Free Twisted Tales by Brandon Massey

It was an Otis Redding song that Willie was always blasting.
    The house was so crowded with people that Mark had to struggle to get inside. Cigarette and reefer smoke clotted the air, blended with a heavy dose of funk.
    Mark coughed, shielded his mouth.
    The rooms were full of folks talking loud, drinking, and dancing. Mark recognized a few of the partygoers as Willie’s friends, but even they were basically strangers to him. People looked at him as if he didn’t belong there, as if he was a kid who had wandered into a grown folks’ party. And it was his house.
    He had to find Willie and put a stop to this. Right now.
    He found Willie in the master bedroom. He was lounging on the bed with two young women, smoking weed and sipping Hennessey.
    “Hey, potna!” Willie sat up. He laughed at nothing in particular, waved the reefer in the air like a magic wand. “Want a hit of this?”
    “I want all of these people out of here,” Mark said. “You didn’t say anything about throwing a party tonight.”
    Willie waved his hand. “Aww, man, stop trippin’. Come on over here and chill with one of these fine young ladies. Moppin’ all that piss off the floor’s stressed you out, man.”
    Right then, if Mark had possessed the nerve, he would have clocked Willie in the jaw.
    Instead, he said only, “I’m going to my room.” He backed away, head tucked down.
    Laughing, Willie shrugged and put his arms around the women; like a prince in a harem.
    Mark hurried to his room, eager to get inside and lock the door against this craziness—and was shocked to see four guys in there. Sprawled on his bed and the floor, they had turned on his PlayStation and were playing Madden Football. They shouted at the screen and at each other, thoroughly engrossed in the game.
    Someone had balanced a can of Colt 45 on top of his book manuscript.
    Mark’s mouth had dropped open.
    “You want next, brotha?” a scruffy-looking guy asked him. “It’s gonna be a while, we got us a tournament goin’.”
    “No, thanks,” Mark said softly. He took his CD player off the nightstand. One of the men looked at him suspiciously. “This is mine,” Mark said, wondering why he felt he had to justify himself to these graceless people who had invaded his private space.
    He retreated to the basement. In a junk-filled corner, near the washer and dryer, he found an old recliner that his granddad used to relax in, years ago. Mark dropped into the chair, tilted his head back.
    Dust sifted through the air. He sneezed.
    Creaks and thuds issued from the ceiling. Upstairs, they had turned the living room into a dance floor.
    Mom never would have tolerated this. She would have kicked all of those people the hell out, granting them some choice cuss words along the way.
    But Mom was gone. The house belonged to him now.
    Although she might as well have given it to Willie.

    The next night, Mark again cleared the boxes away from the secret door in the supply closet.
    It was a quarter after seven. He hadn’t even started cleaning his assigned restrooms.
    But he wasn’t worried about them, or Mr. Green, either. Not anymore.
    He pressed the icy panel. The wall floated away.
    Beyond, the mysterious darkness beckoned.
    He moved to within a foot of the portal, and got on his knees. Cool sweat streamed down his face, turning icy when kissed by the frigid air blowing from the doorway.
    The magic door led to a marvelous place. He was certain of that; the mere memory of the divine music stirred his spirits. Music that sounded so good had to come from somewhere wondrous. It was from somewhere better than here, this cold world, where beloved mothers died in their prime, and sorry, weed-head stepfathers squandered life insurance money on flashy cars and chased women half their age and slept with them in beds that still carried the scent of their dead wives and ridiculed their stepsons who were only trying to make an honest living working as janitors, and mocked them for collecting