Ep.16 – Deb, Debbie, Deborah - Twisted Valentine's Day Horrors

Episode Notes
A grieving and suicidal widow gets a very unexpected visitor on a snowly Valentine's Day, but nothing is quite what it seems...
Deb, Debbie, Deborah by Shane Migliavacca
Music by Ray Mattis
http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
Get Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspooky
Support us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsome
Contact Us/Submit a Story
twitter.com/WeeklySpooky
facebook.com/WeeklySpooky
[email protected]
This episode sponsored by HenFlix.com
For everything else visit WeeklySpooky.com
Transcript:
Deb Debbie Deborah 
The cat thinks I’m fucking nuts. She may be right. I’m wearing my nicest dress, Dean Martin is on the stereo and I have a gun to my head. I’m dancing with my dead husband on Valentine’s Day. 
Angel, our cat died three days ago. Her ashes sit on the mantle in an urn next to my husband’s. I see her on her favorite spot on the couch, watching me. She really is an angel now.
I pull the hammer of the revolver back… I’m ready to join them. 
Click.
“Son of a bitch!” 
Empty.
“Good job Deborah.” 
I forgot the fucking bullets. I drop the snub nose on the coffee table. I haven’t found where Johnny hid the bullets. 
He bought the gun for me, worried about us being all alone out here in the boondocks. What good is a gun if the bullets are hidden? 
Excuse me Mr. Rapist, while I find the bullets to shoot you.
_ _     
Maybe Johnny never got around to buying any. 
“Ain’t that a kick in the head, Dean?” 
I drop to the couch defeated. My mind isn’t what it used to be. Grief and despair have pushed everything else out to the point that I have trouble dealing with day to day shit. It’s for the best I suppose. 
I’m not a religious woman, but I’d like to think there was something waiting you know? After… that I could be with them in some kind way. If there is a God and suicide is a sin, I’d better not risk it. Being sent to hell, I’d never see them again. If you ask me, this is hell. This world.
Johnny. My Johnny. I miss that lopsided grin of yours. The way your stubble felt when you kissed me. How your hair fell across your eyes when you woke up. The touch of your course hands on my shoulders.
Gone. All gone. 
Five and a half years ago, a drunk driver named Dave Robbins. Johnny had been on his way home from work when the bastard ran a red light and struck Johnny’s car. I still remember the trooper showing up at work. He stood there in his uniform, looking so out of place. His words were unintelligible as my heart pounded in my ears.  
They gave that man ten years in prison. Ten fucking years! He took away our future and they gave him ten years. He got out in four for good behavior. Good fucking behavior. I dreamed about killing him for so long. How I’d do it, how I’d drag it out, make him suffer. I’d even toyed with the idea of killing his family in front of him. 
But no. There was Angel to think of. 
The cat, a house warming present from Johnny, got me through that first grim year.
She was there for me when I got home from another dreary day at work. Happy to see me, purring her feline heart out. She was such a tiny little thing when he surprised me with her. 
She hid under the couch for the first couple days, until one night I sat on the couch watching the evening news, waiting for Johnny to come home from work. I felt something small and warm curl up next to me. Now she’s gone to. I’m left all alone in this house that used to represent our future together. A house that’s become a tomb.
The house was so empty and vast when I’d come home from the vet carrying little Angel’s ashes in a small container. Nobody there to greet me at the door. I dread the thought of coming home after a day at work to this empty, godforsaken place. 
But I’ll have to.
I took a couple sick days, told Emily I had a bug. They don’t need to know the real reason. Most of them look at me with some sort of pity. Walking on eggshells around me. The others treat me as if this sickness in my heart can simply be sent away. That I should be able to “Get over it” and move on. 
There is no moving on.  
I could take some medication I guess. Something to help me. At the cost of this hornet’s nest of pain in my stomach. The pain that helps me remember them… that keeps them in my thoughts. Would I lose their memory in a haze of medication? 
The record ends. I stare at the snub nose. I should really find those bullets. 
There’s other ways I could do it. Pills sure or the old razor in the bathtub bit. Those are easy enough I suppose. Hanging myself is off the table. I can’t tie knots for shit. Besides some idiot might think I was trying to get off and died by accident. 
Shit. Fuck it. 
The phone rings. I pick it up, looking at the number. It’s Cathryn Wade from work. Probably checking up on me.    
“Hello, Cat.”
“How you feeling trooper.” She answers in her unbearably cheerful voice.
  
I lie. “Ok, just a bit of a bug.”
“You need anything?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” I want to hate her for caring. Damn it, I just can’t.
The phone crackles with static. “Aren’t you forgetting something Deb?” Another voice asks. 
“Cat? You there?” 
I can hear something metallic on the other end. “Have you checked the basement?” 
“Who is this?” I ask, my voice trembling. No answer. “Goddammit it! Who is this?”
“Are you okay Deb?” Cat ask, sounding a bit shaken. 
“Yea-Yeah, just this bug. I think I need a nap.”
Before she can finish saying goodbye, I hang up. 
What just happened? I’m not even sure. I take a deep breath.
I get off the couch. Maybe I should just go buy some fucking bullets.
Looking out the window, I see I’m not going out anywhere today. The snow is coming down in a heavy white blanket. Frustrated I turn the TV on. 
“They’re calling it the Valentine’s Day Blizzard.” The weather man proclaimed. As if he was proud father praising his golden child. These cocksuckers really piss me off in how much they get off on bad weather. I think they get hard over delivering bad news. 
“Expect record snow falls.”
“Expect me not to give a fuck.” I say. Wishing about now the gun was loaded, so I could shoot the TV. 
I never hated anybody till Johnny died. Now I can’t stand anyone. Most of all myself. 
The smiling weatherman is replaced by a nicely dressed Chinese woman. “The day’s other big story: All but one of the escaped convicts have been captured.”
Police gather round an overturned prison bus in a ditch as the anchorwoman goes over the details. 
“Police are still searching for Charles Lee Andru. Convicted serial killer and rapist. He’s considered highly dangerous, should you spot him…”
Why do these assholes always have three names? Is it a serial killer thing?
They linger on his face. He’s handsome enough, except for the scar over his left eye. Crazy burns hot in those eyes. Even in a photograph, you can feel his stare penetrating your soul.
Bored, I walk out to the kitchen. A drink maybe. And a sandwich.Dirty dishes clog one of the two sinks. I’ve let the house go to shit. Haven’t felt like cleaning since the cat died.
I pour myself a glass of brandy and make a roast beef sandwich. I hold a stainless steel knife in my hands. Catching my reflection on blade. The house isn’t the only thing gone to shit. I look terrible. My hair’s a mess and there’s bags under my eyes.
Fuck it all. Why should care how I look? It’s all a sick joke.
The blade quivers in my hand. 
So sharp. One of those ‘As Seen on TV’ jobs you can get at Save-Mart. Why, I bet if I just took the knife and sliced. 
“Debbie.”
A sweet, sing song voice echoes out from the living room. 
The TV? 
Has to be. A coincidence.
“Deb.” The voice giggles.
“Who’s there?” I call out. Feeling a bit embarrassed because it’s most likely the TV. 
I grip the knife. Stepping into the short hallway, I walk towards the living room. I can hear a soap opera on the TV. I stop and listen. Under the din of dialogue from the TV I hear the wind outside. The tic tic sound of snow and freezing rain against the windows. 
And then… floorboards creaking with the unmistakable sound of someone walking over them.
“Debbie.” The voice giggles again. “Come and find me!”
 
I storm into the living room, ready to confront the weirdo intruder.
“You picked the wrong fucking time.” 
Empty. 
I switch the TV off and I listen again. 
Maybe my mind has finally hitched a ride to crazy town. The house is still, silent, save for the wind and snow out side. 
The furnace in the basement rumbles on, making me flinch. I laugh like a maniac. Tears sting my eyes as laughter gives way to crying. 
I really have fucking flipped out. 
Wiping them away, I see them there, reflected in the black of the TV screen. Watching me from the hall. Darting away before I can turn. 
Scrambling to my feet, I grab the empty gun and give chase. I can hear them upstairs. 
"Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there! He wasn't there again today, Oh how I wish he'd go away!" The voice sang out from somewhere upstairs. 
I know that poem. From long ago, when I was a little girl. 
I creep up the stairs, no easy feat since they’re creaky as hell.
A door slams shut somewhere upstairs. How the hell did they get in? I didn’t hear anything. Everything is locked. I didn’t forget something, right? 
With a knife in one hand and an empty gun in the other, maybe I can scare the living crap out of them. 
Yeah, right. 
Why am I scared? I was thinking about ending my life moments before. No, it’s not death that frightens me, it’s what could happen in place of that. Rape. Being maimed. Being paralyzed. A coma. Those things frighten me. A living hell I can’t escape.
 
I search the upstairs, trying to look as badass as possible with an empty gun. That’s when it hits me. 
I am fucking nuts.
There’s not a living soul up here.
I search every room. Every nook. Every cranny. Under the beds. In the closets. Not a sign of anybody being here other then me. Nothing out of place, nothing touched. 
Feeling tired, I walk into the bathroom connected to the be