from In This Room…

Nearing completion of Bodhi Crocodile Part 3: Divinity, I began noting and drafting things for Anastasia, but I figured the Delacroix family had waited long enough. On the lookout for plausible reasons of insanity, I eventually discovered two more real-life events to inspire the book. Of course, I can’t mention them here, because unfortunately, they can spoil the plot. Now, don’t be a cheat. Don’t go searching the back of this book for the answers. You’ll have to wait until the end.

Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this novel. I hope it tags you in all the right places at all the right times. If I had to choose a story of mine to become an episode of The Twilight Zone, this would be it.

—Bradley Carter

Inspired by four actual events.

"We are pleased to have helped you. Goodbye."

In This Room…

Did you know each time you recall a memory, the details stretch farther away from the truth? Time has a tendency to warp perception. That’s what the doctor said. He said evocation is not static. People believe they know the specifics of how an event occurred, and they become so convinced, they are willing to bet their lives on it. This Ph.D. said recalling an event in precise detail is impossible. What you see comes from your impressions of hindsight, not from the original memory. The psychologist, or psychiatrist, said there are many reasons for this, though none are specific. Some people see what they want to see. Some remember the story the way they wish it happened, and when minor attributes escape, the gaps are filled with distorted reality. In all, this specialist, this whatever, said the brain is a big fat liar.

To uncover the truth, this doctor advised going a level deeper. Think back, think hard, not only about the big things but the little things about the little things—the smallest details of the smallest details. Go ahead. Give it a try. Take a trip down memory lane, and relive the worst moment of your life as though it were yesterday.

You remember a standoff, a serious and potentially deadly confrontation, an unwelcome invasion of sorts. You hear the sound of boots scurrying through the dew-covered grass in the middle of the night. Not cowboy or fashion boots, we’re talking about tactical boots, the tight-laced footwear of soldiers, or, in this case, the SWAT team—specially trained police officers hustling through the backyard of your home. You hear the swishing of polyester uniforms and the soft clanking of bulky accessories as they hasten across the lawn. They move quickly but undetected since the motion-activated floodlights mounted beneath the gutters of your house remain unlit. These urban soldiers carry rifles loaded with deadly ammunition, and right now, they’re taking their places behind tree trunks, bushes, and fences, anything they consider to be protective cover. Silence falls, and you listen closely. You hear a woman’s muffled voice from a radio, like someone covering a speaker with their hand to limit the volume.

She says, Northwest corner. To the front and to the left.

Your curiosity compels you to peek through the blinds, where you see squad cars blocking the streets. The surrounding residents have evacuated, and there’s a strategically placed sniper crouching behind the chimney on your neighbor’s rooftop, waiting to catch a glimpse of your head through the crosshairs of his scope, confident he can bring this lengthy standoff to an end.

Outside your front door, another cop fastens the straps of his respirator and prepares to launch a canister of tear gas through your window. Did you know tear gas smells acidic, like vinegar? Did you know it’s not so much a gas but more of an aerosolized fine powder, irritable to the skin and mucous membranes? If it gets in here and fills this room, your eyes will flood like leaking faucets and burn as though you’ve doused them with mace. Your nose will gush like the busted levee of a seemingly endless reservoir of snot. Your lungs will burn, and you will choke and gasp for air like some form of asthmatic punishment.

You’re getting anxious, so you should take a moment to relax.

Take a deep breath and count backward from ten.

There’s no reason to worry, right? You’re safe inside this house, protected by layers of brick, wooden frames, and drywall. You know one thing is for sure: the cops can’t shoot what they can’t see. As long as you stay out of sight, everything will be okay. Unfortunately, safety is an illusion. It always has been. It turns out you’re only as safe as your weakest barricade. The last thing standing between you and an intruder is a door. Some people feel by merely keeping it locked, the rest of the world stays contained outside, but a deadbolt means nothing when it comes to the pounding of a battering ram or the swift kick from a cop’s boot to bust it open. As for the windows, they’re nothing more than thin sheets of glass shielding you from nature’s elements and weather, and the softest tap can break them into pieces.

You know there’s a storm brewing, and right now, this moment is the calm beforehand. Those cops are becoming more impatient by the minute. They’ve been trying to get you to peacefully surrender for nearly five hours before they’ll decide to use more invasive tactics. The negotiator calls your telephone. He’s trying to get in touch with you to see if he can accommodate your demands, but you ignore him because you have no demands. Everything you care about is gone, and there’s nothing anyone can do to bring them back. He wants to talk you down and offer you a chance to get out of this intense situation unharmed and alive, but what’s the point? Why go on like this? Each time your phone rings, the harsh tones echo louder inside your head like an ascending alarm. An ache pulses in your temple. You cover your ears to deafen the shrill sound as it becomes more and more unbearable.

The main concern during any SWAT standoff is the safety of everyone involved, but in your mind, sooner or later, whoever is in charge of this shit-show will lose patience and attempt to bring you down no matter what’s at stake. Eventually, they’ll send in everything they’ve got at their disposal so they can finally dispose of you.

Don’t worry, though. You’re in control, remember? The army of police staged around your home doesn’t have a leg up on you. You feel somewhat immortal and somehow doubt their fancy toys will affect you. You’ve come this far, evading capture, and you’re too smart to fall for their silly tricks. Then again, the more you think about it, the more you realize the truth. The more you fear, after all, you may not have the upper hand. Those cops outside, they’re not leaving until this situation gets resolved. They won’t give up until you’re in custody or worse…dead.

If only there were some way to make them understand you’re not a monster. Not all of this is your fault, not exactly. You’ve made a few mistakes. You tried your best to handle your affairs but simply lost control. You let the worst get the best of you. With a bit of luck, people will empathize once they hear your side of the story. You should probably do the right thing and surrender. Toss in the towel and throw your hands in the air. Otherwise, it’s highly probable you will lose this battle with a small infantry of officers who’ve taken an oath to protect society from people like you. Maybe you shouldn’t have done what you did in the first place. It’s too bad you can’t change the outcome now that your future is grim with the inevitable. You realize this, and it’s terrifying.

No matter how much you wish to go back, you can’t. In a short amount of time, the one place you will be going is to prison for the rest of your life. Once they have you in handcuffs, the police will eventually find the dead bodies on your property. A judge and jury will declare you guilty of second-degree murder, and, given the nature of your crimes plus the number of victims, there’s no doubt the prosecutor will seek the death penalty. Did you know this state enforces lethal injection? To you, however, capital punishment sounds like a blessing. To you, there comes an idea of something more horrific than dying.

The same attorney who failed at getting you off with a plea of insanity will fight to keep the needle out of your arm with recurring appeals, but how many nights can you sleep with one eye open? How many years will you spend looking over your shoulder? How many corners will you hesitate to turn, fearful of who waits for you on the other side? Once your fellow prisoners find out what you did, oh boy…who knows what creative and torturous methods of sanction they’ll come up with? From keeping you starved by knocking your meal tray to the dining hall floor to daily beat-downs and gang-rapes in the shower, make no mistake, those inmates will deliver the living hell you deserve. From the second the bars slam shut to the moment you find eternal peace, you will fully understand what it’s like to be the victim.

So, what do you plan to do about it? What’s your next move? Sneak out the back and run away? The cops have your home surrounded. Even if you could escape, where would you go? How long will you survive on your own, off the grid, hiding your face from everyone who crosses your path? You know what you did. You understand the difference between right and wrong. More importantly, you know the past will eventually catch up with you. You can run from the law, but you can’t hide from yourself.

There is one option you can choose to avoid spending the rest of your days in a concrete cell. There’s one plan you can execute to prevent the life of suffering you face. That’s right…the Colt .45 caliber revolver you have gripped in your hand, the gun loaded with six hollow-point bullets. Your thumb pulls back on the hammer, and you observe the cylinder rotate to the next loaded chamber. The clicking sound marks the split second you realize this shit just got real.

The anxiety nipping inside your chest won’t go away. In fact, it’s getting worse. Your hands feel clammy, and a thin layer of cold sweat glistens across your brow. Suddenly, you feel weightless but also heavy, like a criminal astronaut floating through the vacuum of space while at the same time getting sucked into a black hole. You shove the gun’s barrel between your teeth, and the tip scrapes the roof of your mouth. The sharp pain makes your eyes water. Your heart pounds in the bottom of your throat. You can’t swallow, and you can’t stop shaking. Soon enough, the rest of your body goes numb because, like everyone else, it no longer wants anything to do with you.

Try to stay focused. Ask yourself simple questions. How did it come to this? What went wrong? Have you ever tasted metal before? Do you recognize the sensation of hard steel on your tongue? Is the idea of ending your own life anything like you imagined? All those trivial issues you faced before, all those times you thought you might be better off dead, they’re laughable in the presence of this nightmare.

You wonder, but it’s doubtful this will hurt. The tip of your index finger rests on the trigger, and if you squeeze it back any further, all of this goes away, fast, so quick, you won’t even feel it. The brain can no longer interpret pain once it’s been splattered across the wall. Your actions will be justified, and people will say you paid the price. They’ll say you’ve squared your account with society. You’ve shed the blood of others, so it serves you right to shed your own. What other choice do you have? One way or another, you are going down. You know it, the police know it, everyone knows it, and there’s no doubt about it; you’ve earned yourself a one-way ticket to hell. But wait a second. Take a moment to think this through.

Take a deep breath and count backward from ten.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Most issues promise a resolution no matter how desperate the circumstances may seem. Then again, there’s nothing temporary about the retribution those cops plan to give you, not after what you’ve done. There’s nothing short-term about spending your remaining years on death row, begging for your final day to arrive so you can escape the torment you’ve set in place. You realize this may not be the best plan after all.

In the room where you stand, there’s a grandfather clock near the wall, and it begins to chime, letting you know the hour has arrived. Through blurry tears, you see the face, and both the long and short hands point to the Roman numeral for twelve—XII—midnight. It’s the dawn of a new day. A clean slate, but not in your case. You’re not getting out that easily. It’s time to make a decision. The longer you wait, the more nervous you become. With tears streaming down each cheek as you gag on a thick rod of metal, you wish someone had stopped you long before it came to this. You wish somebody had talked some sense into you, to convince you that what you did was wrong and what you are doing now is a very, very bad idea. What’s left to say? There’s no one else to blame for you landing yourself in this predicament. There’s no one coming to the rescue. The people who loved you, who were there for you in stressful times, your friends and family, they’re dead and gone. You know this because you killed them. You are the sole person responsible for their demise. More than anything, you want to go back in time and make different decisions, but guess what? We are way too late in the game for that.

As your surroundings become clear, you can’t recall a time when reality has been so lucid. You anticipate the possibility that in a split second, the bullet will blast through your head and exit the back of your skull like a bloody, brainy bolt of electricity. With shaky hands, either you pull the trigger on purpose, or your trembling finger will accidentally do it for you. With sweaty palms, the gun might slip from your grasp, and then what? It might land on the floor hard enough to misfire and send a bullet whizzing through the ceiling. The cops might hear the shot and decide to move in. Then, you will have missed your chance to get out of this dire situation at your own will. The police will kick down the door and bust through the windows, and if you continue to pose a threat, they’ll take you out faster than you can beg them not to.

Go ahead and close your eyes. Clear your mind. Don’t think of anything. Let go of all you have ever lived for and squeeze the trigger. The bang is deafening. Your vision goes black. There’s nothing, not anymore. No concept of time. No cognizance. No perception. You’re dead, and you don’t even know it.

Now, relax. Come back to life. Take the gun from your mouth and drop it to the floor. Forget the police. Pay no mind to the threat. Dismiss yourself of any anguish. If you’re lucky, maybe this is all a scenario. Once you discover it may not be real, you’ll sigh with relief. You might even laugh at yourself, knowing this horror never happened. You tell yourself it’s all fake, something like a dream, something make-believe. You persuade yourself this is nothing more than some vivid hell-scape your imagination came up with, and it’s not how your world truly comes crashing down…or is it?

Like the doctor said: time has a tendency to warp perception, evocation is not static, and the brain is a big fat liar. Take a look around. If these walls could talk, you know they’d speak the truth. Unfortunately, you’re all alone, and there is no one here to substantiate fact from fiction, so you believe what you want to believe. Then, it becomes clear; you can’t confide in anything because sometimes, yesterday can be as uncertain as tomorrow. Sometimes, retrospect can be deceitful. So, when the outcome of your future relies on the past, do you trust what you remember or what really happened?

Take a deep breath and count backward from ten.

On the Front Porch…

Whoever said money can’t buy happiness sure as shit never lived here. It’s a rarity when the police get called to