Jokers Club by Gregory Bastianelli

and went over to it. I grabbed one, shining it on my shirt front and bit deeply, anticipating its moistness. Instead of a sharp snap, my teeth sunk into something soft and mushy. I pulled away the apple, staring into its brown interior. Rotten. I took the small piece out of my mouth, looked in vain for a garbage pail, and then stuck it in my front pants pocket. I heard footsteps and quickly returned the apple to the basket, bite-side down.
    Bob Wolfe came out of the dining room door followed by the scent of fresh brewed coffee. The look on his face was surprise, either because I was up so early, or I looked worse than I thought.
    “One of your friends is asleep on the porch swing,” he said, his tone bitter. “Could you wake him?”
    It wasn’t really a question.
    I grunted or nodded, maybe both, then headed for the door. When I stepped onto the porch, the air felt more invigorating than before. I looked at the porch swing and saw Dale sitting in it, head leaning back. At his feet lay the bottle we had been drinking, tipped on its side, a dark patch beside it where a puddle had formed and soaked into the floorboards.
    I snuck up behind him carefully, trying not to make a sound. I gave the back of the swing a shove.
    “Wake up you drunken loser!”
    I moved around to the front.
    The swing moved back and forth with a rusty creaking squeak.
    Dale’s eyes met mine.
    I looked at the bottle by his feet, at the wet patch beside it. The patch was red.
    I lifted my eyes and couldn’t take them off the cut that ran from the top of Dale’s chest, down to his belly. The soaked red clothing was ripped open. The jagged edge of the skin formed a long, deep crevasse. Pink muscle and innards showed through.
    His eyes never left mine.
    The porch swing continued to sway slowly back and forth, the chains it was suspended from crying out softly in rhythm: creak … creak … creak.
    Something thick bubbled up from the base of my throat, maybe vomit, struggling as it rose ‘till it reached the surface and erupted from my mouth as, not puke, but a scream.
     
    *   *   *
     
    I sat on the front lawn in one of the white metal patio chairs, my back to the front porch of the inn and the horror resting on it. I stared out at the calm of the lake beyond, two completely polar scenes. Mr. Wolfe had heard my scream, as did everyone else in the inn, and they took up various positions around the porch, keeping a reasonable distance from the body as we all awaited the arrival of the authorities. Nobody came near me at my front lawn outpost, as if they were afraid.
    I didn’t dare look behind me. I had seen the horror and now I just wanted to stare at the serenity of the lake. It reminded me of summer vacations during high school when I would hang out a lot at Meg’s house on the west side of town. Her front lawn had a beautiful view of the water, and we would sometimes sit in wooden Adirondack chairs soaking up the sun. Usually I would give her one of my stories to read, and we would sit quietly, feeling the breeze float up while I waited with enthusiastic anticipation for her to finish and give me her critique. I was always a little nervous about what she would think. I wanted her to like my writing.
    I remembered one time, when she read a tale I had crafted about an abandoned well at an old Wiccan’s farmhouse and a trio of boys who summon a demon that crawls up from its depths. She smiled, she always smiled when she finished, and her milky brown eyes glowed.
    “It’s different,” she said at last.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “It’s good, don’t get me wrong. I like it.”
    “But …” I hung on her words in anticipation.
    “It’s not like your usual stuff.”
    “Hmm,” I said, pondering. “How so?”
    She fanned herself with the pages, thinking, and I was sure she was trying to find a delicate way of putting it. That’s Meg, never wanting to say something bad, always looking for the good angle.
    “The ending is pretty