This is one of a collection of stories that are like “Final Destination” meets “The Monkey’s Paw” (W. W. Jacobs, 1902). As such, they are tragedies more than either mysteries or horror, and would appeal most to readers who enjoy the inexorable pull of a story arc that leads to doom. In each story, a protagonist makes a wish that comes true with fatal results for someone, often the person making the wish. Nothing supernatural, but just how things work out. (Or is it?) The technical details surrounding the fatal (or near-fatal) event are drawn from real cases in the US OSHA incident report database or similar sources and are therefore entirely realistic, even if seemingly outlandish. The plots draw lightly from cultural beliefs around actions such as pointing at someone with a stick or knife, wishing in front of a mirror, or stepping on a crack.
Brett was the kind of middle-aged guy who left his dog’s poop on the sidewalk, or if he scooped, left the baggie on the side of the path in the park. He took advantage of his role as one of the trustees of Mansion Heights apartments to appropriate the penthouse and use the entire rooftop terrace as his own private garden. Possessing that space gave him pleasure and was his way of showing mastery over the other tenants, excluding people from spaces he desired.
Brett was a venture capitalist who had recently bought up several hospitals. The idea was to form a hospital chain, cut unprofitable services, trim duplication, and squeeze out any waste before selling the chain at a massive profit. Brett had seen success with this model twice before in other industries, but this was his first time with hospitals. He was expecting resistance; there was always resistance. When he merged several hotels, the unions had given him grief, his car had been vandalized with raw fish and onions shoved up the tailpipe, and someone had dropped a frozen chicken from the roof, trying to hit him. When he acquired and conglomerated a bunch of machine parts firms, someone had thrown a hammer at him during a staff meeting, his car had been set afire, and for weeks, people had spray-painted graffiti and death threats on his office walls. This time, when he was merging hospitals, he got a few dirty looks from nurses, a cleaner had splashed his shoe while mopping, and a CMO had offered him the cheap ginger snaps with his coffee.
Dr. Opal Otter was a toxicologist at the hospital and looked after several rescue dogs. Bosco was a huge, floofy Pyrenees Mountain dog and a big goof, Anubis was a Belgian Malinois and trained as a cadaver dog, and Weasley was a one-eyed Dachshund with a toe-biting habit. Opal was a very keen gardener, especially herbs, spices, and mushrooms, and she kept a special locked garden that contained a wide range of highly poisonous plants. She was a frequent visitor at the Mansion Heights apartments, doing health checks on a few of her longtime elderly patients and swapping herbs and spices. She also came to get the gossip from the retired toxicology community and to fill the little group in on any bodies that Anubis had uncovered, like the dentist that walled up his nephew, the guy who had been buried under a river by a jilted lover, and the wild mushroom picker who died in the forest. They would play cards, drink home-distilled rum, and tell spicy jokes.
Her friends were all doing well for their age, but they complained about the new resident landlord, some financier tycoon who often left his two Siberian huskies on the roof when he went for his daily jog and a coffee. The dogs would be up on the roof, howling like a pair of love-sick demons, Lettie had explained. Bernice complained that he also never picked up after his dogs: “… And he leaves bags of poop by the side of the path. Who does that?” Lettie knew who: “A schmuck, that’s who!”
Lettie also complained that the schmuck had stolen three of her potted plants for his stupid penthouse garden. “Two yew and a castor oil plant.”
Bernice had a suggestion. “Brew him some nice yew tea and ricin cookies! That will stop his poopery!” They both cackled delightedly, and Opal laughed. “No murder, please, ladies!”
It had been raining steadily throughout the night, and now at seven in the morning, it was a fine misty drizzle, with an occasional rumble in the distance. Brett was going for a run before driving to a board meeting at the hospital and had left the dogs on the roof. To warm up, he did some stretching exercises in front of the building, the sheen of his form-hugging Spandex reflected in the brooding cast-iron clouds that hung low over the city. The stretching and glistening movement was exciting the huskies, and they let rip with a volley of groans, yelps, and barks. Spinning with excitement, one of them jumped at the terrace wall and knocked over a large potted yew. It tumbled down toward the preening figure below and crashed on the steps beside him like a thunderclap. Brett was startled at the sudden explosion and flying shards of pottery and earth, and he leapt backwards in alarm.
It would have been one of those narrow misses, but his foot came down on a soft and well-watered dog poop on the sidewalk. Brett slid and tumbled and flailed into the street like a shiny spider. He went headfirst into an oncoming garbage truck with such a bang that the dogs momentarily stopped barking.
Watching the unfolding drama from their balcony, Lettie and Bernice nodded in satisfaction. “So goes the schmuck!” Lettie said with firm conviction. The two of them went upstairs to retrieve their remaining potted plants and take the dogs into their custody before any dog catcher came.
“I’m sure Opal will give them a good home,” Bernice had reflected, offering the dogs each an arrowroot cookie. “I think this one with the very blue eyes should be called Skyler, and this one with the brown tinge on his legs should be called Terra.”
The dogs were happy with their new friends and overjoyed when they arrived at Opal’s plot that evening. Nobody ever left them on a roof again and there were plenty of friends who wanted to play.
Editor’s Note: This piece was developed from a prompt during a “Hard Times” writing workshop run by LightHouse and Jefferson County Public Library.
