RED STOCKINGSA Story by mark slade
Zelda tried to stifle her screams, but couldn't. She backed away, her arms flailing. She stepped on a foot, cried out.
when Jeffery opened the door to the den, he saw her lying on the couch with her legs hanging off the arm. They were just dangling in the air, a beige color wrapped around shapely long, athletic legs, with open- toed white heels. Jeffery stood at the door, with a confused look on his face, salivating.
She sat up, fixed her dress to a more appropriate sight. She was blonde, short wavy hair, styled in a decadent come-hither look. Her face was small, oval with a small barbie nose and pouty red lips. She had that hourglass figure, if only a little on the heavy side.
“Mr. Jeffery...oh yes,” Jackson, the Butler, could be heard outside the door, in the hallway. “You're Father has taken a new bride. That is---”
“Zelda,” She said, standing up and moving toward Jeffery with her hand extended to him. “Yes, I am the new Mrs. Dean,” Zelda giggled.
'You'll be wanting that Whiskey sour, Mr. Jeffery?” Jackson's hand touched Jeffery on the shoulder. Which seemed to break the trance he was in.
“Yes,” He smiled. “Very much so. Thank you, Jackson.” Jeffery felt his heart move into his throat. The palms of his hands became wet. He moved from the door and touched her hand hand quickly.
“It was a spur of the moment,” Zelda said, wiggled her tiny nose.
“Your Father and I,” She giggled and curtsied unconsciously.
“Yes?” Jeffery raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat.
“I only knew him a month before he proposed,” Zelda sat on the couch crossed her legs.
Jeffery watched closely. “Oh yes. Father tends to do that quite often.”
“He does?” She thought a second. Then giggled again. “Oh I see what you mean. Me being number five.”
There was uncomfortable silence until Zelda patted the seat on the couch next to her. Nervously, Jeffery excepted her offer, sat on the couch clumsily.
She sighed. Out of the corner her eyes, Zelda saw Jeffery fondling something in his tweed coat pocket. She turned quickly, he stopped. He looked embarrassed. Zelda smiled at him.
“I met your Father in Vegas,” Zelda said.
“Father likes Vegas quite a bit,” Jeffery removed his hand from his coat pocket. Jackson came in, sat the glass and coaster on the nightstand next to Jeffery.
“Will that be all, Mr. Jeffery?” Jackson asked, very dignified, but with a bit of who cares attitude.
“That will be all, Jackson. Thank you.”
“Sir.” Jackson quick stepped out the den, shut the door behind him.
“He's nice,” Zelda scratched her legs. She noticed Jeffery was keen on this activity. A little too keen. She felt strange about where his eyes were parked. She moved her hands to her lap and folded them. She looked away, carrying on the conversation. “He's so romantic--”
“Oh no!” Zelda giggled. “Your Father! He sends me a red rose everyday. Writes beautiful poems to me.” She lamented.
Jeffery was lost in confusion. He listened to her speak as if she were speaking of someone else.
“Only thing,” She said. “He gets very angry when I want to go into that little room underneath the stairs. I don't know why he keeps it locked up?”
“It is best you don't go in there. Really...you shouldn't try Father's patience---”
“What's that?” She said suddenly. Zelda was pointing at Jeffery's hand in his coat pocket again. His hand kept coming up in the top pocket holding a piece of red material.
“What's what?” He said taking his hand out of the pocket and making it tightly into a fist.
“I saw you clutching something in your pocket,” Zelda reached for Jeffery's coat. He tried to move away, but she held him in position. Fished out a pair of red silk stockings from his coat pocket.
Jeffery's face turned as red as the stockings Zelda now held up in the air. He felt short of breath. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow. “Oh God,” He whispered.
“Why do you have these...?” Then it dawned on her. She smiled hugely at him, giggled slightly. “I see,” Zelda stood, placed a hand inside one stocking, while the other rested on her arm. She walked behind the couch, stroked Jeffery's rigid neck. She leaned in, made sure her breasts were touching the back of his head. “You like these don't you?”
He felt her breath on his ears. He was still. Didn't say a word. His hands trembled. He was beyond nervous. He was in Zen, floating on air, waiting for the next embarrassment.
“It's okay with me, sugar,” Zelda said. “That just means your exciting in bed. Say....maybe some quiet, boring day, we should see how exciting you are...oh...and bring these with you.”
They both heard the doorknob turn. She tossed the stockings on Jeffery's head. She ran over to the large bookshelf that held at least two hundred hardbacks. She chose a book of drawings people missing limbs and covered in sores. Zelda screamed dropped the book.
Jeffery had composed himself just as Mr. Dean appeared. Mr. dean stood in the doorway, looking suspicious. He looked at Jeffery, then at Zelda. If it wasn't suspicion, it was definitely dissatisfaction.
“Daddy!” Zelda trotted over to Mr. Dean and threw her arms around him. She kissed him all over his face and up on his bald head. Zelda was at least a head taller than the plump, well dressed man. He tried to get away from her. Zelda held him in position, planted a huge kiss on his lips. A skeleton key on a gold necklace caught her eye.
“Oh, stop it!” He yelled at her. Zelda giggled, relented. Mr. Dean pushed past her, sat clumsily beside Jeffery on the couch. “Welcome home, son. How was Dolemouth?”
“Thank you, Father,” Jeffery sipped his whiskey sour. “Fine. Dolemouth was much better suited to me this time around.”
“You learn anything there?” Jeffery's Father nearly broke a smile on usually a stern face.
“I didn't know you were at college, Jeff.” Zelda interrupted.
Jeffery and Mr. Dean exchanged looks. “Jeffery is very bright, Zelda. One Teacher told me he too smart for his own good. Studying is a way of comfort for him since his Mother passed.”
“What do you study?” Zelda said naively.
Jeffery cleared his throat. “Psycology,” He said.
'You might say,” Jeffery stood, went to the door. “I study people. Their reactions to certain afflictions or events that happen to them.”
“Oh...” He'd lost Zelda in the conversation a few words back.
“Enough talk!” Mr. Dean shouted. “Let's have dinner!”
A few weeks had past by like dust in the wind. Zelda and Jeffery had become very close indeed. Work on other buildings across the Georgia state line had caused Mr. Dean to be away those weeks. The two of them were free to be alone in almost any room in the forty room mansion.
This time they picked a room where Jeffery's Mother used to paint her landscapes. After her death, it was a room that was forbidden to enter. A few months later, a new Mother was rushed into the circle and she fixed the room into a bedroom.
“How did she die, Jeff?” Zelda was lying in bed, naked except those red stockings.
Jeffery stroked her legs with his hands, lost in deep thought. “Suicide.....I was only seventeen....she was always a very lonely person...always wanting attention....these stockings belonged to her...”
“What?” Zelda pushed his hands away, sat up on the bed. “You mean I’m wearing your dead Mother's---”
“No! I swear! I'm"I'm only kidding....I swear to you. Just joshing.”
Zelda studied his face a few minutes. She looked away. “I don't think that's very funny, Jeff. In fact...it's sick.”
“I'm sorry,” He begged. “I'll never say it again.”
“Good, sugar. Anyway,” She threw her arms around his neck, pulled him on top of her as she laid back down on the bed. “I have to talk to you about something.”
Jeffery looked concerned. “Not that again.” he whispered.
“No,” Zelda kissed him. “I have another plan. It doesn't have to do with killing your Father.”
“Oh. That's good, Zelda. I don't think I could go through with it--”
“I know, sugar. Listen. I need the key to his trophy room---”
“Zelda!” Jeffery leaped out of Zelda's arms. He backed away from the bed into the wall. “No one is allowed inside the trophy room. You know that!”
Zelda came towards him. Jeffery was cornered. He felt sick. “Don't get so damn excited. You said he keeps the safe there. He usually keeps business money in it....right?” She touched his hand, he jerked it away. “I don't care what's in it. I swear. Just the the three million you say he has in there. We can do what you want, sugar.”
“Go to Europe?” Jeffery's eyes lit up.
Zelda nodded. “Do the things you want, spend on whatever you want. Do your heart desires.”
“He never let's me go anywhere, the tight wad. But he always keeps that damn key with him. Always....”
“ You're smarter than he is. You'll figure it out. Get that key, sugar. We can run away together.”
“I can pursue my life work....”
“Do whatever your heart desires.”
Mr. Dean awoke late. His flight back home was long and tiring, arriving at the airport well after midnight, having missed the earlier flight on account of a bumbling secretary. Needless to say, she no longer had her job after that incident.
He sat up in bed, tried his damnedest to rouse himself. He still felt woozy. As a matter of fact, all memory of riding in the limo home and ending up in bed is a total mystery to him. H reached out to ring the bell to alert Jackson he was awake and needed his breakfast was interrupted. He saw a bottle poking it's fat bottle from under the bed.
He got out of bed and bent down to pick it up, when he noticed the key around his neck wasn’t there to mingle with his night shirt. He picked the bottle up, turned it several times in his hand before his eyes could focus on the writing.
“Zoloft...?” Mr. Dean whispered. It came to him. That was the medicine doctors had given Jeffery to help him sleep. “Jeffery took the key.” He threw the bottle down on the floor. His whole face had become flushed.
He ran down the stairs calling out for Jeffery, nearly tripping over his robe. “Jeffery! You know the doctors said for you to stay out of my Trophy room! Wait till I get my hands on you.”
Zelda knew she didn't have long. She fumbled with the key in the keyhole, her hands shaking as if she'd been in a traumatic experience. The key turned strangely, but a click could be heard, and the small door swung open easily.
Darkness held the room like a veil. Only a slither of sunlight came through from an uneven blind. Zelda stood in the doorway, taking in the potpourri smell of the room. Her whole body was shaking now, the money was near, but she sensed Dean was on his way to stomp on her little green heart. She felt around for a light, found it just outside the door frame.
The light was bright. Zelda felt faint from the little black specks it caused in her vision. She championed on. The trophy room looked similar to any den or office. A desk, a computer, books and pictures on shelves. Behind that desk, in the wall was a safe.
She took three quick paces toward the desk, stopped. She felt the scream rise up in her. On the walls around the room were six heads mounted on red-brown gloss. The women were of different ages, ranging from young to middle age, hair color from red to blond to black as night. They all shared that same expression of disbelief and pure terror.
Zelda tried to stifle her screams, but couldn't. She backed away, her arms flailing. She stepped on a foot, cried out. Zelda felt soft material wrap around her neck and quickly tighten. She struggled to catch her breath, but gave up. Everything went black, her body became limp, falling to the floor.
“Mommy!” Jeffery screamed. He stood over Zelda's body, weeping, caressing the other silk red stocking to his tear stained cheek. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his Father.
Mr. Dean was smiling from ear to ear. “I knew this would happen,” He said. “Jackson! Bring the ax. I have another trophy.”
© 2012 mark slade
Abouta writer of horror and dark fantasy http://bloodydreadful.blogspot.com/ more..
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