Short Story: Mahogany Glow-Up

This story is an entry for the NYCmidnight Short Story Challenge 2025. NYCmidnight offers many different writing contests and I have entered a handful to encourage myself into writing more.

This particular contest was 8 days long and up to 2500 words. When the contest begins (at midnight in NYC) the participants are assigned into groups and given a genre, a character and an event.

The parameters I was given were - Genre: Thriller - Event: Moving to a new city - Character: a hair stylist

This was my entry. I won’t know if I made it into the second of three rounds for a couple of months but I’ll let you know either way.

Enjoy or Don’t!

MAHOGANY GLOW UP

Synopsis: Recently broken up with, Bill searches for answers and/or excitement and after finding both, he regrets it. 

 Bill’s eye twitch claps on beat with the Muzac in the elevator. A saxophone rendition of “Never Gonna Give You Up” trolls him as he’s lifted slowly towards the sky. 

 When Rebecca had told him that he’d hafta move out three weeks ago, he felt deserted, let down and gave up on. Fuck you Rick Astley. Fuck you AND your universal optimism towards the human condition. Grow up.  

 Before the elevator doors can open, Bill crouches down below the buttons in a futile attempt to hide from anyone nefarious waiting for him on the third floor. Luckily for him and his terrible hiding spot, no bullets, bodies or bad vibes enter so he exits cautiously. 

 His back against the wall and head on a swivel, he shuffles down the corridor passing the other hotel rooms and wonders what could possibly greet him in the room at the end of the hall. 

 The note had said to come alone but considering he didn’t yet know anyone in this town, he really didn’t have anyone to bring anyway. 

 With a terrifying ding, the sound of saxophones are muted as the elevator closes and retreats from the situation. Bill’s twitchy eye applauds fervently.

 Almost to room 321, he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out and review the note that had brought him here. A ransom style collage with the message cut out of various magazines. 

 “Her life is in your hands, Bill. Come alone.” Then the name of and room number at a well known hotel downtown. 

 The most troubling part being that folded up in the note was what appeared to be a lock of his ex’s iconic red hair. Even in the context of a dirty letter in a dark hallway, the vibrant hair seemed to radiate its own light. A mahogany glow.

 Normally Bill would’ve disregarded such an obvious, cliche plea for attention as a practical joke in poor taste from an insensitive friend but since splitting with Rebecca and looking for a new start in this new city, his life was as stale as the bread on his kitchen counter. 

 And despite having recently split up they had agreed to stay in touch regularly. Still Rebecca had been impossible to reach. Bill was already a bit concerned about her before the note showed up, slid under the door of his mal-furnished apartment. 

 So with nothing better to do and with an altruistic shuffle in his step, he humored the bad joke in poor taste and followed the instructions of the note. 

 Pocketing it again, Bill stepped in front of room 321 and took a deep, calming breath. “Here goes SOMEthing,” he mumbles to himself and knocks. 

 The door, which had appeared closed, was not entirely latched so when he knocked it pushed open a few inches. The unexpected movement buckled his knees & elicited an encore from the twitch in his eye. So far, he thinks, this has been a very exciting nothing.

 “Hello?” He asked the silence while slowly pressing the door open with a less than steady hand. He’s greeted with no reply. 

 The lights in the room are off but the curtains are open.  The city’s light pollution lends its soft glow through the open shades and illuminates the hotel room’s basic layout. 

 A giant bed across from a large T.V. on a medium sized dresser next to a small kitchenette.

 The room is un-lived in. Seemingly empty and undisturbed since it’s last cleaning except for a package resting on the foot of the bed.  

 Emboldened by the room’s lack of threats, he further confronts his fear and cautiously approaches the package. It’s an unassuming cardboard box about the size of a basketball tied shut with a single thread of twine. A small tag attached to the twine simply reads “BILL” in unfamiliar hand writing.

 A cursory glance around the empty room confirms that there are no other Bills around so he sighs, shrugs and unties the package. 

 Pulling open the top of the box, he immediately recognizes the mop of familiar red hair and his reality shatters. Rebecca’s head!

 He cries out in agony and nauseously falls to his knees. Gripping the edge of the bed he accidentally yanks the bedspread, knocking the package to the floor. Rebecca’s head tumbles from the box and rolls to a stop looking up at him. 

 As he’s about to throw up Bill notices something important. Something overlooked. 

 Her head has no skin! No features. No color. No face. 

Wait. 

What?

 It’s a mannequin’s head. But with Rebecca’s hair attached to it. 

Even in the low light of the room, the hair seems to shimmer and illuminate the Rebecca mannequin’s featureless face. 

“What the fuuuuhhh-”, Bill stammers in disbelief, attempting to regain control of his scattered thoughts when the hotel room door slams shut. 

 He whips around to see the silhouette of a short, wide shape crouching in the shadows in front of and blocking the door. Bill’s only exit is cut off.

 Wearing a dark cloak, the figure is distorted in the dark but Bill can sense the person's speed and nimble, chaotic energy. 

 He instinctively start’s backing away, pleading with the shadow to make sense of it all. 

“Who are you?” He shouts. “What do you want?! Where’s Rebecca?”

 The only response is a short raspy whisper of a laugh. The shadow’s arms disappear inside of the cloak and when they reappear Bill gasps. In the low light he can decipher the outline of a gun in one hand and in the other … scissors? 

 Even in his panic, Bill scoffs at the murderer’s weapon choice. Of course he would get murdered by scissors. Typical. Probably elementary school soft-grip, blunt-tip scissors too. 

 As the creepy shadow inches towards him, Bill steps backward accidentally onto the mannequin’s head. It tumbles from underneath him and he loses his balance, falling off of his feet and smashing his own head on the edge of the medium sized dresser.  

 Crumpled on the floor and trying to hold onto his consciousness, the shadow figure steps close enough for Bill to see the outline of a shaved head and not a gun in its hand but a … blowdryer? 

 With the figure nearly on top of him, he succumbs to the shadow and drifts off towards complete darkness. Somewhere in his mind an eerie symphony of saxophones suggests he ought not give up. Bill wonders if he already has and lets his eyes twitch closed. Blackness envelops him. 

___________________________

“Snip!” 

What a strange dream Bill thinks. 

“Snip!” 

 Consciousness slowly reemerges as the next “snip” echoes around his foggy noggin. Eyelids still heavy, he reaches up to rub the sore spot on the back of his head but struggles to move his arm. A similar attempt with the other arm yields the same result. 

 Furrowing his brow causes his head to ache further but another “snip” next to his ear slices through the fog and the memory of his predicament pours in. His eyes shoot open. 

 From his position tied tight against a swivel chair he scans the situation the best he can. The same shadowy figure is leaning over him but in the bright light of this room he recognizes the shadowy cloak from before as actually a wide smock used by hair stylists. They’re using their scissors to cut off large chunks of Bill’s hair and stuffing it in the pockets of the smock.

“Welcome back, Bill”. The crinkle from the abductor’s throat sends chills down Bill’s spine. It’s an oddly familiar, almost recognizable voice. 

 The source of the shudder steps behind Bill and places their hands on his shoulders. 

“How are we feeling about this new look?” They croak. 

In the reflection of the mirror in front of him, Bill’s gaze passes over the mess of his own hair to settle on the human behind it. 

 Rebecca is barely recognizable with her patchy, shaved head. Her posture is nothing like he knew. More creature than comfort now. Lines of fresh scars crosshatch her face and hands and she’s smiling maniacally. 

 As concerned for her as he is for himself, his confusion spills from his face in the form of muttered mumbles and whispered whimpers.

 “Becca.” He groans. “Noooooo. What is this? What’s going on? Are you ok?” 

 His head still reeling from its collision with the bureau, struggles to find purchase among this new found slippery truth. Rebecca sent the note. She cut off her own hair. She kidnapped and tied him to a chair. 

“Why?” He asks himself, and her, out loud. 

 Before she can reply there’s a loud pounding knock at the door and someone behind it shouts. 

“Police! Open up!” 

 Rebecca hisses and turns toward the door. As she scrambles for something in her smock she absent-mindedly drops the scissors in Bill’s lap. Barely able to reach them, he uses his finger tips to maneuver the scissors onto his wrist constraints. 

 Rebecca pulls a flask out of her smock and facing the impending police presence, takes a long pull from the bottle. With her scraggly head raised to the sky while draining the contents of the bottle, Bill notices in the mirror that it’s not some kind of liquor like he had initially presumed but a bottle of conditioner. He recognizes her favorite hair product from their domestic time sharing a shower together. 

 “Come out or we’re coming in!” The voice behind the door threatens and when nobody replies a muffled conversation can be heard before the first of several great THUDs rattle against the door. 

Bill, using the cutting shears to saw through the twine around his wrist sees Rebecca flatten herself against the wall beside the door. Crouched, she resembles a cobra ready to strike and just as Bill frees his arm the door bursts open. 

 Rebecca lunges at the officers barreling into the room and stronger than she has any right to be, starts grabbing and throwing them around. One after the other bounces off the wall and off the ceiling. Hurling a third officer straight at Bill, he narrowly escapes his own brutal run in with the cops as he cuts through the last of the rope holding him to the chair and dives below the vanity. 

 Bill catches a glance of Rebecca as she disappears into the hall and then hears the reaction of a second group of officers waiting for her. A chorus of less than empty threats and the sound of more violence as one side or the other attempts to control the situation. 

 The officers in the room with Bill pick themselves up out of their various comprised positions and regroup to join in the fray. As they run back into the hall, Bill notices the empty conditioner bottle on the floor and in a dreamy state picks it up. Hearing but not listening to the surreal encounter unfold in the hall, one particular phrase from the bottle’s graphic design seems to stand out to him.

 “Let your true self shine!” 

______________________________

 Outside of the hotel, Bill wrapped in a wool blanket leans against a cop car as he attempts to decompress. They had finally managed to subdue Rebecca when the last line of defense had shot her with a tranquilizer dart then covered her with a large net as she thrashed helplessly into unconsciousness.

 Bill was still unsure why the police had brought an Animal Control crew along with them but it seemed to be a prescient decision. 

 He watched as her sleeping body strapped to a gurney was placed in the back of an ambulance. None of this yet made any sense to him but he was glad to see her on the brink of getting some help. 

  The officer who’s car he’s leaning against approaches him. 

 Bill begs her for some clarity. “What is this all about? What’s going on?” 

 She opens the door to the back seat and gestures for him to get in. 

She tells him, “We need to get your statement. I’ll explain on the way down to the station.” Then shuts the door behind him. 

 As the ambulance starts to move the other emergency vehicles fall in line behind and Bill’s vehicle joins the end of the procession. The officer explains how they’ve been attempting to track Rebecca and several other women who’ve had extreme reactions to a certain chemical additive in the conditioner. 

 Apparently the hair-care company’s newest formula creates an adverse reaction to those of the ginger persuasion, causing them to suffer psychotic breaks. All around the country, women with red hair had started to become a sort of super villain. Many of them choosing to use their own profession as the launching point for their new evil empires. 

 Bill lets the story wash over him as he stares out the window in disbelief. 

 As the procession of emergency vehicles makes a right turn towards the hospital and some sort of conclusion, his own chauffeur breaks from the pack and continues straight. 

 “Uhhhhhh,” Bill points toward the receding safety in numbers. “They went that way.” He points out the obvious. 

 Ignoring him, the officer begins to speed up and starts driving more erratically. 

 A bump in the road bounces the car and jostles both passengers. The officer’s hat, now slightly askew, reveals to Bill his first look at her locks. 

 A mahogany glow emanates from her rich red hair.