Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror Read Online Free PDF Page A

patient’s. The store resembled his
dream down to the littlest detail. All the cardboard cutouts of
deer, the camouflage clothing, but the most disturbing part of all
was the elderly, mustache and suspender wearing man. Corbin had
never been in the store, having barely glanced at it while driving
by.
    “Back already?” the man said, spotting
Corbin.
    “Was I in here yesterday?”
    The man smiled. “You playing some type of
game, mister?” His stare disapproving.
    “The gun, I bought a gun.”
    The man’s eyebrows went up, confusion evident
on his face. “That’s right,” he said. “You need something
else?”
    “No,” Corbin said. “Thanks, sorry I bothered
you. Bad day is all.” He left the store quickly, racing home.
    Corbin tore through his house, searching for
the shotgun. He checked the closets, basement, attic, under the
kitchen sink, the garage, and the entire yard, but found nothing.
He sat on the couch when he was done, exhausted. What the hell was
going on? Anxiety, like an electric current, coursed through his
body making his mind scramble for reality.
    Corbin went to his medicine cabinet, downed a
few anti-anxiety pills and within minutes, had calmed. He called
his doctor who told him to speak with his psychiatrist.
    “It must be an old memory,” doctor Rosenburg
said, over the phone. “Your subconscious is releasing it as a
defense mechanism to a recent trauma or stressful event. Hence, the
buying of the gun.”
    “I’ve never been in that store, doc,” Corbin
said, his voice a bit shaky.
    “It’s not uncommon for patients who’ve
undergone a drastic experience, such as your procedure, to have
memory loss or memory gain.”
    “Bullshit,” Corbin said. “How the hell do you
explain the gun knowledge? I’ve never owned or cared to own
one.”
    “You may have seen it on a television show.
Shotguns are pretty common. Buying it was most likely your mind’s
way of telling you to get protection. You may feel vulnerable and
exposed. I’ll make you an appointment and we’ll adjust the meds if
necessary.”
    “Doc, the guy recognized me.” Corbin felt his
insides churn, a panic attack on the threshold of his mind, but the
medications held.
    “Can you see me tomorrow?” the doc said, “say
eight a.m.?”
    “You think something’s wrong?”
    “No, no. Maybe a minor adjustment. Sometimes
the anti-rejection drugs can have an adverse reaction to
psychological medication.”
    The next morning the psychiatrist lowered
Corbin’s usual dosage of anti-anxiety drugs, telling him it was
most likely the combination. It was time to lower the dose anyway,
eventually wean him off completely. He left the doctor’s office
feeling a little more confident than when he’d entered.
    Later that night, shortly after diner, Corbin
blacked out again. He awoke five hours later, blood splattered on
his shirt, the shotgun resting on the living room coffee table.
    He must have done something. Feeling
nauseous, he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He
washed his face with cold water in the sink after flushing the
toilet. With a water beaded his face, he stared at his reflection
in the mirror. “What have you done?” he said, speckles of blood
dotting his shirt like freckles.
    Corbin ran downstairs, stripped naked, shoes
and all, tossing the items into the fireplace before burning them.
He smashed the stock off of the shotgun and threw both pieces into
the fire, after making sure the gun was empty. He’d seen enough
movies, knowing to pump the gun until no more shells ejected from
the chamber, and any blood evidence on the gun would be destroyed
in the fire.
    He showered, bleaching the tub when he was
finished. Having no idea what he’d done, he needed to be careful.
The police could be on the way to his house. Destroying evidence
was key to keeping him out of jail while he figured out what the
hell was going on.
    Unable to sleep he watched the news. It was
the same garbage every night, murder,