Something about Grant's joints that made them crack, all over his body—his neck, his shoulders, hips, wrists, fingers, knees, ankles, toes...
They cracked with ease and all the time.
He'd turn his head, and a series of pops
emanated from his c-spine.
Step out of the shower, and a cascade of cracks
would erupt from his toes, through his ankle to his knee.
Didn't even have to try.
But he did try when he was bored or nervous, to
crack his knuckles and the first joints of his fingers. He would do it alone
and in public, often garnering disapproving looks from others, from those who
found the sounds disturbing. Grant didn't care.
But it would come back to bite him in the ass
one day.
Grant always kept his doors locked because he'd
seen too many true crime shows to know that you should always keep your doors
locked. Didn't matter where you lived. Takes only one psycho to enter your home
and change your life for the worse.
But on this one day...he forgot to lock the back
door after taking out the trash.
He was in the bathroom, getting ready for work,
ignoring the various cracks of his joints, when he heard someone enter his
home. They just walked right in.
Grant peeked around the corner of the bathroom
door jamb and saw that they brandished a handgun. He flicked off the light,
slumped down into a seated position, but dammit all to hell...his knees cracked
as they bent, sounding like two firecrackers.
Grant heard footfalls heading his way.
"May as well come on out. I know you're
there," said the intruder.
Grant stood, his knees popping again along with
his ankles and hips. "Shit."
He looked on the bathroom counter for any kind
of weapon, cracked a smile when he saw the large amethyst stone next to the
tissue holder that his girlfriend had given him. Stupid gift, he thought, but
it might come in handy at the moment.
Grant picked up the stone, which was the size of
his hand, and waited...listened.
The trespasser continued to near. When he was
right around the corner, Grant swung that goddamn stone and cracked that
motherfucker right in the face. Cracked his nose, his mouth, his jaw. The
cracks were louder than anything Grant's body had ever produced.
The intruder's gun toppled to the ground, and he
dropped like a sack of rocks to the floor with a girly scream. Blood spewed
from his orifices.
Grant kicked the gun into the kitchen, raced for
his phone, and dialled 911. He cracked his knuckles as he spoke to the operator.
Bio:
Laura Shell has been published in NUNUM, Maudlin House, X-RAY, and Vestal Review, among other publications. Her first anthology of paranormal stories, The Canine Collection, was released in 2024. She's the editor of the Flash Phantoms horror fiction site–www.flashphantoms.net. You can find more about her work at https://laurashellhorror.wordpress.com.
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