Flash Fiction | Psychological Horror

The Island

A tale of claustrophobia and murder in two parts.

Island — Public Domain (Edited by me)

An island: 3 by 11 blocks. Busy roads on every side. The people are trapped on this island. They can walk eleven blocks up and down the hill, but only three blocks side to side. That’s a special kind of trapped. It’s the kind of trapped that community gardens, and community watches, and community leaders make worse rather than better.

The islanders spend every night, and every weekend, and every holiday on the island. The air is thick during the Fourth of July with wood smoke from a hundred BBQs that might suffocate everyone, while on Christmas, everyone is trapped further by snow and children playing with indoor toys. It’s always indoor toys.

It’s no wonder that Charlie died. It’s no wonder that he was found in the very center of the island in the street with the knife still sticking out of his heart. The pool of blood formed a perfect oval pond. It was the only natural pond on the island.

“Charlie was a good man. He was one of us. He was a member of this community.” That’s what each person told the police in exactly that many words.

Charlie died because he lived on an island.

The police cars added to the claustrophobia of the island. You couldn’t move without having to change course to avoid the police. Two men in cheap suits walked door to door asking the same questions and getting the same answers.

“You aren’t from around here. You don’t know how we do things. We take care of our own.”

The policemen could feel the fear, and hatred, and isolation. They happily left to go back to their homes in the city. The island isn’t part of the city.

The men visited each other’s kitchens. They said hey to the women. They gave candy to the children. Then they pointed fingers at each other. Fingers pointed in every direction, and by process of elimination, the most fingers pointed to Dale Cook.

Captain Cook was retired Navy. He was big and bald, and the isolation of the island was so different from isolation on ship that he had slowly become someone else, something else. A foreigner on the island. A man who could handle a knife and whose wife could handle Charlie.

The neighbors got together and strung Captain Cook up from the top tree. He danced, and his soul left the island.