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Bill Davidson is a Scottish writer living in England. In the last few years, he has placed short stories with over thirty publications around the world including Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year Anthology and large distribution magazines. He has written three novels over the same time frame, but hasn’t yet found a publisher for the bigger stuff. Find him on billdavidsonwriting.com or @bill_davidson57

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The Face

By Bill Davidson

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Thomas Ellis might have made up his mind to murder, but he hadn’t ordered any damned pizza. So, it was a surprise when he answered his door to find a tall woman, head to toe in black leather and topped by a glossy full-face motorcycle helmet, visor closed.

The woman stood erect and silent, holding out a cardboard deep-dish box. A smear of tomato sauce, right across the front of her jacket, dragged his eyes to the curve of her breast, and he had to tell himself, for God’s sake stop staring, force his gaze back to the visor.

The seconds spun out till she spoke, her voice surprisingly deep and husky.

“Your food.”

Thomas reached out and took the box, surprised by how heavy it was. It dropped several inches before he got his other hand under it, but she had already turned. He didn’t close the door straight away, instead watching her ass in those tight leathers as she walked away. Her helmet had kind of customized paint job he saw, a writhe of snakes tangled around the back, strangely unpleasant to look at.

He watched her stop at a motorcycle, black like everything else, sat at the curb. It didn’t look anything like the buzzy little Honda step-throughs that he associated with delivery riders. This was big, a Harley, he thought. It sounded big when she threw a long leg over and fired it up, its light cutting through the darkness in the street. For a moment as she roared away, a trick of the poor light probably, it looked almost as if something opened out behind her. Something like wings.

Then she was gone, and he was left with food he hadn’t ordered and a bulge in the front of his jeans.

Closing the door, the thought came to him that, had this been some guy in a grubby Hi-Viz, he would probably have done the honest thing and said he hadn’t ordered a thing. Then he thought, how crazy is that? You’re about to murder that little slut Cherry, mutilate the bitch for what she did, but you don’t want to steal a pizza.

Thomas laughed out loud and then the smell and the heat from the box hit him. He had been forgetting to eat, doing that a lot lately, and was suddenly ravenous. He walked into the kitchen and slid the box onto the counter, flipping the lid.

This was seriously deep-dish, not the sort he normally went for, and ram packed. Whoever ordered this thing must have said, just cram everything you’ve got on it.

Lacking a pizza slicer, Thomas picked up his big carving knife, the one he had bought to kill Cherry with. He had been holding it when the doorbell had gone, imagining sliding it between her ribs while holding her eyes. But doing a lot worse before that, so she would die knowing she wasn’t so damned beautiful after all.

Things were working out pretty well for a change, he thought. He would eat this free pizza, then get in his car and drive, the knife on the seat beside him, messy tomato smears still on it. He would be caught, and there would be jail time, but she should have fucking thought about that, before leaving him with no other option.

He sliced into the pizza, surprised at how deep the knife sank, almost all the way to the hilt. How could that be? Surprised too at how hard it was to cut, man, this thing had a real solid crust.

But his hunger kept him going and soon he was lifting a big wedge, gooey sauce and stretchy cheese resisting him. He had to tug hard.

It was worth it. Damn, the best pizza he had ever tasted. He closed his eyes and savored, having to really work his jaws, make a lot of noise to break that crust.

He gulped it down and cut a second slice, wondering again at how deep the knife sank but not caring. Chewing hard, he caught sight of something else inside the box, shining like silver. Frowning, he slid it out from under the remains of the pie.

A knife.

Not a heavy carver, like the one he now placed by the box, this was a much slimmer blade, though hardly shorter. The word that occurred to him was wicked.

He held it up and looked at it. Bone handled and nastily curved; a very old knife. Clean, despite being under the pizza, and sharp. He didn’t touch his thumb to it, didn’t need to, to know it carried an edge the carver could never take.

He ate another section of pizza, and another, but absently, more interested now in watching the glints from the wicked knife as he moved it around in the light. Thinking, now this is a proper blade for murder. With something like this, he could probably cut her face right off her skull. Show it to her and ask, what do you think? Conversational.

A fly buzzed his head and he waved it away.

The first time he had met Cherry, he didn’t think so much of her. Sure, she was beautiful, like a doll, almost, Barbie, with that make-up and everything.

Following Janine into the party, his hand on her shoulder, he bent down to hear as she turned and whispered, “There she is, look.”

“Who?”

“Cherry, the new marketing manager. I told you.”

Thomas nodded, recalling his wife muttering about it. “Oh yea. Not qualified, right?”

Janine rolled her eyes. “Soon as we saw her standing there with the other candidates, those legs and all, we knew that sleazy bastard Colin would appoint her.”

“So, useless, then?”

He saw the irritation on Janine’s face, realizing she wanted to say yes, but couldn’t. “She’s ok, I suppose. Makes you sick, though.”

“Meow.”

“No, really. The way the guys in the office hang around her. Pathetic.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation she’s too plasticky for me. Too pretty-pretty, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure it is much consolation, to be honest.”

Janine’s boss, Colin, the famous ass toucher, was hanging over the girl. He had thought of her as that, then. Finding out she was almost thirty much later.

He and Janine had walked into the busy, noisy room, greeting people, drinks being put into their hands, and Janine called out, “Hey, Cherry.”

Cherry had smiled. A wide, natural smile that lit her up as she bent towards Janine for a kiss, jerking her head to indicate Colin, still hanging behind her; crossing her eyes and making a face.

Thomas liked her a little better then, and when those eyes landed on him…

A fly buzzed him back into the present and he waved it away, shooed another from the pizza box. That biker girl, she was wasted delivering pizzas. A walk like hers, those curves, Colin would make her general manager the second he set eyes on her. Get her to do that walk for him around the office. Maybe she wasn’t so pretty, though, once that shiny helmet came off.

That inevitably brought to mind the woman he thought of as the witch lady, and, as usual, he winced in embarrassment. The first time he’d seen her, maybe two months ago and just after Janine had left him, it had been from the back and he’d no idea of her age. He had just reached the mall and was about to turn right when he caught sight of what looked like the most total babe, walking tall in her heels and short skirt, hair tucked up inside a turban-like hat. He’d turned left instead, walking faster to catch her, eyes glued to those lovely legs in their sheer nylon, that ass wiggling with every step. It was like he was a fish, quivering on a line.

It was only when she turned to look at something in a shop window that he caught her face, stopping dead in his shock. She wasn’t just old, she was ancient. Face on her like a Halloween witch mask under that weird turban, only this was for real.

If he and Janine had still been together, Thomas would have enjoyed telling her the story, saying there should be a law against it; an old hag going around dressed like that. He wouldn’t mention how he had turned to follow her, eyes caught and glued, and might not have told her the worst bit. The worst bit, the thing that made him wince and draw breath every time he thought of it, was how the woman had looked right at him and caught him looking, the shock right there on his face. He had thought then, she knows I was following her, drawn in, and now I’m repulsed.

Thomas wanted to turn away, but he was still caught, rooted, this horrible old witch holding his eyes and him just standing there, like a fool. Then she did something even worse. She ran her hands right down that beautiful body, those perfect breasts that had no business being in league with that face, right down to her hips, smiled, and turned away.

Thomas had given himself a big shake, and walked straight into Cookshop, buying the big kitchen knife, the idea of using it on Cherry, her scream as he carved her face from her skull, right there in his head for the very first time, clear as day.

He had seen the old woman twice more around town and each time had felt a powerful sexual thrill before realizing it was her. The way she walked, the way she dressed and held herself was like nothing else, so damned sensual, and then the shock when he got a load of that dried up, wrinkly face. It was obscene. Obscene too how she caught his eye, every damned time, and smiled like they were friends or something. People who knew each other.

And the other weird thing- why wasn’t she leaving a trail of shocked expressions in her wake? Mothers pulling their children away to shield their little eyes? Nobody else seemed to even notice.

Thomas closed the lid of the pizza to see who made it, but there was no writing on there, only an unsettling version of the comedy/tragedy masks you saw outside theatres. The smile was too knowing, the tragedy grimace like a man screaming.

It made him think of the biker girl, and her black helmet with the unsettling black snakes. He could see those snakes just fine, although now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t figure how that was possible. Black on black just makes black.

He waved at the flies, three or four of them now, buzzing annoyingly, and picked up the slim knife again, wondering at how the bone handle felt in his hand, worn but so right. Like it was made for him. This was no chef’s knife, accidentally dropped into a box. This was a weapon; a murderer’s knife.

He would finish the pizza, and take that knife to meet the gorgeous Cherry Martinez.

Their affair hadn’t lasted long, but the seed was sown the night of that first party, the way she looked at him with those cool grey eyes, leaving them on him a beat too long.

When the dancing started, he saw her moving and no longer thought of her as plastic. He thought of her as maybe the most beautiful person he had met in the flesh. He had to force his eyes away in case Janine saw, but when he stepped into the garden for a smoke, she was suddenly there beside him, pointing at his cigarette.

“Can I?”

“You smoke?”

“Gave up, but not all the way.”

He held up the packet. “You can have your very own, if you want.”

“Nah.” She grinned. “Just give me a pull on yours and I’ll be happy.”

He looked at her, wondering if she was playing with him, but she just smiled, and he held out his cigarette. Their fingers touched as she took it and she kept her eyes on his as she inhaled.

Three months after that party, he walked into the kitchen to find Janine holding his cell, her face white.

“What are you doing with my phone?”

“I knew it. I just didn’t know it was with that little shit. You bastard.”

What he felt, mainly, was relief. Janine was gone within the hour, and he was calling Cherry even before her car left the drive. That call didn’t go as he expected, instead of asking him to come straight over, she told him to fuck straight off. As though a switch had been flicked and she was no longer interested now he and Jan had split. Maybe that had been her plan all along. He nodded, feeling the right of it.

Beautiful Cherry Martinez, she just liked messing with people, using the accident of that gorgeous face to manipulate them, for no other reason than she could. Now, his marriage over, a court order preventing him going within a hundred yards of Cherry and a charge of assault for good measure, he thought, I’ll eat my stolen pizza. Then, I’m going to use that nasty knife to take proper, old fashioned revenge. I’m going to fillet the bitch.

Flicking the box lid open again, he froze. Then backed away, shaking his head and dropping the knife to clatter on the floor. At the sink he leaned over and dry heaved, wanting what was inside his stomach to be out. Not wanting it in there for one more second, no Sir.

But it didn’t come up, and eventually he had to leave the sink. There were more flies now, a dozen or more, and that wasn’t surprising, given what was in there. It occurred to him that his horribly detailed intentions towards Cherry had caused him to hallucinate, it seemed the obvious thing, so he took a step nearer to the greasy box. Paused, then took another.

No hallucination. Apart from two last triangular sections, he had eaten the entire thing. Not a pizza. A face.

It wasn’t even flat. Before this thing had been sliced up, it would have looked like a wrinkly, fleshy death mask.

The ragged point of one triangle was the raised edge of a woman’s nose, widening to include an eye, thankfully closed, set deeply below her brow. The other section was half of her mouth and chin, part of a sunken cheek. The face had been old, ancient, with thinned lips and skin deeply wrinkled into thick frills and folds.

Thomas felt his knees go out from him and he fell to the floor, heaving again, shoving his fingers down his throat in the hope he could get his stomach to reject the nightmare inside him. After a long time, he stood again.

It was still there, two sections of an old woman’s face. Flies kept landing on it and he jerked away, not wanting them to touch him. He recognized her, of course he did; the witch woman from the mall, the one who walked and dressed as though she was twenty-five.

On the inside edge of the box, there were trailing pieces of what might be seaweed, dark, dried up and wrinkled. Made almost to look like hair, as though for a joke. He picked up the knife, the slim and wicked blade he had found in the box, and lifted a length of it. It was much longer than he had expected and wasn’t smooth, like seaweed. It was scaly. Like shed snake skin.

Thomas flicked it away, shuddering, and hesitated before using the point of the knife to push the bottom lip down, grimacing at the sticky noise it made.

Then, he had to hurry away into the other room, trying to shake the image from his head. The lips had parted to show a deep red mouth, toothless gums, and a raggedly cut slice of tongue.

He had been the one to slice that tongue. And he had eaten the rest of it.

It took another few minutes before he could come back and, horrified but unable to help himself, prize open the eyelid. The eye behind was bulbous and milky but, as he watched, it swiveled to look at him, the pupil dilating as it focused. What was left of the mouth smiled, then, that same mocking smile from the mall.

Thomas was frozen, staring at an eye that gazed right back at him. He might have stayed like that, if the doorbell hadn’t rung.

He shook himself, stepping away and holding his hand over his mouth. The bell went again, ringing non-stop, someone with their finger flat on the button. Finally, he stumbled to the hall and opened the door.

She was back, the woman in her black leathers, the visor still firmly closed.

“You took something that wasn’t yours, thief.”

He put his hand in his pocket, thinking to pay her, just get her out of there. What stopped him was the tomato sauce smeared across her chest, much messier now. As he watched, a red drip collected on the bottom edge of the helmet, just below her chin, it depended for a moment and then dropped.

He stared mesmerized, seeing it collect again, knowing now that it wasn’t sauce.

She said, “There is a price.”

Her voice was worse than husky, it was frayed.

“What do I owe you?”

She pointed, a gloved finger touching the front of her helmet. “What you took.”

He could see himself, reflected in the mirror of the visor. He looked lost, and terrified.

“You’re the woman. The witch lady.”

Even behind the helmet, he knew she was smiling. “You found the knife.”

He raised his hand, surprised to find it still there. It occurred to him to use it now, stab her, and, as though she heard him, she stepped forward, till its point was pressing against her chest. She kept pushing and the heavy leather parted like paper, the blade sliding in.

Thomas took a long step back, jerking the knife away and she stepped past him, through the hall and into the kitchen. Stopped, looking into the pizza box.

“You didn’t finish. That won’t do.”

“You tricked me. You’re…what are you?”

She regarded him for a few seconds in silence. “You could have turned it down. You could have said, no.”

When he didn’t answer, she said, “You have to finish. Then, you must return what you stole.”

He blinked, trying to make some sense of this craziness. “How can this be returned?”

“Can’t you guess?”

He didn’t want to guess. “Have you been following me?”

“Not you. Cherry Martinez. Such a pretty face, so young. But I heard you, Thomas, clear as a mission bell. I know what you want to do to her. Your good old-fashioned revenge. I can help you.”

She pointed at the knife, still in his hand. He looked at it and saw there was now a tiny smear of blood on its tip.

“That is a flensing knife.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“It’s made to flense skin from flesh, and flesh from bone. You’ve eaten most of my face, Thomas, but you have to finish.”

“Your face? That can’t be.”

She lifted her hands, palm outwards. “Oh, not my original face! You couldn’t have so much as set eyes on it. I had to cut it off myself.”

The biker made slicing motions around her helmet. Thomas found his eye attracted by another movement, then. Something blunt and black had fallen from under the helmet, to touch her shoulder, and was dangling there. As he watched it twisted and eyes opened to look at him, a black tongue flickering out.

He hopped back, holding the knife up.

“Jesus Christ! You got a snake in your helmet!”

If a helmet could smile, this one was grinning.

“They’re getting restless, Thomas. You have to finish your meal.”

“I can’t.”

“And, once you are done, you have to give back what you’ve taken.”

She took her gloves off, revealing beautiful, young hands with long white fingers and dark red painted nails. Reaching into the box, she gently closed the eyelid, making an almost motherly hushing noise before lifting the slice for him. He wanted to say, there’s no way I’m doing that, but it seemed he had no choice. Inside the box, the lips curled again into a smile.

When he finally finished, she handed him the now empty box, and the flensing knife.

“I’ll be waiting. Go and enjoy your revenge.”

When Thomas returned, reeling, covered in blood, he thought he had gone further than the human mind could go. That there could be nothing left with the capacity to make him scream again.

He believed that when he knelt before her and handed her box. He continued to believe it, when she undid the stud on her helmet. Then, he saw it was not so.

*

THE END

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© 2019 Bill Davidson. The content of this article, except for quoted or linked source materials, is protected by copyright. Please contact the author for usage.

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