Harold Lloyd

Suspense Stories | Apr 28, 2014 | 6 min read
16 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
"Why don't you believe me? It's true! Every word of it! I could talk until I'm blue in the face, but still you don't believe me. I've got no reason to lie! I wish I had never met him. Harold. He told his name was Harold. But it's not Harold, is it? No. It's not. I'm an idiot, I'll give you that, but, believe me, it was Harold! It wasn't me. That son of a bitch. I regret ever meeting him. I've already told you everything. Do I have to tell you again? Fine.
"Let me see. When did I meet him? I guess it was about two days, no, three days ago. That's about right, three days. I was in a bar having a scotch after work. It was one helluva day and sometimes you need a drink to unwind, know what I mean? So I sipped my scotch and just sat back watching the Rangers play the Reds. Shin-Soo Choo was up, the pitch, long drive to center…and out. FUCK! Twenty bucks down the drain. If this day couldn't get any worse, now I was down. I took the double all at once. Hey, I couldn't get a drink from you, could I? You know what, never mind. I…yeah…I know.
"So this big ugly son of a bitch sits down next to me. He had like this hook nose and a crooked tooth in the front. Ugly…ugly motherfucker. This guy could be a modern art masterpiece, he was so fucking ugly. He was bald. Not balding, bald. Shaved I mean to say. His head was shaved. I'm not sure really what made me talk to him, but damn I wish I never had. He wore sunglasses in the bar. ‘Choo is hittin' grapefruits,' he said.
"And I said, ‘Ain't that the fucking truth.'
"So we start talking. Well, I start talking. And like I said, you got me as to why. I don't usually talk to people I don't know because…well, I'm just not that kind of guy, you know? Maybe baseball and shitty hitters brings people together. I go on about working at the dock and shit like that. Just bullshitting with the guy like guys do. I finally ask him his name and he tells me that it's Harold Lloyd. I laughed at him and asked, ‘Like the actor?'
"He was like, ‘No, no relation,' and then made a quip about people not noticing stuff like that. I like old movies so if anyone was gonna notice it, it'd be me. You know who Harold Lloyd is? Funny as hell, I swear. He did this one bit where he was, like, hanging on a clock over Grand Central Terminal. You know he actually did that? It wasn't like a backdrop or something like they use now, it was honest-to-god real. He actually hung on fucking clock over a busy street! Crazy shit! Am I right? Who would do that? Man…
"Where was I? Uh. Oh! Yeah, okay. So we head out from there. We walked out and I offered him a ride home because it was raining. He said, ‘Nah, I got someone coming.' I said alright and got in my car. I figured that was probably the last time I'd ever see him. I mean bump into him or something, but we wouldn't be like friends. Don't get me wrong he was a nice guy, but like I said, weird and ugly. You just can't hang out with a guy like that.
"I go home and Charlotte's there. She was on a harangue again because I was coming home drunk. ‘You're always coming home drunk, you lush!' She just went on and on. I'm no good, I drink my paycheck away, my dick is small, my feet smell, the classics. I told her shove it because I was going to bed. She told me I was sleeping on the couch. Tell me something. Why is it the guy is the one who always sleeps on the couch? I mean seriously. You think if she's pissed, she sleeps on the couch to get away from you. Makes sense right? But for some reason, it always ends up the guy on the couch. Honestly, I blame the seventies. If that women's lib shit never happened, we'd be a lot better off.
"I tell her, ‘I'm not sleeping on any damn couch. I'm tired and I gotta work in the morning.' She tells me that I'm not sleeping in the bed. I say, ‘Fine!' and walk out. I swear that's all I did.
"I drove off and went to this diner up the road. It's the Full Moon diner, or whatever you call it. It's open all night. It's the one off I-35 North. There's a nice little girl named Katie who works there. She saw me there. I sit back having coffee. I was pretty sober by that time, but God knows you can always be a little bit more, am I right? After about the fifth or sixth cup, I get up to take a leak. I drain the vain and come out, and that motherfucker is standing right there. Harold! Right there! I thought this guy was gone for good! I laughed. ‘Hey man how's it hanging?'
"‘Down by my ankles,' he said, ‘Do you shake it? Well, I step on it. Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk.' Bastard. Even his jokes and laugh were ugly. ‘How's it been?' he said. I figure I already told him my life story back at the bar, so I figured why the hell not. I told that I had a fight with Charlotte and I had to get out of the house. ‘You want me to talk to her?' I kind of laughed like, ‘yeah, right.' ‘No I'm serious,' he said, ‘I've got a way with women.'
"‘Not with that ugly mug,' I said.
"‘You'd be surprised,' he said, ‘I have my ways.'
"We both sat down at the booth where I was sitting and talked it over for a while. Then I thought, ‘Ah, hell, what's the worst that could happen? She make him sleep on the couch?' So I agreed.
"We drove back to the house in my car and pulled into the drive. I started to get out, but he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Look, man,' he said, ‘just let me handle it. I got it.' It was a little but whatever works. He walks in and she starts berating as soon as she sees him. He walked in to talk to her. It started to take a while, so I leaned the seat back to take a rest. Like I said, I had to work the next day.
"I woke up when I heard a scream. It was Charlotte. I knew that voice. I got out and ran in the door. There she was lying on the ground with a knife in her chest. She was still breathing. I pulled out the knife and got blood all over me. Harold was standing by the TV with a smirk on his face. ‘What the fuck did you do?!' I yelled at him. He laughed and ran out the door. I haven't seen him since. I know you can't find him either. That's why I think he didn't give me his real name. Who has a name like Harold fucking Lloyd anyway?
"I called 911 and then you came and picked me up. That's it."
The detective pressed STOP on the tape recorder. He looked over at his partner. His partner shrugged. "I'm gonna get a coffee, you want a coffee?"
"No, thanks, I appreciate it," the man said.
"Alright, well, we'll be right back. We gotta file some work on this." They both left and shut the door behind them. They turned to the old man watching through the glass. "So, Doc?" The partner said.
"D.I.D.," the doctor said.
"You're saying he did it?" the detective asked.
"No. Well, yes, but no." The doctor cleared his throat while he looked at the suspect through the one way mirror. "Dissociative Identity Disorder." They both looked at him blankly. "Split personality."
"So you're saying he did it."
"Not really. The hands were his. He had a fight with his wife and he stabbed her to death, but it wasn't him doing the stabbing. It was Harold Lloyd."
The detective looked at him. "We've questioned every Harold Lloyd that could've been anywhere near there. There is no Harold Lloyd."
"Not to you, no. But in his mind, Harold is very real. When he couldn't handle his wife attacking him, he blanked and Harold did what he couldn't. Harold took over so he didn't have to."
"Jesus Christ." The partner said.
"Now, we just have to hope that Harold never comes around again."
The detective noticed that the man was talking to himself. The turned on the intercom to hear what he was saying. "Why did you kill my wife? I don't want to hear that shit! The cops think I did it!"
"Who's he talking to?" the partner asked.
The doctor chuckled a little. "This is one-way glass. There's a mirror on the other side."

Tags:

  
Report This Story
Notice (8): Undefined index: User [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]
Notice (8): Trying to access array offset on value of type null [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]

Recommendations

Reviews

Download the Short Story Lovers App

Read and write stories anytime, anywhere with the Short Story Lovers app