Turn The Screw Novels & Stories

The door handle turns. Fuck.

It is a year after I gave birth to our son, Austin. I thought I make a right turn but it turns out I made a wrong turn. ________________________________________________________________________________

“Bingo.” The door, unlike the ones in my house, was solid wood. There was no way I would be able to kick it in, especially with my abilities drowned in the depressant. I kneeled slowly, the world wanting to tilt on me if I moved too quickly. Taking out a cheap glasses screwdriver, I pushed it into the lock as far as it would go. Gripping the handle with a pair of pliers I turned the screwdriver until the lock clicked.

It’s dull, but it has a flat edge. I kneel in front of the vent. The linoleum is cold against my knees. I dig the tip of the knife into the screw head. Scrape. Twist. The paint cracks. The screw turns. It shrieks in protest, a high-pitched metal-on-metal sound that sets my teeth on edge. I work fast. My hands are shaking, but my movements are precise. I am operating on pure adrenaline. One screw. Two screws. I pull the grate off. Behind it is a dark, dusty tunnel. It smells of old air and mouse droppings. Dust motes dance in the shaft of light from the window, swirling like tiny galaxies.

” She instructed, and I did what she said. I pulled the stick about ten times with ease, and Caris stopped me to change the location of the screw before instructing me to pull at the bar again. It required me to use more force, but it was still doable. Caris smiled and nodded, noticing the adjustments were spot on.

My aunt and uncle dragged my parents aside. “Shut up! One more word and you’re out of my house!” Since this was the final round, the room fell into a suffocating silence, quiet enough that a pin drop would echo. At the same time, Taylor and I picked up our dice cups, and the crisp clatter of dice bouncing inside filled the room. She stared at me dead in the eye. Neither of us wanted to put our cup down first. My arm was starting to go numb from shaking. I couldn’t be bothered to drag it out anymore and shouted, “Open!”

Shania and I decided on Samuel Turner, a marketing manager at Shania's company. Samuel was younger than Lucille and about six years younger than me. I had gotten to know him through a random dinner event in the past. I had formed a deep impression of him because of his good looks and how smart he was at handling all sorts of situations. Later on, I got to know from Shania that he was also very competent at work. He had managed to get his position as marketing manager within a year of joining the company.

They were gear teeth hidden in the concrete. ​"It’s a dial," Damian realized. "The entire press is a combination lock." ​I reached for the massive flywheel. It was cold, the iron biting into my palms. I didn't need a code; I needed a rhythm. I turned it three rotations to the left the "Vance" turn. Then, I stepped back and let Damian take the handle. ​"Now you," I whispered. "The Thorne turn. Four rotations to the right. The partner’s weight."

Surviving was the ultimate revenge. I started from the bottom, scavenged for scraps, rationed myself to one bun a day, and even dragged my injured legs through the city. When the pain became unbearable, I held myself tight and bore with it. I even wrapped my bleeding wounds with whatever rags I had. As the coins in my hand slowly added up, nearing the sum I needed for treatment, a long-lost smile crept across my face. That day, a buddy of mine who picks up recyclables around gave me a shout. He told me about that massive movie theater opening up, looking for folks to come clean the place. He said there would be a ton of empty bottles to snag afterwards.

“What do you need this for?” “Thanks,” Lyra said, grabbing the screwdriver from him. She finally shifted from the spot where she was pinned and turned to face the nameplate. “We're taking this off.”