Double Trouble

I had made twenty thousand dollars in non-for-profit and yet, it still wasn’t enough. Though I wracked my brain trying to figure out how to stretch the money far enough, it wasn’t going well. At least, not until Tobias Marksel turned up with some outlandish story about a game, and a freshly missing left-hand. He had once been my best friend.

Since then, our friendship had fallen out for two reasons: Tobias refused to accept that my schedule was too busy to make room for him. And his insistence that I play this stupid game. He knew how distressed I was, and it seemed almost like he was mocking my situation. Surely he had lost his hand in an accident and gotten compensation. But not everyone can be lucky enough to be paid hush money, and come out alive, I had thought to myself. Meanwhile, Tobias continued with his distasteful story about a gruesome game.

Yet as the days passed, desperation began to coat every aspect of my life in a thin, greasy layer of fear. He had called the game Double Trouble. No matter where I searched I couldn’t find any hint of the game. Satan’s Game, the Knock-knock Game, and every single rendition of Bloody-Mary you could possibly think of later, I was pretty sure that Double Trouble was a hoax. But even so, at the supermarket I found myself lingering in the school-supplies aisle, staring at the notebooks peeking out from the shelves. I shook my head and prowled onward, I couldn’t afford silly expenses at the moment.

Upon returning home, I discovered my decision making was apt. Sitting in my mailbox, with no name, or return address; there was a small black notebook-the nice kind-with an elastic band holding it shut. No other mail had come for me that day, yet I stared into the little rusted box for quite some time before my nerves allowed me to claim the book. It couldn’t hurt, I thought, as I pushed open my front door, just one shot. My hands shook as I put away the groceries, and tried to remember the rules. First, the game had to be done at “nightfall,” and daylight was fading fast.

Tobias’ rules played over more easily in my head as I prepared a small table in my living room, laying a cloth napkin over it. I retrieved the little black book and the sharpest steak knife I owned, setting the tools next to each other on top of the cloth in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. Then, just for the drama of it, I hunted down a few tea candles and lit them, scattering them across the little table as dusk claimed my abode. I found a pen in time for true darkness to blanket my living room, leaving me in flickering candlelight.

The rules of Double Trouble were very simple, to start; you prick your finger and draw a large smiley-face on the inside cover of a black notebook. Then on the top of the first page, in large print, you write “DOUBLE” and at the bottom “TROUBLE.” Once you’ve started a ritual, if you don’t complete it, allegedly, the “trouble” portion will happen anyway with no payout. This is entirely ridiculous, I thought to myself- finding that I had to cut my finger rather deep to draw enough of my own blood. Drops of stray blood littered the first page as I wrote. The last step was simple, you write an amount of money under “double”. And it had to be an amount that you already possessed or else, supposedly, it wouldn’t work. So under my heading “double,” I jotted in one hundred, and finished by closing the notebook. Then I stood to search for a bandage for the now-seeping wound on my forefinger.

When I returned to the altar, and reopened the book, finger freshly wrapped, I wasn’t expecting anything to change. But there, at the bottom of the page- just above “Trouble”- was a delicate red print. I scrubbed at my eyes but when I reopened them, the writing at the bottom of the page remained. There were just three words, but they were rather disturbing. “Burn your arm.” Chills ran down my spine as I played them over in my head. Burn my arm. I shuddered and frowned, remembering my friends’ severed hand as a heavy, and nauseated feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. I stood and turned on the lights before blowing out the candles, to see better- I told myself. I shook my head, walking back into the kitchen, before rummaging through the drawers to find an extremely stale pack of cigarettes and an equally ancient lighter. I took a deep breath, before stepping outside for my first cigarette in almost 3 years.

I sparked the lighter, issuing a flame that was almost surreal in the darkness. Touching the end of the deathstick to the blaze, I inhaled...and nearly threw up. In fact the only thing stopping me was my throat, which had snapped shut almost the instant the smoke touched my lungs. I stood on the porch, spluttering and gasping for almost a solid minute, my mouth tasting like something had died in a campfire. The cherry burnt bright at the end of the cigarette and I thought to myself; You’re stalling. My fingers rotated the cigarette so it faced butt-down, and I slammed it into my forearm, squeezing my eyes shut. It took a split second longer than I thought it would to register the pain, and I ground my teeth together to keep from crying out. Just as I began to wonder; How long do I burn myself? My phone dinged, startling me. Sucking in a breath, I checked the notification. One hundred dollars had just been deposited into my account, and I stared at my phone for several minutes, dumbfounded.

The world snapped back into focus and I reentered my house, this time leaving all the lights on as I went to sit in front of the makeshift altar. This time, under the “Double” heading, I wrote ten thousand, preceded by a dollar sign-and closed the cover once more- before getting up to run to the restroom. This time, the fine red writing appeared above the old text. The new line was more disturbing than the last and my breath caught in my throat as I mouthed the words “Tear off your entire fingernail.” My throat ran dry and I stood, making my way into the kitchen. I pulled open the bottom drawer next to my sink, and let my hands close around a pair of pliers. I would do anything for this money.

I need this. I thought to myself, despairing, as I raised the tip of the pliers to the nail on my left pinkie. Clenching my jaw, I yanked on the pliers as hard as I could, and nearly chipped my teeth from the resulting pain. Tears streamed out of my eyes and it was several minutes before I had the presence of mind to access the damage. I hadn’t lifted the nail clean off, it was still partially attached to the wick and cuticle. The pliers lay on the floor, bloody, apparently I had dropped them at some point. I let myself slide to the kitchen floor, still clutching my bleeding pinkie. I let my hand fall to the floor, and I whimpered as I closed my hand around the pliers once more. This will be worth it. I thought, once more raising the pliers to my displaced nail. This time I forced myself to take the nail all the way off, and I panted hard through my teeth like I’d swallowed a ghost pepper. The rest of the process was slow-going but tears of pain and relief streamed from my eyes as I gripped the edge of the counter to hoist myself up. As soon as I was standing, another ding sounded from my phone. I held my breath this time, as I checked my account. Ten Thousand dollars. The transfer had been accepted 30 seconds ago.

Shaking, I returned to the little altar and penned thirty thousand dollars, and before I could lose my nerve, closed the notebook again. I waited a few seconds and opened it. Nothing had changed. I frowned, thinking; Maybe I have to give it a minute? So I wandered back up the stairs and found some more bandages to mummify my pinkie finger with. The pain was now more of a consistent throb, instead of searing agony.

Returning downstairs, I discovered the book was still open, and next to the previous instructions was the most gruesome line yet. Remove your eye. I gazed at the page in horror. But I couldn’t back down yet, not with so much riding on this. I staggered to the kitchen, and this time opened the first drawer, directly next to the sink. I reached in, and tears began streaming down my face once more as my hand closed around a large spoon. Maybe, I thought, maybe if I could just pop it out… I could get the money and have a doctor straighten me out later. Sinking to the floor once more, I stuffed a tea towel into my mouth, and raised the spoon up to my eye. Almost in a daze, I dug the utensil in between the ball and socket, screaming with everything I had, and it still wasn’t enough to drown out the awful squelching of my eyeball being displaced. Finally -as I slid it past the socket- it felt like it burst, and that's when I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, the world was spinning around me, my face felt sticky, and I lay in the fetal position on my kitchen floor. I barely avoided vomiting on myself as I sat up. I realized something was flopping against my cheek while I heaved, but I refused to think about it for fear of losing consciousness a second time. I returned to the little notebook for the final request. This was it. Sixty Thousand Dollars, I painstakingly scrawled. Blood now splattered almost the entire notebook, and it made an odd squishing sound as I closed it. I went to clean the bile from the floor in the kitchen, and when I returned to the altar, my blood ran cold. KILL YOUR DAUGHTER, The red writing was bold this time. “No. NO. Absolutely not, her surgery is the only reason I played,” I stammered out loud. Then I remembered a rule. If you fail to complete a task, it happens anyway and you lose the money. Oh please God no.

I raced up the stairs, ramming a stair lift on my way through, my heart pounded in my ears as I knocked over bed pads and extra sheets in my haste. I burst through the door into my daughters room, and found her there: hooked up to a plethora of machines as usual. Except...her chest wasn’t moving, and a loud, monotone ringing pulsated through the room, and that’s when I noticed my best friend, standing in the corner illuminated by various monitors.

“Good thing too,” Tobias said, her ventilator plug still in his hand, “I had just hit my transfer limit.” His face split into a sinister grin as I realized my angel was gone. My world, and sanity began to crumble around me. Tobias never attacked me, in fact, he waited patiently for me to call the authorities; who believed he had a psychotic break after an accident at work that took his hand. The only statement he ever made was “I just wanted my best friend back.”