SNM Horror Magazine

THEME:

There's No Word for It -- Adrian Ludens / 4th Pl Tie

 

Expressions of Grandeur -- John Barnes / 4th Pl Tie

 

The Crawlspace -- Curt Jeffreys

 

Queen of the Hive -- Travis Gates / 2nd Place

 

 

 

SEE ISSUE BELOW

THERE’S NO WORD FOR IT

Adrian Ludens

There’s not a word for the fear I suffer from. I’ve looked, believe me. I found lots of other phobias, but not one which describes my situation. There’s pnigophobia, which is the fear of choking or being smothered. Seems like a valid concern.

Phagophobia is almost the opposite; it’s a fear of swallowing. Then there’s a marvelous trio of acarophobia, entomophobia and insectophobia. Those are all the fear of spiders and insects. Despite my current predicament, none of these phobias have wound their icy, irrational fears around my psyche the way this has. It’s...damn it! Like I said, I still haven’t found the official word for my most prominent fear.

The first insect that I accidentally swallowed was most likely a mosquito. I was playing with my four-year-old nephew, Caleb, when it happened. He shrieked and scampered across our front lawn as I chased him on all fours. I opened my mouth for what I hoped was a passable imitation of an angry bark and saw a small dot of black with cellophane wings darting through the air. The mosquito collided with the back of my throat and I swallowed automatically. I felt this prickle on the back of my throat where the mosquito had landed, but after a drink of cool water from the kitchen tap, the feeling went away. I thought no more about the incident until the second insect flew into my mouth later that same day.

It was after dinner, our visitors had gone, and I was puttering around outside. I began to yawn and caught a glimpse of green. Before I could react, I felt a tickle at the back of my throat.

I had decided it that had been a green midge due to its coloring when I heard the low motor-like buzz of a bumblebee. It was joined by the electric droning of a large horsefly. High pitched squealing in both ears announced the arrival of at least two more mosquitoes. I walked at first and then jogged toward my front door, flailing my arms in an attempt at staving off the swarming insects. I swallowed two more before I had made it inside and rinsed out my mouth once again.

*

I know you’re judging me already; assessing the situation and making your own diagnosis of my mental stability. Perhaps you’ve asked yourself if the first insect I swallowed was, in fact, the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Or you’re wondering if I am a real-life counterpart to the stumbling, muttering town drunk; so stewed in alcohol that the stereotypical fly on the end of my nose has taken up residence within, simultaneously eating away at my brain, my liver and the lining of my stomach. I assure you this is not the case. I drink only when the strain becomes too much to bear. I admit this is more often lately, but my drinking was the result of the insects; not vice versa.

That evening after the first wave of insects invaded my body, I almost took syrup of ipecac. Then I realized I’d rather let my stomach acid do its job than subject myself to the vomit-inducing wrath of the syrup. After all, I had swallowed bugs, not poison. Looking back, I wish I had at least tried, though I doubt it would have done any good.

Instead I did what any sane person would do; I rationalized the situation. Failing this, I fell back on the next best solution: I pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

That night I dreamt a cell phone kept vibrating in my stomach.

*

I felt fine upon waking the next morning. I brushed my teeth, showered and dressed for work without remembering the bugs. I grabbed my briefcase, shoved the door open and trotted down the steps toward the driveway. What I saw stopped me in my tracks: mayflies carpeted the hood and roof of my Impala. I turned on my heel and hurried back up the stairs.

Once safely within the confines of my home I pulled the curtain aside and gazed out the living room picture window. Still in her silk pajamas, my wife, Samantha, padded into the room.

“I thought you left,” she commented. “Why are you still here?”

“Come look at this,” I said, careful to keep my voice neutral.

Samantha strode forward and leaned to look where I pointed. She straightened. “What?”

“Don’t you see the mayflies all over my car?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” Samantha scowled and looked at me carefully. “I don’t see anything.”

My eyes darted back outside. I squinted. The white Impala looked gold in appearance thanks to the multitude of mayflies perched on it. Iridescent wings reflected in the sun. I coughed without really needing to, stalling for time.

“I think I might need to take some time off,” I finally suggested quietly.

“Of course I see the mayflies, Will,” my wife exclaimed. “I was just kidding for God’s sake!”

I felt my shoulders slump with relief. I love my wife dearly but sometimes I feel like she gets a little too much enjoyment from making me feel foolish. Still, Samantha’s beauty makes it easy for me to forgive her. I gave her a sheepish hug.

“Would you do me a huge favor?” I asked. My wife cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“Would you go out there with a newspaper or something and chase them away for me?”

My wife put her hands on her hips. Perhaps she was trying to decide if I was getting back at her for the teasing I had endured just moments earlier.

“Humor me this one time,” I begged.

Moments later, she had approached my car holding yesterday’s paper in hand. Watching from my cowardly post at the picture window, curiosity mixed with mounting dread as my wife drew closer to the Impala. Then she swung the newspaper onto the hood and the mayflies took off en masse, creating a golden cloud that dissipated into the morning sky.

My wife jogged back grinning triumphantly and I hurried to meet her.

“Thank you for doing that honey,” I said. I kissed the top of her head. “This may sound crazy, but I was almost convinced that those things were deliberately waiting out there for me.”

Samantha laughed and I joined her. It was at that moment that the mayfly which had concealed itself beneath a crease in my wife’s pajamas took to the air and flew right into my mouth. The fluttering of wings as it journeyed down my throat elicited a massive coughing fit from me. I pulled away from her as the coughing wracked my frame. Then the feeling was gone; the newcomer apparently having joined its comrades.

A mixture of frustrated disbelief and revulsion made screaming seem like a viable option. Samantha eventually calmed me down. By the time I left for work she had me halfway convinced that the whole incident had only been a remarkable fluke.

During my commute, the wings of the crushed mayflies waved at me gaily from the hood of my Impala; martyred patriots in the war against my sanity.

*

Insects of all breeds targeted me for the next three days. They flew and sometimes crawled in my mouth at every opportunity. I saw a few miller moths, although they easily could have been meal moths. Then a honeybee. A bumblebee tried but I slapped it aside at the last second, so it stung me instead. I damn near choked to death when that gladiator katydid crawled down my throat.

I broke down and tried the syrup of ipecac. It had the desired effect of making me vomit, but to my great dismay no insects appeared in the toilet bowl.

Thursday afternoon, on my way home from work, I stopped off at Bloom Hardware and scooped up  two armloads of insect repellents. I waddled up and down the aisles, cradling my brood of aerosol cans, spray bottles, repellents and baited traps. As an afterthought, I selected a package of those white filter masks you sometimes see allergy-prone people wearing when they’re out mowing.

“Bug problems?” the cashier asked as I plopped the canisters down on the counter.

I opened my mouth to reply and right at that moment a ladybug sped through the air and straight down my throat. I felt tears of frustration welling up and I glowered at the surprised clerk.

“What the hell is a ladybug doing in a hardware store anyway?” I snapped. “Don’t you people spray against that kind of thing?”

*

Samantha smiled at the array of insect repellents I'd purchased. She waited patiently as I grimly squirted the windowsills and around our doors, both inside and out. When my hand ached from pumping the spray handle, I simply switched to the other hand. I sprayed our hedges, the exteriors of our vehicles, the mailbox, and everything else I could think of. I even dragged the wooden ladder from the garage and sprayed around all the exteriors of the windows on the second floor. I positioned poisoned bait traps in every corner and hung flypaper from the ceiling of each room. After three hours I staggered into the bedroom. I felt dizzy from the effects of the chemicals and there was a buzzing in my ears. Samantha, now in her pajamas, wordlessly laid out a bath towel and turned on the shower for me. She wasn’t smiling any more.

I cleaned up, toweled off, and put on my pajamas. Haunted by a vision of ants marching across my pillow and into my mouth while I slept, I pulled on one of the white filter masks before going to bed.

Samantha’s eyes widened briefly as I crawled under the covers beside her.

“Will,” she entreated. “I love you and all, sweetheart, but don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?”

“Something is compelling insects to fly in through my mouth to my stomach,” I declared. “That’s not natural, damn it! Until I find out what’s going on, I’m going to wear this mask, especially when I’m sleeping.”

“Look, I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

 “I’ll look in the phonebook tomorrow morning,” I assured her as I clicked off the lamp. “A specialist will know what to do.”

She nodded then leaned forward and gave me an awkward peck on the cheek above the white mask.

“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she said and giggled uncertainly. Her laughter quickly turned to sobs. My wife rolled away from me and began to weep. I tried to console her but then became preoccupied with the buzzing again. I could still hear it, but it wasn’t in my ears like I had initially thought. The buzzing came from my stomach.

*

The next morning Samantha walked into the bathroom to find me smearing my feces across the tiles on the floor of our shower stall. I was conducting an examination of my excrement after my morning bowel movement in hopes of finding wings, legs or some other evidence that the insects were dying and being naturally expelled.

My wife’s face paled. She walked out the front door and drove away. Even more troubling, I found no insects in my feces.

*

Although I went back to work on Friday, I accomplished little in my preoccupied state. I asked my supervisor for the next week off, citing health issues. I spent all weekend dousing the house with more insect repellent. Each morning I examined my bowel movements but was disappointed by the results.

Samantha phoned me Sunday evening to say that she was worried about me, but she would be staying with friends until I had resolved my phobias. I assured her that I had made seeing a doctor my top priority.

When Monday arrived, the first ear, nose and throat specialist I contacted refused to take me seriously. It was the same result with the second one. And the third. The general practitioner at Bloom Memorial Hospital who fit me in on short notice refused to examine me once he had heard my complaint. Instead he gave me the business card of a psychologist who practiced nearby. Out of spite, I slipped a stethoscope into my jacket after the jackass had left the room and I shredded his business card on my way out.

Back at home I sat in my leather recliner and used the doctor’s purloined instrument to listen to the cacophony of buzzing, high-pitched chirping and droning coming from my distended stomach.

If doctors weren’t going to hear me out long enough to actually help me, I’d have to find another way. I’d have to arrange for an “accidental” discovery of the insects within me. I ruminated further on the matter and attempting to drown my unwelcome guests in scotch.

After a couple of hours and triple that many scotches, I felt I'd devised a foolproof idea: stomach reduction surgery. During the procedure the doctor would surely see that something was amiss.

I laid back in my recliner, feeling satisfied with myself. Even though I had tossed the stethoscope aside, I could still hear the bugs. It was the interior chirping of crickets that eventually lulled me to sleep.

*

“I’m sorry sir, but based on the information you have provided, you simply aren’t a candidate for gastric bypass surgery,” explained the woman from Bloom Memorial, sounding almost bored.

“You don’t understand,” I replied, clutching the receiver in one hand; unconsciously rubbing my churning stomach with the other. “I need this!”

“I’m sorry-”

“Damn it, listen to me! I need someone to fix my stomach!”

“Sir, if you’ll calm down, I will explain your options to you.” The woman sounded both bored and annoyed simultaneously.

“I’m calm,” I lied.

“I would advise you to call your health insurance company,” she began. My stomach lurched at her words.

“You have to understand that this would fall into the category of elective surgery. Most likely your insurance company will not cover the procedure, but you should contact them first just in case for possible pre-approval. They might let you apply the cost of the procedure toward your deductible,” the woman prattled.                    

My hands shook. The scotch was long gone and I’d moved on to whiskey. Since Samantha was not in the house, I didn’t bother with the formality of a glass. I soothed my mounting panic and washed it down with a swig from the bottle. I fidgeted in my chair as the woman went on.

“Of course, whether or not we happen to be on the in-network providers with your particular insurance company will affect how much help you’d be getting from them. Depending on your plan, some insurance companies might require you to undergo a complete physical before allowing you to schedule elective surgery. Then there’s the possibility that-”

Finally giving voice to my mounting revulsion, I shrieked and threw the phone across the room.

There had to be an easier way. Bugs were hellbent on climbing into my mouth. I didn’t need my insurance company trying to climb up my ass. Having a choice between A and B was not really a choice in my mind.

I drained the contents of the bottle and mentally formulated my plan for deliverance. Having resolved myself on this alternate plan of action, I rose and headed for the kitchen. A lone fly pattering against the window pane turned its attention toward me as I entered. I grabbed my car keys off the counter and opened my mouth for the approaching fly. Why not? One more for the road.

*

I careened toward Bloom Hardware. To pass the time, I sang “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly...” I was halfway through my seventh rendition, gleefully bellowing “perhaps she’ll diiiiieeeee!” when I spun the wheel and guided the Impala into a handicapped spot near the store’s main entrance.

I had left the car door hanging open and went into the store’s fluorescent interior. My stomach felt bloated and unsettled. I was painfully conscious of every move the bugs were making inside me. I muttered under my breath, entreating them to keep still. I scanned the signs hanging above the aisles until I located the one I wanted: gardening.

“Can I help you find anything today?” asked the green-vested teenager who’d materialized beside me.

“I'd like to obtain the strongest insecticide that you have in the store,” I told the kid. “Not stuff meant for household purposes, but something a farmer or a professional greenhouse would use.”

“Sure. We keep that in the back,” the kid replied.

“Would you please go get it and meet me back here as soon as you can?” I asked. He nodded and we parted ways.   

My green-vested helper made it back in four minutes, but I was back in two. My eyebrows furrowed when he saw what I had acquired.

“Is that the strongest stuff you’ve got?” I asked, lifting my chin toward the large black aerosol can he was carrying.

“Yes sir,” he replied. “It’s guaranteed to kill insects on contact.”

“I want you to pop the lid off that can and get ready to spray it. Understand?”

The kid had paled. He shook like he was three hours late for a smoke break.

“Sir, I think maybe I should call my manager-”

“Aim right here,” I instructed him, pointing at my midriff. “Get ready to spray...”

Envisioning a dishonored Samurai warrior, I punctured open my stomach with the prongs of the weed digger I had procured. Then I withdrew the wet blade, turned it ninety degrees and thrust again. Crimson spurted from the target I’d made for the kid: ‘X marks the spot’.

“Now!” I bellowed.

Instead of insecticide, the kid sprayed his half-digested lunch out onto the tiled floor.

I sprayed copious amounts of dark red blood, stomach bile and enough insects to impress even a bee keeper.

I became dimly aware of the kid shrieking. Maybe I should have let him get his manager, after all. I glanced up at the army of insects that hovered in the aisle above me. It was as if the multitude were pondering the situation.

Then the cloud dissipated in all directions. Whatever conditions had drawn the insects to me apparently no longer existed. I watched them go with a strong sense of satisfaction and relief.

The sharp pain in my stomach was already fading, and a cool, fuzzy feeling began to rapidly envelop me. I sank to the sticky tile, my head swimming. Darkness crept rapidly across my field of vision.

I had finally won! I was free. Best of all, I didn’t have to deal with my insurance company. I am more afraid of having to deal with them than anything else in this world. The endless cycle of letters and phone calls; the rules, regulations, exclusions and the dreaded rejected claims. What would one call fear of dealing with insurance companies? From everything I have researched, there’s not a word for that either.

*

Adrian Ludens makes his return appearance here at SNM, following his September 2009 debut, where he landed SOTM. Adrian lives in the Black Hills of South Dakota where he works as an on-air personality for a classic rock radio station. Adrian's short fiction has also appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Magazine, Morheus Tales, Trail of Indiscretion and Crossed Genres and now SNM.  Other stories are scheduled to appear in “Glassfire Anthology,” "52 Stitches," "The Middle of Nowhere," and BBB. Visit his Myspace and leave comments here in the guestbook. 

www.myspace.com/adrianludens

                                          Adrian Ludens

Expressions of Grandeur

John Barnes

Boastful sons-of-bitches, thought Cheryl Heinz as she watched the strawberry blond model flip and rustle her hair about into voluminous layers of  a richly-groomed mane. A smooth talking male voice spoke arrogantly of the beauty product for which they were advertising: Expressions of Grandeur, the essence of attraction.

Cheryl was comfortably reclined in her Lay-Z-Boy with a romance novel on her lap when the commercial came on. She barely even got through two pages a night, always insistent on having her twenty-inch television on for what she called “comfort noise” in the background.She fell into this routine about fifteen years ago, frightened by the horrid sounds which sometimes came at random and without warning in a quiet room; the hum of the refrigerator compressor was the worst. But the commercial had driven up another such fear, one that could not be drowned by a noisy television: Cheryl Heinz was pushing forty and still claiming single on her tax returns. The model flipped her hair one last time and the screen changed to a children’s cereal commercial, but not before Cheryl had made a mental note of the telephone number at the bottom of the screen.

She threw her book onto the sofa, pouting at the laughing children going bananas for Banana Berries. There's something about that last commercial which made Cheryl think deeply about her situation. She was a middle-aged waitress at the Café 50’s diner off Mable Street with no one to share the warmth of her bed. She’d been close before, but she was clueless as to how male companionship had eluded her all her life.

It can’t be my looks, she would think to herself while looking in her vanity mirror. She was fit and taut with endowments just under voluptuous. She ate right—most of the time—and was a firm advocate of Pilates on top of her rigorous waitressing schedule. Not bad, but she knew she could use a little help. 

She righted herself from the Lay-Z-Boy and walked toward the phone in the kitchen, an unusually spacious kitchen in an unusually spacious house for a single, independent woman. As if her owning the place deserved the presence of another by default.  

Boastful, but what the hell.

She called.

As it rang, the thought that maybe she was making a mistake floated through her mind. They’re sucking you in, Cheryl. They’re going to sell you some mud from the bottom of an artesian well and that strawberry blonde is going to use your money to buy a new pair of stilettos.

After five rings, her hand started to move fickly toward hanging up. She was moments away when a voice suddenly spoke on the other end: “Hadley Beauty Products.”

Cheryl swiftly pulled it back to her ear, took a deep breath and started to speak.

Two weeks later, a package arrived on her doorstep.

*

She wore the make-up on the night of her Hadley Products reception, minus the lipstick which was on backorder. Cheryl had managed to evade the eyes of her best friend and co-worker of eleven years.

Jenny Harlow walked right past her, and for a slight instance, she could see how Jenny treated women she was jealous of. Her haughtily raised head provided no ego-boost whatsoever, a vicious tactic of insecure sexes. Cheryl announced herself.

The look of honest shock on Jenny’s face was good news— money well-spent.

“Okay, missy. I hope it was worth it,” Jenny said, carrying a tray full of dessert plates with blueberry dribble on them.

Cheryl clocked in and started for the condiment station with Jenny hot on her heels.  

“Was what worth it?”

“The deal you made with the devil. I hope your soul was worth the price of whatever he did to you. I barely even recognized you—you’re glowing.” Cheryl raised her eyebrows radiantly as she dropped the plates off at the dishwasher.

“But I…”

“Don’t deny you’ve been to a doctor, because I won’t believe it.”

“I haven’t. It’s a new make-up I just bought off one of those infomercials. Well, it was a set actually.” Cheryl was flattered. It was the first compliment she’d received in months. And from the most attractive waitress in the Café 50’s no less. “It’s so new the lipstick hasn’t even hit the shelves yet.”

Jenny toothed her lower lip in an awkwardly misshapen grin.

“I found it while I was reading a couple days ago.” She started scooping tiny balls of butter into a line of plastic soufflé cups. 

“My God, girl. You did it. Now you can get the one-we-don’t-speak-of.” Jenny hunched and spoke of an inside joke between them.

Their eyes widened briefly, flashing their pearly whites like a pair of overzealous cartoon characters and started to laugh.

“No way, I can’t.” Cheryl said.

“Are you kidding? Cheryl, you wait any longer and someone else is gonna snatch him up.”

Cheryl slouched on the stainless steel counter, her forehead inches from the red-glowing heating lamps.

Jenny touched her on the shoulder. “Listen Cheryl, Johnny Naples is like a hundred dollar bill floating in the grass. The matching color might allow it to get passed over a couple of times, but in the end someone’s going to get lucky.”

Cheryl tittered. Jenny’s metaphors were as philosophical as a Chinese fortune cookie, but this one made perfect sense in a way.

“Strike while the iron’s hot. You know he’s coming in tonight, like clockwork.”

“Uh-huh,” Cheryl said, breathing erratically thinking about it. “Seven forty, booth number four, bottle of Stygman’s followed by a house salad.” She recited the man’s routine as if it were her own; a memory honed from years of taking food orders. “Then, it’s either the meatloaf or the fried chicken, depending on the day, and Dutch apple pie.”

“Alright, Cheryl. I know you can tell me what kind of pie the man likes …in a creepy, obsessed stalker sort of way, but can you tell me if he wears boxers or briefs?”

“You’re so bad,” she said in a loud whisper. “Brew me a syphilis cocktail, why don’t you.”

Jenny gasped. “I resent that,” she said, giving Cheryl a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I’m as careful as a duck in hunting season.” 

“At least you didn’t say safe as a pig in a slaughterhouse,” Cheryl said and they laughed.

Bart, the manager, waddled all five-eleven and three hundred pounds of himself out of his office. His hair was parted in a swirl and he wore a white button-down with fabric so thin, they could see his big, silver-dollar nipples poking through as clear as day.

They immediately grabbed the first thing they could find to look busy; Jenny filled the salt shakers while Cheryl ripped garnish into quaint little clovers.

“You ladies making Bart lot’s of money tonight?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. They hated when he referred to himself in the third person, as if he were some sort of wannabe diner pimp.

“You know it, Bart,” Jenny said, flashing her phony waitress smile. Cheryl remained silent and picked the parsley like a hopeful Shakespearian heroine waiting on her love.

“Ug, go back into your cave, ogre,” Jenny said under her breath as Bart left to talk to one of the new busboys. She turned back to Cheryl. “So, what do you say?”

“I say maybe.” Cheryl dropped the garnish back into the metal basin and went to the register, grabbing three pens and an order pad from an old shoebox and shoved them in the front pocket of her apron.

She placed her hands loosely on her hips and followed Jenny to an empty section of booths. Jenny pulled a tawdry, frayed rag from her back pocket and started wiping them down. Cheryl followed suit.

“What was it called again?” Jenny asked. “I might like to give it a whirl.”

“Expressions of Grandeur—” Cheryl said blandly. “—by Hadley Beauty Products.”

“Never heard of them. How much?” 

“Eighty bucks for the whole set, including the lipstick, but that’s on delay.”

“Why so low?”

“It’s new. The woman I dealt with over the phone said it’s a trial run. If they get a good response then the shelf price is going to be much higher.”

“Oh, you have to give me that number.”

Cheryl opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by the sandy jingle of the front door bells. A man in a blue polo shirt and jeans walked in, stuck his thumbs through the belt loops in his pants, and surveyed the diner like a mobile security camera. His build was rugged, solid, with bits of grey streaking hair. A synergy of fear and excitement hit Cheryl like a bullet to the head. It was Johnny Naples.

“You better get on over there,” Jenny said, horse-tailing Cheryl lightly on the butt with her rag. “Give me that number later, okay.”

Cheryl rested her arms on the table and stared at the terrazzo- style flooring of the diner, feeling lightheaded.

“Okay?”

Cheryl shot her an impassive grin and nodded.

“That a girl,” Jenny said. She winked once and walked briskly back to her station of tables where guests sat hungry and unattended, waiting to be served.

Booth number four was at the front of the diner and gave whoever sat in it a nice scenic view of Oakenfall Park. They could watch the rich bankers and playboys walk their dogs from across the street.

Johnny was out of luck today though. A party of five teenagers were occupying it, drinking sodas and gossiping about who kissed who at last week’s house party and how much beer they drank last night.

He walked to booth seven instead and fell in as if he’d just finished running a marathon. He was one of her regulars. She had lots of regulars, but oh what a crush she had on him. For two years they had never gotten past the point of small talk about things which held trite meaning, to that one question she hoped she’d one day hear: Would you like to go out some time? Eight little words had never been mentally rehearsed so much, usual waitressing drivel notwithstanding.

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. It’s going to be different this time. Now is your time, Cheryl. She walked around the island of booths. Cheryl wasn’t aware of it right then (Jenny would tell her later) but her walk resembled something like a robot in desperate need of a good oiling around the joints.

It’s going to happen. Look how nice he was to you all these years you served him. That quick-hinting wink, that sumptuous smile, he’s playing cat—

As she came closer, Cheryl could feel her stomachfloating in her throat. Her feet became heavy and another voice, a darker voice, overtook the other.

Playing nothing. Being nice is not cue for “Why don’t I take you out for coffee or something stronger someday, sugar buns?” Oh, look how cute he looks today in his clean blue shirt. He even combed his hair different. Forget it! Take his order and be done with it.

“Hey, Johnny,” Cheryl said, letting out the breath of air she’d been holding. “Rough day?” 

His eyes  beheld a puzzled gesticulation and he shook his head incredulously. “Cheryl? Cheryl Heinz, my waitress?”

She nodded, feeling sure that she’d made a great investment.

“My word, you look totally great. I didn’t even recognize you,” he said, matter-of-factly. He started sliding the salt shaker between two cupped hands. “What did you do?”

Cheryl was caught somewhere between surprise and happiness. It was because of the make-up: the botanical hairspray with the self- styling manual, the Indonesian ingredients in the blush, the Italian-influenced liner and shadow. It was all…working. She was now living something that she’d only seen played in her head in rote like a dream while she served soul food during the night. The only qualm on her shoulder was that she had to wear her old Revlon lipstick brand instead of EOG in view of its absence.

“I, uh, did something new,” she said, cheeks turning bright red.

“I’ll say.”

Cheryl pulled out her trusty pad and pen, shielding her steadily reddening cheeks with them. She felt as if she’d come off too anxious, too easy, something for a scumbag to take advantage of.  

“What can I get you?” she said, trying to keep a straight look of professionalism and failing--miserably. 

Meatloaf or chicken? Oh, stop putting up a wall, Cheryl. He can see right through you. She could see that he was hesitant, perhaps sensing a tenacity he’d never seen from her before.

He spoke in the monotone droll of the commonplace customer: “I’ll take a Caesar salad, spareribs, fries, and uh, sweet tea.”

Cheryl started to write his order in obfuscated waitress scrawl, getting as far as the spareribs before she drew a blank. She glanced at him to see a low slant in his brow, disappointed. She thought, He ordered something different for the first time in months. I went blank. That hasn’t happened in nine years. He had given you a window and you shot it down out of fear. Child’s games! Little Cheryl Heinz will go on feeling sorry for herself until someone finally says yes, at which point she will say no again to keep everything in order. What now?

She was too ashamed to have him repeat it. She thanked him, slipped her pad and pen back into her apron pouch and walked back to the register, where she would simply make up the rest and blame it on the cook, an old ruse that had helped many a waitress save face.

Cheryl felt eyes stabbing her way and shrunk, feeling like she was about to give a speech in front of a large crowd. The eyes. She knew without even looking, but did so anyway just to amuse herself. Jenny was looking at her from behind the cook’s line. Crashed-and-burned that melancholic look said. Cheryl didn’t like it, not one bit, and dreaded the foreboding second set of eyes she knew were all over her.

Her pupils crept slowly to the right, sensing something behind her, and she turned. Just as she had suspected; Johnny was twisted around, staring at her and smiling. She whipped forward.

She looked over at Jenny, who gave her a perky thumbs-up. Cheryl returned the gesture and looked forward. She squared her shoulders and crossed herself.

Cheryl turned toward booth 7 and walked over, taking notice to something different this time, something of a blessing. She felt light, secure. 

She and Johnny spoke for a good half hour; Bart gave her a reaming for it later. Then Johnny Naples asked the question she’d been waiting to hear for two years. 

*

The little box was sitting on her doorstep under a gray circle of porch light a month later—the night of her fourth date with Johnny Naples. She and Johnny hit it off something magical. Cheryl felt the makeup added that special something that she had needed her whole life—that little extra vavoom! 

She pulled her white Jetta into the unusually large driveway of her unusually large house, bobbing her head along to a rock song by some up-and-coming band. Everything was great, just as it should be. Alice was covering her shift while she and Johnny went to the Bistro on Pearl Street for a bite, then maybe a movie afterwards.

She got out of the car and proceeded to bounce feverishly on her toes when she saw it, a box no bigger than a bar of soap. Cheryl rustled the front door open and tore into the UPS box like a child on Christmas day and slid it out. Expression of Magenta, the slender black box read. The gold wreath on the front marked the logo of all Hadley Products.

Cheryl Heinz wasted no time. She ran to the guest bathroom, (the nearest one) stripped the box and opened the tube of lipstick. She rubbed it on carefully and sparingly, pop-kissing her reflection—satisfied—after she finished. 

“Fabulous,” she said, and blew herself another kiss.

She read over the ingredients, thinking she couldn’t wait to try the rest: Expressions of Jade, Royal Blue, Scarlett—and still didn’t recognize a single one. She dropped it, went to the living room and turned on the TV.

That’s when the scratching started.  

At first, she thought nothing of it and dismissed it for a branch blowing in the wind. It escalated into a hissing that sounded like someone pouring dry rice on the roof in massive quantities.

“What’s that sound?” she whispered.

She walked to the forest-green curtains drawn over the living room window and wedged her hand between them, ready to spread, when a loud thud on the glass made her jump.

A burglar, she thought, frozen stiff. The thought of what might be on the other side of that window wilted her nerves. He’s testing me. I’m going to pull these open and he’s going to be there, smiling at me and pressing a rusty knife against the glass.

The thought of getting something to defend with didn’t seem like such a bad idea all of a sudden and she grabbed the first thing she could find: a pewter statue of a clown on the corner stand of the couch. She juggled its weight to see if it would do the job.

“Okay,” she said, softly.

She tightened her grasp on the curtains and statue then ripped them apart. She screamed with such intensity as to cause her own ears to ring. 

The ground crawled to life under the sodium-arc streetlights. Vermin scattered and converged on the house, smothering one another in crowds not likely seen in the wild; snake and mouse, toad and fly, predator and prey working as one. They moved with purpose, showing no sign of fear away from the safety of their burrows and crevices. 

“Oh my God!” she cried out, disgusted by the sight of a giant centipede slipping through a swarm of termites on the window ledge.

“Get outta here,” she screamed, tapping the statue to the glass. Their numbers were growing exponentially. Another heavy thud on the glass. A sparrow emerged out of the blackness of night, nosedived, and smacked dead into the window, almost shattering the glass as it did.

“What the hell?”

Her heart beat forcibly against her ribcage. She started to run along the walls, pulling drapes open to assess the severity of her situation. The scratching was dreadful. Maybe it was clawing? Chewing? With the way they were rolling over each other to get inside, it was certainly possible. They were set on a mission. The concept of predator and prey no longer applied. They were all predators, even the mayflies; and Cheryl their prey. 

The scratching was joined by a light flutter. Cheryl opened the curtain to the small kitchen window and fell back on her rear, losing grip of the pewter statue. It slid under the refrigerator. The window was swarmed with locusts, cockroaches and dung beetles. There were a few lone critters that Cheryl could tell right off were not native to these lands.

She lifted into a crab walk and dashed backward, smacking into the mahogany dinner table at the end of the kitchen. A rush of throbbing heat gathered at the place of impact. A hurried pitter, like the sound of claws, came from the attic and she rose to her feet.

What is this? What do they want? The noises surrounded her and grew louder, richer. Sweat trickled coldly down her warm face.

She caught sight of the cutlery block on the counter and quickly grabbed the first knife her hand fell upon. Her mind seemed to function more clearly, as if the knife had suddenly imbued her with bravery.

Call the police.

The television was blaring at full volume, yet was drowned out by the billions of legs and chitin claws itching to come inside. Cheryl ran to the phone in the kitchen, dialed 911, and noticed the smudge of her lipstick against the receiver.

The make-up.

The idea was ludicrous, but it was all she had. She had been wearing it off and on for the past month or so, and had walked by dozens of pigeon, sparrow, and raven flocking religiously to the power lines. Then there were the easements which were home to many an ant and cinch bug, and the woman who’d walked a dog right past her in the park yesterday.                     

The phone rang twice before someone answered. A twitchy female voice spoke: “911, what’s your emergency?”

Cheryl took a rapid breath; nothing would come out.

“Hello, are you there?”

Cheryl opened her mouth to speak and felt a harsh pinching on the nape of her neck. She screamed and dropped the phone; it dangled by the curly extension cord for a moment before it stretched and crashed to the floor, splitting in two.

She held her face in a rictus of pain as she ran a hand over the thing on her neck. Icy chills of revulsion ran down her spine as she touched it. It was the size of her hand, numerous bristly legs branching from a fleshy exterior. It tugged defiantly when she tried to pull it off.

It finally came free, taking a big chunk of Cheryl’s flesh as a souvenir. Its legs started to squirm at the rate of a blender on high purée. She opened her fist. It was a spider, big, bulky and spindly. It glared at her with eight beady eyes, neck skin still hanging lucidly from its fangs. She shook it away violently as it leaped for her face.

Cheryl ducked, dodging it by inches, not altogether realizing what just happened. Pointed skeletal legs started to poke their way up her calves  and she broke out into a funky dance, too frightened to look down. 

Dear God, don’t let it be poisonous.

She swooped with the knife, knocking it airborne and almost skinning her leg in the process. The air vents in the kitchen then started to shake vigorously as a plethora of bugs (mostly wood spiders) blossomed out along the walls. Cheryl dropped the knife and started to bawl helplessly.

The white carpet in the living room was turning black, moving with hundreds of scuttling bodies. Beetles marched from the hearth of the fireplace like a miniaturized army. The spark suppressor, which once latched the top of the chimney, now lay crumpled in ash.

Ants, roaches, salamanders, June bugs, and  nearly every critter indigenous to the land seemed to have made an appearance. Flies, mosquitoes, cicadas and wasps flew in like attack planes from the chimney. A broad scrap of what felt like cardboard smacked into her chest and she looked down. A large Praying Mantis was stabbing her repeatedly with its forelegs, tearing little holes in her blouse the size of pinpricks.

Her cry reached its zenith. She smacked the mantis off and started for her bedroom, hearing shells crunching and larvae squishing underfoot. She slammed the door behind her and pinned herself up against it, sobbing emphatically. The room was empty and silent.

She grabbed a towel from the hamper in the corner of the room and sealed the crack at the floor of the door. Then she thought, the bathroom, the sink, the drains, and she ran to shut the bathroom door. Something pinched the bottom of her foot; a deep, galvanizing pain followed and she collapsed. Its body wriggled, momentarily attached to her heel by the barb of its stinger, then dislodged itself and fell. Her body went numb.

I’m paralyzed! She knew it almost at once. The toxins worked fast in her bloodstream and her throat began to close. 

A large brown scorpion walked casually past her face and she stared, helpless. It could have been whistling Dixie with a stroll like that, she thought. 

Her vision started to blur and she felt nauseous. The muscles in her body felt like useless lumps of gelatin. Her head was heavy. The only thing that seemed to be working was her mouth and ears.

“Someone,” she managed to squeak out. “Please.”

She heard the window over her bed pop and shatter. A sparrow fell dead in front of her; its beak hanging open with an insane death-grin. Her vision went foggy. And the last thing she heard before passing out was the weight of creatures spilling in, like the breaking of a river dam.

*

Johnny Naples pulled into her driveway at quarter past seven, clean-shaven and composed. The last pulsating nematode had slipped its way safely back into the wet darkness of a storm drain, its tail end briefly lit by headlights before it vanished. Johnny shut off the engine to his T-Bird and scanned the house, noticing the broken window in front almost at once. He shoved his way out of the car and sprinted to the front door, busting it open with the heel of his dress boot. A large splinter cart-wheeled and stabbed the rug.

“Cheryl, you okay?”

The TV was still on playing commercials every few minutes, and the rug was spotted with dirt. He saw a large butcher knife at the entrance to the kitchen and suddenly thought the worst.

They fought, her and the burglar. But where’s the blood? The bodies? Oh, don’t even think it. 

He went to the knife and picked it up. The blade shimmered under the bright kitchen lights.

They took her, must’ve.

He roamed the rest of the house with an aggressive sense of urgency: the dining room, the foyer, backdoor patio and guest bathroom. The hall came last; it smelled of dew and pine sap and spoiled earth, as if someone dragged a large birch through it. He burst through door after door like a crazed man taken by madness; eyes glossy and teeth grinding.

“Cheryl, please, God, answer me!”

The master bedroom came last and he stared at it like a child would stare at a half-cracked closet in the middle of the night. Its borders were haloed by light on three sides in an upturned horseshoe shape.

Please be in here. Please be lying in the bathtub with your ears sunk so you couldn’t hear.

He started to move knowing such optimism is wishful thinking, given the evidence. He pushed the door; something worked against him on the other side and he drove his shoulder into it, spilling into the room. He gained his balance, noticed the towel wedged at the bottom of the door, then the shattered window above the bed. The curtains trembled in the breeze like ghosts.

His eyes moved aimlessly around the room in panic; his chest heaving rapidly. He’d saved the room for last and something in the back of his mind knew he had done it on purpose. Any hope of her being in the house was strongest here.

His sight fixed on the bedspread; he caught sight of something out of place. A handprint in blood. It was intermingled with the floral pattern of the comforter. His heart sank and he stopped breathing. He sidestepped to the left, craning his neck to advance his range of sight.

At first, his instinct told him to turn and wish it away—the sight of it—but he dropped to his knees instead, stifling a scream and with the back of his hand. Cheryl lay in a puddle of vomit and blood; her face chewed into chopped liver, eyes plucked from their sockets. Johnny started to shake, hands held into claws under his eyes, and he started to tear up.

This was the woman who had served him dinner and pie for two  years. The woman with whom he had shared an unspoken connection. Neither of them found cause as to why it took so long for it to blossom, only that it was eventual.

Too short, thought Johnny, crawling on all fours and begging God for it not to be this way. If there’s even the slightest chance, please—

 He cradled her head in his lap, feeling for a pulse. Something. Weak, but something.

His heart jumped and his sob quickly faded as he prepared to work CPR on her. He supported her neck then crouched to give her breath and stopped suddenly, seeing a pair of ruby eyes staring at him from the gullet of her throat.

He squinted.

Just as he came to the realization that what he felt wasn’t a pulse at all but a shift, something sleek and silver burst out of Cheryl’s mouth.

And the last thing he saw was a pair of white fangs hovering over a forked tongue.

From The Avilman Daily Tribune:

HADLEY INCIDENT EXPLAINED

By Joan Hildebrand

The emergency recall implemented on all Hadley Expressions of Grandeur products has finally received the long awaited explanation we all have been waiting for. No, it is not the end of the world, as most had anticipated. The harrowing number of animal attacks across the entire nation was caused by a pheromone emitted with the lethal combination of EOG toner, blush, eye liner, and lipstick.

Chemists have never seen anything like it and believe it to be an intentional work of sabotage from inside the company itself. Thousands of dead and wounded have filed lawsuits and hatred against Hadley Company and protesters have rallied throughout the country. The Department of Health and the FBI are currently coordinating an investigation pending the results of numerous autopsies.

*

 

The Crawlspace

Curt Jeffreys

Jeff Rodgers rolled on to his left side, cracked an eyelid and found a large brown spider staring at him from its perch on the pillow next to him. He rolled right, flopped to the floor then smashed the beast to death with a shoe. He stared stupidly at the still-twitching legs. 

Until now he had been too busy working on the house to worry about a little problem like spiders. They didn't bother him in the least. Creeping across the floor, he stomped them; crawling along a wall, he squished them. But now they were in his bed, crawling over him in the night and in his clothes and shoes every morning. Worst of all, his bride-to-be was deathly afraid of the creatures.  

The house he lived in was a twenties-era bungalow, made back when the word “craftsmanship” still meant something. It had style, architectural interest, unlike the ugly little Lego block houses scarring the landscape these days. He and Britta had fallen in love with the place from the driveway, still sitting in Eddie's car.

“It needs a little work,” Eddie had told them. Eddie was Jeff's oldest, closest friend and now their realtor.

“A little work” turned out to be the understatement of the year: The place needed windows, plumbing and electrical work, not to mention paint. Gallons and gallons of paint. But hard work didn't scare Jeff and he had every reason to believe he'd have the place ready before he and Brit left for their honeymoon in Maui. 

Jeff moved in right after the closing while Britta moved in with her mom to save on rent. Jeff didn't mind this arrangement too much; it was better that way. Britta and her mom had two months to plan the wedding and he would just be in their way; better he should spend his free time on the house, getting as much done as he could before the Big Day. 

Brit came by as often as she could, bringing him dinner and making sure he wasn't overworking himself. Three weeks ago though, Jeff had cut her off. 

“I want you to be surprised,” he told her. “The next time you see this house you will be Mrs. Jeffrey Rodgers and I want you to see it finished.” 

“You are such a romantic,” she laughed at him. 

But he didn't mind; he was a romantic, part of a rapidly dying breed, in his opinion, and proud of it. The world could use more romantics.

Since then he'd been working like a man possessed, living a hermit's life, devoting himself body and soul to the house. His social life evaporated to nothing, including Britta-time, but they talked every night on the phone and he had dinner with her at her mom's place on Sundays. 

So now, with the wedding exactly one week away, the house was finished to perfection. Except for the spiders…

"See?" Jeff said to Eddie as he squished the life out of a spider crawling across the newly tiled kitchen floor with his foot. "You see what I mean?  They're everywhere.”

“Was that a brown recluse spider?” Eddie asked. “Those guys are nasty. My step-dad got bit by one of those and he got this flesh eating thing, necrosis I think they called it. Very nasty. His skin just sort of turned black and rotted away...”

“Not helping any,” Jeff snapped. “Stay focused, pal. Britta has arachnophobia, bad; she's sees a spider in her house she'll absolutely freak.”

“Have you told her about the spiders?” Eddie asked.

“Of course not. If I told her she'd never step foot in the place.”

The two friends stared at the ruined spider on the floor then Jeff said: “I've got a week, Eddie, then time's up. What am I going to do? I sprayed the whole house top to bottom and still they get in."

“You sprayed everywhere?” Eddie said.

“Everywhere I could think of.”

Eddie sipped his beer, thought for a minute. "Hmmm. Okay, what about the crawlspace?"

"Crawlspace?" Jeff hadn't thought of that.

“Nice and dry down there," Eddie said. "Perfect place for the little beasties to breed. I bet you anything that's where they're coming from. You gotta get 'em right where they live, buddy. Otherwise you're wasting your time spraying up here."

The crawlspace. Jeff shuddered. 

"Maybe you should call an exterminator," Eddie said to the pained look on his friend's face. "With your claustrophobia and all."

Jeff twitched at the word. "Just because I have a problem with small enclosed spaces doesn't mean I have claustrophobia."

"Uh, if you check the dictionary I think you'll find the exact opposite to be true," Eddie grinned. "Hey, asking for help is no big deal. You're not superman; Brit will understand."

Ed knew him too well, and of course he was right, to a point. But would Britta really understand? It wasn't that he would deliberately kept his fear from her it was just something he'd never mentioned, not in the six years he'd known her. Would she think him less of a man because he couldn't work up the nerve to crawl under a ninety-year old house, slithering on his belly in the dark, filthy, cramped, disgusting, spider infested crawlspace? To be honest, he didn't know and that bothered him.

The next morning Jeff had called three exterminators from the Yellow Pages. Two were booked solid for a month. The third was sympathetic but couldn't get a crew out for a couple weeks. Not acceptable. The wedding was Saturday and they were leaving for Maui on Sunday. 

Assuming that his acute claustrophobia wasn't going to vanish miraculously; assuming he wasn't going to get an exterminator out in time, what were his options? Out of desperation he called the last guy back and regaled him with his tale of woe.

"Best you can do for now is lob a couple bug bombs in the crawlspace right before you leave town," the man said. "You don't want to be in the house for a couple days after you set the bombs anyway, so that'll work. But it's not a real solution, okay? Just temporary. The spiders will come back, but it'll buy you some time ‘til my guys get out there."

Jeff booked an appointment, thanked the man and hung up. 

Bug bombs. Simple. No need to crawl under the house. He liked it. 

The morning of the wedding Jeff packed and loaded his car then, just before he left for the church, he tossed three bug bombs under the house and sealed up the crawlspace. The fumes would have two whole weeks to soak into the underbelly of the old house. He hoped it was enough.

*

Maui was wonderful: paradise on Earth. They had two weeks of sun, sand and each other, and they couldn't have asked for better weather. Neither of them wanted to leave the island, ever. But when reality rears its ugly head paradise takes a back seat to practicality. Reluctantly they waved the paradise goodbye, boarded a plane and returned to the Real World.

Back in their house -- their house! -- Jeff felt so at peace, so content, so happy. Britta absolutely loved the house, couldn't have been happier with the results of Jeff's work. She couldn't get over the change from the rough diamond they'd fallen in love with and the sparkling gem the house had become under Jeff's careful attention. Even Eddie admitted the place looked great. And the best part -- not a single spider anywhere, knock on wood.

The newlyweds sat arm in arm on their living room couch as Eddie admired the pictures Jeff had taken, listening politely to their stories of whale watching, snorkeling and eating.

After dinner Eddie discretely dismissed himself, leaving the two love birds on their new deck in the cool Colorado air, sipping their wine, enjoying their last evening of freedom. Later, after making love for the fifteenth night in a row, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Jeff was fixing eggs and bacon the next morning when he heard Britta's scream. He found her naked and wet on the bathroom floor, slapping at her face, pulling at her hair, beating at her head with clenched fists. He pulled her close, held her tight, trying to soothe her as he looked her over for any sign of injury. Then he saw it; a big brown spider tangled in her beautiful red hair. Without thinking he grabbed the creature, flung it aside, smashed the life out of it in a gooey green ooze. Britta became very still; her only movement the occasional shudder as she sobbed.

Neither made it to work that morning. Jeff called Britta's office and made a lame excuse, promising she would be in tomorrow. He called into work before returning to his wife in the bedroom. She was packing.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly. “What are you doing?”

Britta continued packing without turning, but said softly, “I'm going back to my Mother's.”

“But why?”

She turned on him; her eyes sparking with fear or anger, he couldn't tell. 

“There was a spider in my hair, Jeff! A spider! In my hair!” Tears flooded her gorgeous brown eyes, spilling over. Her bottom lip trembled.

“I know you think I'm childish, I know you think I'm being unreasonable, but I can't stay in a house that has spiders.” She shuddered.  “I can't, Jeff. I just can't. I don't expect you to understand.”

But he did understand, better than she could know. Still, he said nothing. What could he possibly say that would make a difference? 

Ten minutes later a numb Jeff watched his wife of two weeks drive away, leaving him more alone than he'd ever been in his life. He went inside and called Britta's mother, letting her know what happened.

"I'm so sorry, Jeff," Mrs. Murway sympathized. "We've had to deal with Britta's arachnophobia since she was little. Nothing we tried ever helped. Her reaction may seem unreasonable, Jeff, but there's nothing reasonable about a phobia. I know that must be hard for you to understand."

A wave of guilt swept over him but he said nothing as his mother-in-law revealed the painful origin of her only child's greatest fear.

“It was a hot afternoon,” she explained, her voice trailing back through the years. Britta was playing in an old grove of trees next to their house with the neighborhood children. Hide and seek was their game of choice. All the children ran and hid, chasing each other through the trees and bushes for hours on end, yelling, laughing, living life to its fullest as only the very young can. 

Britta's screams ripped apart that perfect summer day. Mrs. Murway flew from the house with a burst of speed that only a mother of an injured child can achieve. She tore her dress, her flesh, fighting her way through the brush but it didn't matter; her baby was hurt. 

She found Britta crumpled up on the ground like a discarded rag doll, motionless, nearly catatonic. Her bright red hair was a jumble of twigs, burs and cobwebs. Britta moaned insensibly as a huge yellow-green garden spider crawled over her face and eyes.

"She'd run right through the web, never seeing it ‘til it was too late,” Mrs Murway said, her story coming to a close. “It was days before she could sleep. Months before she would go outside and play. And she never went into that grove again, ever. Ten more years we lived there, Jeff, and she never went near it, no matter how her friends begged her."

A long silence dangled on the line. 

"Please, Jeff," Mrs. Murway said at last. "Don't tell Britta about our little talk, okay? I don't think she actually remembers what happened. She's managed to repress the trauma all these years, blocking it from her mind, and I don't want anything to bring back that pain. This is the first new incident I’m aware of."

"I understand," Jeff assured her. And he did.

He hung up and immediately called Eddie, filling him in on what he'd just learned.

"So, mystery solved," Eddie said sympathetically.

"But not resolved," Jeff sighed. "Britta's never going to feel safe in her own house until I kill every last spider."

"That's not possible, you know. You can't kill all the spiders."

"Maybe not, but I can kill as many of the eight-legged freaks as I can."

"You're not going in the crawlspace."

"I am," Jeff insisted.

"I don't think that's such a good idea. Wait for the bug guy. Let him get under there."

"Bad news there," Jeff said. "Bug guy's got three men out with the flu. Gonna be two more weeks before he can get out here. I can't wait anymore, Ed. My wife is afraid to stay in her own house and I have to fix that. It's my job. I'm her husband."

"Man, you're taking this marriage thing seriously."

"You better believe it. I'm taking tomorrow off just to kill spiders. Think you can help?"

"Sure, but not until late afternoon," Eddie said. "Got an open house, but I'll come over as soon as I can and we'll kick some arachnid ass."

"Thanks, Eddie. I owe you."

"It's already on your tab, pal. Just don't go in the crawlspace without me.”

Later that night Jeff lay alone in their big empty bed thinking of Britta. It wasn't right. Not married three weeks and his wife had run home to mommy. She should be here, beside him, touching him, making love to him.

Eventually he drifted to an uneasy sleep, his mind swirling with thoughts of his AWOL wife and then, for the first time in probably ten years, he had The Dream. 

Jeff heard plaintive mewling from deep inside the drain pipe. The kitten's owner, the most beautiful girl Jeff had ever seen, sobbed uncontrollably at the mouth of the culvert surrounded by sympathetic neighborhood children. Stupidity being the better part of valor, Jeff announced to all he would save the kitten. Without further thought he crawled into the pipe. 

Jeff groaned in his sleep.

The inside of the pipe was darker than he'd thought possible. The air was thick with the smell of damp dirt and rotting vegetation. Jeff crawled deeper and deeper into the abyss. The pipe got narrower the further in he crawled and he had to twist and wiggle his way to reach the terrified kitten. Cooing gently, he reached out, grabbing the little fur ball by the scruff of neck. The terrified animal fought him, scratching and clawing at his face. He pushed the furious beast aside and started backing out. Only nothing had happened. He couldn't move. He shoved and pushed, twisted and turned, but the harder he tried, the more stuck he became. 

He yelled for help but no one heard. Voices filtered their way through the pipe, bouncing around his ears in a dizzying echo. The girl had her kitten and now she'd forgotten all about him. Girls were so dumb. He was going to die in a rusty old pipe just so some dumb girl could have her stupid kitten. 

Jeff yelled and kicked, making as much noise as he could, pounding the jagged pipe with his fists ‘til his blood ran freely. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't free himself. He cried, he screamed, he --

-- woke in a fevered sweat, kicking furiously at the sheets wrapped tightly around his legs. With considerable effort he banished the nightmare from his thoughts, repressing the fear, burying it deep in his subconscious where it belonged. A little repression goes a long way and the world would be a much better place if more people would just bury all the bad stuff in their lives down deep where no one can ever see it.  

Out of sight, out of my mind. He laughed.

When morning finally came, Jeff busied with preparations for the day's work. He bought two face masks, some rubber gloves, two hand pumps and enough insecticide to soak three houses. He was going to do this thing right; Brit was counting on him. 

Back at the house he prepared for battle, laying out his arsenal, prepping his weapons. 

The phone rang. It was Eddie. 

"Sorry, but I don't think I'm going to make it. Looks like I have a buyer."

"It's alright," Jeff lied, covering his disappointment with a chuckle. "No worries. There's plenty that I can do outside. I'll spray around the windows, the foundation, the bushes."

"Sounds like a plan," Eddie said. "Just stay the hell out of the crawlspace.  That's for the two of us."

"Sure. I'll see ya when I see ya."

*

The work went quickly and by one-thirty he was done. All that was left was the crawlspace. He started putting stuff away when it hit him: today was his one and only chance to do the crawlspace. He had no more vacation days, no more sick days. Eddie or no Eddie, he had to do it today.

Jeff stared uneasily at the opening leading to the crawlspace. His stomach soured, his head swam, his hands shook.

Okay, let's look at this logically. Exactly what am I afraid of? 

The hole was at least three feet wide, plenty of clearance for his slender frame, not like the pipe at all; the pipe had been narrow and cramped, designed for water, not people. Crawlspaces, on the other hand, were designed for people to crawl in, hence the name.

That's the difference. Nobody ever got trapped in a crawlspace, for crying out loud. Local man trapped in crawlspace! Watch Nine News at ten for the full story! Never happened. 

Huh. When he looked at it that way his fear seemed quite silly. It was a crawlspace, nothing more. Just a crawlspace.

Jeff went to the garage, grabbed his utility light and a fifty-foot extension cord. He plugged the cord into a socket in the bedroom and snaked it through the window, dropping the coil to the ground near the crawlspace door. Outside, he looped the ends of the extension and the light cord around each other before connecting them. The last thing he needed was for the cord to come unplugged while he was down there.  

He topped off his tank with insecticide, pumped it up, gave it a couple test squirts then, taking a deep breath, he pulled down his mask and plunged into the dark.

It's not so bad down here. I can move. I can breathe. I have my light. I'm fine. 

And fine he was: no trouble breathing and no shakes. It was amazing how calm he felt. He'd expected gut-wrenching fear followed by sheer terror, just like the dream, just like the pipe. Just goes to show how the mind exaggerates things; blows stuff all out proportion. All these years he'd avoided situations like this just because of some terrible childhood experience, all for no good reason. Then again, it could be a simple of matter of motivation. He was doing this for Britta, after all, and what better motivator is there than love? She would be proud of him. He was proud of himself.

The crawlspace was far from pleasant, but it wasn't terrible. There was a lot of dirt, which was to be expected, and a lot of junk, which wasn't expected. Piles of sheet metal and copper tubing lay scattered about, forgotten remnants of some earlier home improvement project, he supposed. He worked around these obstacles, spraying them as he went. With a gas mask he was ready for the task.   

He crawled along on his belly, a light in one hand, the sprayer in the other, stopping occasionally to direct a stream of poison into a dark recess. His plan was to work his way around the perimeter of the house then move towards the center, hitting every opening where a duct or a pipe entered the space above. 

The man worked clockwise, crawling and spraying, spraying and crawling in rhythmic syncopation, stopping now and then to pump up the sprayer. He shook the tank; still plenty of juice, more than enough to finish the job. 

When he finished his sweep around the foundation he headed towards the center of the house where the kitchen plumbing lay. All he had to do was spray the pipes where they entered the house and he'd be done. Ten minutes at most and he'd be out of there. The whole experience was rather anticlimactic and, to be honest, he couldn't remember why he'd been so freaked out in the first place. 

The dirt floor rose towards the center of the house, making the clearance tighter. He rolled over on his back, barely clearing the floor joists as he squirmed forward. Then he saw them; dozens of brown spiders clinging to the underside of the house. Without thinking he aimed a stream at the spindly beasts. The spiders convulsed and twitched then dropped onto his chest as they died.

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid! He quickly pushed himself away from the arachnid rain as fast as he could manage, brushing dead and dying spiders from his body. He tried rolling to his left, away from the nest but his right hip caught on the floor joist above him. Pain lanced through his hip as a nail buried itself deep in his flesh and for a moment he was stuck like a bug on a pin. Furious at his own stupidity he twisted right, screaming as the nail tore free.

His light rolled crazily across the uneven dirt, casting twisted shadows along the underbelly of the house. He kicked with both feet, inching his way towards the light 'til he could grab it. Desperate to find his way out he rolled again to the left and came face to face with a hideous demon grinning at him from the shadows. Empty eye sockets leered from a leathery feline face. Jagged teeth glowed ungodly white in the glare of the lamp.

He laughed hysterically. It was just a dead cat. A horrible, dried out, dead, mummified cat. Without thinking he struck out with the lamp, sending the body tumbling into the black. The light bulb flashed bright then died, plunging the crawlspace into inky nothingness. He flicked the switch off and on. Nothing. He shook it. Still nothing.

Darkness swallowed him and the world as he understood it ceased to be. He was as utterly and completely alone as any astronaut in his tin can ever was. He could feel the weight of the house bearing down on him. His heart battered his rib cage, sending hot blood slamming against his ear drums to the point of bursting. He lay in the dark, fighting back The Dream, refusing to let panic take him. He was older now, wiser, and he would get himself out of this mess.

Britta Britta Britta. He focused his thoughts on Britta; her face, her smile, her voice. But it was no good. Panic rushed through his fevered brain as more spiders crawled along his legs, across his torso.  

His air supply evaporated. He couldn't breathe. He ripped the mask from his face and gulped hungry mouthfuls of fresh air. Something fell squirming into his mouth. He choked, spat it back out. Another tiny body fell onto his face. He smashed it, smearing it across his flesh. Spiders fell by the dozens, crawling, pinching, biting. He screamed, slapping himself with both hands like a man on fire until his clothes were sticky with crushed bodies.

Pinpricks of pain blossomed across his body as the poison of a thousand tiny bites needled its way into his flesh. Fire and ice crept up his spine and he found he could no longer feel his legs. Something crawled across his face. He wanted to push it away but his hands were numb and swollen and his arms lay limp and impotent at his sides, refusing all orders to move. His breathing grew shallow and soon it was more trouble than it was worth to take another breath. His eyes grew dim as his world collapsed around him. A strange calm settled over him and he thought This is what it's like to die.

One last thought flitted through his fever dream, the thought that he'd let Britta down, that he'd failed her as a husband after only two weeks. At this Jeff whimpered softly then simply went to sleep.

*

Britta was worried. Jeff called her every night without fail, but he didn't last night and he didn't answer when she called him this morning. She called Eddie and he met her at the house. 

They found the front door unlocked, his car in the drive, but there was no Jeff. Eddie had called his cell and they found it chirping to itself on the bed stand. Jeff's yellow extension cord hung limply out the open window.

“The crawlspace!” Eddie ran for the door. 

“The crawlspace?” Britta called, following Eddie. “What would he be doing in the crawlspace?  He has claustrophobia!”

Eddie stopped abruptly. Britta nearly knocked him over.

“You knew about that?” he asked, perplexed.

“Of course. You don't think I know the man I love?”

“You never told him you knew?”

“Why would I?” she said. “Men can be so silly about little things like that. I didn't want to embarrass him.”

The crawlspace was open. Jeff's yellow cord lay on the ground, snaking its way into the black. Eddie stuck his head in the hole.

“Jeff, buddy? You in there?”

No answer. 

“Can you see anything?” Britta asked nervously.

“I see something,” Eddie said. “It could be him. Jeff! Answer me!”

Silence. 

Eddie crawled in up to his waist.

“I see him!” he yelled back to Britta. He disappeared under the house. “I've got his foot,” he called back a moment later.

Eddie shook Jeff's leg. No reaction. 

“Is he okay?” Britta yelled.

“I'm pulling him out.”

Slowly, painfully Eddie pulled his friend across the uneven dirt to the opening.

“Help me,” he told Britta and together they each pulled a leg. Slowly Jeff's inert form emerged from the crawlspace. First his legs, then his abdomen, then his chest. His body was almost out.

One last tug and his head emerged into the daylight.

Britta screamed, collapsing in a jabbering, incoherent heap on the ground.

“Oh Sweet Jesus!” Eddie tumbled away from his best friend, tossing up the remains of his breakfast on Jeff's lawn.

Alone on the ground, Jeff Rodger’s unblinking eyes stared unseeing into the bright Colorado sky as a large brown spider crawled from his open mouth.

*

 

Queen of the Hive

Travis Gates

I can feel them moving behind my eyes. Squirming, scratching and tearing at my brain. They skitter beneath my skin, making me itch and convulse. They’re everywhere inside me. Changing me.

Killing me.

I work from my apartment, doing various temporary technical support jobs for a large firm. All day, I just lounge and smoke. The only human interaction I ever get seems to be down in the laundry in the basement of my building.

 And that’s where it started.

I stand at the counter, separating the whites from the colors. Everything has to be just so:  box of detergent to the upper left, dryer sheets to the right, then a stack of underwear, socks, shirts and pants and finally my stack of quarters. Everything in its place. When they’re not, sometimes I hyperventilate.

Sometimes I cry.

As I start my first load, James comes in. His load is now in the dryer.  He checks it, bending over so I can see the outlines of his body accentuated by the tightness of his jeans. He talks to me sometimes, but I can never tell if he’s interested or not. I don’t even know if he’s gay.

“Hey, what’s up, Raymond?” he asks as he opens the door to the industrial dryer and feels of the dampness of his clothes. He digs in his pockets and pulls out another seventy-five cents.

“Not much,” I reply. I take off my glasses and clean them with my shirttail.  The humidity in this room always fogs the lenses. “Busy day?”

“Nah, not really.”  He twists his torso until he hears his back pop then he lets out a sigh of pleasure. “That’s better. Hey, if you want to watch the game tomorrow, come on up. There’s going to be a couple of the guys there, too. It’ll be fun.”

“The game?  Sure.” I have no idea what sport he’s even talking about, but anything to get me closer to him. He is still the top booked star in all of my masturbatory fantasies.

“Great. Bring some snacks, okay?” He lightly punches me in the arm. I wince at the pain inwardly but I don’t let the hurt reach my face. I stay strong. “Apartment 4b. Game time is at two. Sound cool?”

“Yeah,” I say.  “Cool.”

He walks back down the hallway and I watch him. He exudes masculinity, but there is just something about him. Maybe it’s the fastidious way he dresses? The pastel collared shirts? The braided leather belt? The black lace up boots? I’m not sure, but something always tells me I have a chance with him.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I turn back to the task at hand. As I put the first load in the washer and insert my quarters, I debate on what to bring with me to the game tomorrow. I could always whip up some of my famous spinach-artichoke dip. I believe I have a bag of restaurant style tortilla chips in the cupboard. I could also make some miniature hamburgers. Yes. That sounds fantastic.

When I start the washer, I hear a strange whimpering coming from the corner. It sounds almost like a whining puppy. I look to the shadows but can’t see anything because of the industrial stainless steel mop sink. I crouch down, peering into the dark. 

There’s another sound now. It starts underneath the whining and then consumes it. It sounds like bacon frying, or when you step on wrapping paper. I start to reach my hand into the shadow, but then I think better of it. Nothing good can come of that. 

It’s when I’m holding onto the sink for leverage to stand up that there is an explosion of motion by my feet. I look down and there is the biggest rat I have ever seen.

I can’t help it. I scream.

I hop onto the counter, scattering my carefully placed clothes all over the place as I watch it.

It’s leaving a trail of thick, almost black blood behind it as it runs in circles. It slams into the block of dryers, leaving a red smudge then runs around some more. Every few seconds it bashes its head up against something, stops for a moment, then continues. The sound of crackling is getting louder now, almost drowning out the repetitive thump-thump of the machines around me.

Then the rat stops and falls over. The rising and falling of its chest -- so rapid a moment ago -- suddenly ceases. Yet oddly, the crackling noise doesn’t stop.

It gets louder!

I take several minutes to gather my breath and wits. I can call the super when I get home, but he might not come clean this up for a while. And I sure don’t want to look at that nasty thing when I come back down here for the rinse cycle.

I decide, for the good of all, that a sacrifice is in order. I grab one of my socks and get down off of the table. Gingerly, as if it were some kind of zombie rat, I bend down and wrap the sock around the dead body. I look over to the trash can.

It takes me a second to get a grip on the little furry body as it almost seems to move beneath the fabric of the sock. I tell myself it’s just my imagination and dig in. I dry heave as a red stain starts to seep through the white cloth. I gag again, this time actually tasting the tacos I had for lunch, and decide to just get it over with. There. I’ve got it. Just three steps to the trash can.  I can do this.

There’s a wiggling under my grip. Holy shit, this thing is still alive! I walk faster. I’m almost to the can when the body of the rat just seems to lose cohesion. I am too shocked to drop it as I watch little bits of fur and flesh slough off of its small frame and fall to the floor. 

The crackling reaches a crescendo.

A fine black mist explodes from the rat’s body, covering my face in a warm slime. I drop what’s left of the rat’s body and back away, sputtering. Frantically, I try to wipe it off, but sweet Jesus it stings!

It’s now burning into my face and hands as I try to get the thick viscous spew off. I know I’m losing myself to panic, but I can’t stop it.

Blinded, I run out of the laundry room and right smack into the cinderblock wall. I’m vaguely aware I’ve lost consciousness, still trying to get the burning out of my eyes.

I awake to see the ceiling of my apartment, then the walls, then the framed prints hung on those walls. I sit up slowly, but a hand on my shoulder forces me back down.

“Whoa, buddy,” I hear James say. “Take it easy. You’ve got quite a knot on your forehead.”

I blink, amazed that the stinging is gone and touch my face. It’s not burned and there is no trace of the stuff on it. Was it all a dream?

“What happened?” I ask, lying back down.

“Looks like a cat or something got in the laundry room. Ripped up a rat pretty good.  Looks like it gave you a scare.” He pats my shoulder. I’m thankful for my hallucination or whatever it was. “I called the super, he’ll be down in a bit to fix up the laundry room. You need me to call an ambulance or anything?”

“No,” I lie as I sit up again. This time he lets me. “I’ll be alright.  I need to go check on my laundry, though.”

“Don’t worry about that. I have to go back down there anyway, so I’ll just finish yours up, too.” He smiles. “If that’s alright.”

“If it’s not an imposition…”

“Hey!” he says, “course not! What are friends for?” He punches my shoulder and this time I can’t hide the pained expression on my face. “Oh, geez. Sorry, man. Look, I gotta get jetting. You need anything, you give me a call, okay?”

“But,” I say, “I don’t have your number.”

“It’s all good, chico. I wrote it down and left it on the table.  Anything at all, you just let me know.” His number! There is a God, after all!

“Thank you, James.”

“No problem, man. And hey, the game tomorrow? Only come if you feel up to it, alright? You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

“Nothing could keep me away.”

He looks puzzled for a moment then shakes his head.

“Alright, then. I’ll be back up in a bit with your clothes.”

He leaves and euphoria, almost orgasmic, hits me. His number, an invite and he’s touching my underwear right now! Whatever just happened down in the basement was surely worth it.

Three hours later, I feel the first one under my skin.

It was small, almost unnoticeable at first. Like a phantom itch or when your hand goes to sleep. You know you’re feeling it, but it doesn’t feel quite real.  Then the buzzing started behind my eyes. And the lumps started appearing on my skin like pimples that won’t pop.

James has come and gone and my laundry sits unfolded in its turquoise basket.  He mixed them all, of course, so now my whites are pink. But I don’t care. He seemed genuinely worried about me when he dropped off the clothes, even going so far as to feel my forehead. I wanted to ask him inside, but I was afraid he would notice.

All the lights in the apartment are on and I’m just sitting here, watching my flesh. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I want to make sure I see it.

I want to make sure I’m not crazy.

I wait and I wait.

There!

On my forearm there’s a bulbous lump. And it’s moving. Not in a straight line, but in small circles. It hurts and itches and I’m sure I’m going crazy.

My eyes burn. It’s like they are filled with sand that moves. My head is killing me. The boils on my arm bubble and twitch with my every movement. My toes and fingers twitch involuntarily. I even piss myself and don’t even realize it until after I’m done.

No.

No! This can’t be happening. All my life I’ve played by the rules.  I keep my space clean. I work for a living. I pay my taxes. I go to church. I stay in the closet. I don’t have unsafe sex. I do my part and never ask for anything from anyone. And the first time a good thing is actually happening to me, a fucking rat explodes in my face.

It’s not fair!

I start to cry and that’s when it happens. Instead of the warm, salty tears I’m expecting, my tear ducts feel like they’re on fire. It’s the same feeling when I got a catheter last year during my appendectomy.  There’s something in there that shouldn’t be.

Weak with fear and pain, I stagger into the bathroom and turn on the light. I lean in close to the mirror and pull the bottom part of my eye down. Instead of the red meat I’ve always seen when I do this, all I see is black.

And the black is moving.

This makes me cry harder and I see a long, thin insect crawl out of my tear duct. It hurts and it itches, my God! It’s soon followed by another. And another.

Next, the white porcelain of my sink is spotted with several segmented bodies, all squirming and slithering over each other. My stomach heaves and I taste bile. I fall to my knees and put my head over the toilet. I vomit for a long time.

Through stinging eyes I look down at the water in the sink. Six or seven of the bugs, much larger than those from my eyes, are now swimming and sloshing in the bowl.

This can’t be happening.

I lean back against the bathroom wall and pass out.

I dream that I am a picnic lunch being carried away, piece by piece, by an army of ants. When they get me back to their farm, however they quickly reassemble me. I’m no longer a collection of sandwiches and chips and pie. No.  Now I am something else. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s horrible.

I wake up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.  I feel as if I’ve been asleep for a year.  My joints are sore but I also feel strangely good. Energetic. Renewed.

I sit up and look at my arms.

No boils.

No sores.

No movement. 

Nothing at all.

I stand and look in the sink.

No bugs. I would write it all off as a hallucination but I can see small lines in the bottom of the sink. Like snake tracks, only tiny and made with dried blood.

I know something happened. But what? There’s no creatures swimming in the toilet. Am I sick?

The light of early afternoon is shining in through the bathroom window and suddenly all concerns are secondary. I check my watch.

It’s a quarter to one.

I slept all through the night and into the next day. I must have hit my head harder than I’d thought. And now I’ve only got a little over an hour until my date with James!

Well, it’s not a real date, I suppose. But it’s close enough!

I quickly shower and dress, going for a semi-formal yet casual look. Then I head to the kitchen.

I mix the dip, surprised at how happy I feel. I even hum a little to myself.

The night before, though crazy and bizarre, is behind me. I feel better and today is going to be a wonderful day.

At 1:50 pm I’m standing in front of James’s door. I knock and he answers promptly.

“Whoa!  Raymond!” he says. “I didn’t think you’d show. Are you feeling alright, buddy?”

“Right as rain, thanks to you.” I smile as he leads me inside. His apartment is exactly like mine, except instead of art and plants he has posters of sports figures and heaps of empty pizza boxes. I should be revolted, but I love it. I instantly notice that we are alone. “Where are the other guys?”

“Oh, Link and Tommy couldn’t make it. Car trouble. So, it looks like it’s just us. If that’s cool with you?” The expression on his face is playful. I have to make myself refrain from embracing and kissing him.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s cool. Real cool. I hold up the bowl and bag of chips. “Hope you like spinach-artichoke.”

“Are you kidding? I love that stuff!  Thanks a bunch, man.”  He takes the bowl and sets it on the coffee table. “Have a seat.”

As I sit on the plaid couch, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. I groan a bit and James notices.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just didn’t eat last night.  I’m fine.” I settle in and look at the TV.  Football, I guess. “So, who’s playing?”

“Dallas and New York. Who’re you rooting for?”

“Oh, I don’t care,” I say, fighting through another cramp. “As long as it’s a good game.”

“Ha! A man after my own heart. I gotta hit the head.” James gets up and leaves the room.

I release the breath I’d been holding and grasp my stomach. Jesus, it hurts. It’s like I need to take a ten pound dump. My stomach is hard. I poke on it gingerly and almost scream as it pokes back! 

I pull up my shirt and I see it. A lump the size of an avocado, it shifts and wiggles under the thin coating of my skin. I start to cry and am mildly surprised to feel real tears running down my cheeks.

A gasp escapes my lips as I watch the lump double in size.

“Holy shit, dude,” James yells from the hallway. “You alright?”

I whimper and wail, but no words come forth. James runs over to the couch. He’s saying something else, but I can’t hear it over the sound of crackling. Pop. Sizzle. My arms reach out and grip the sides of the couch and then I seize. I can’t move. The tendons in my neck are rigid. I’m whimpering.

I can’t help but think of the rat.

James is obviously pleading with me, but I can’t hear his voice.  I can’t even tell if he screams when my stomach explodes and hundreds of six-inch tubular insects envelop him. They swarm, spitting something on his skin.

Slowly digesting him before my eyes.

I can’t move, I can only watch as they melt through his clothes and dissolve the flesh between his joints. A frothy blood spurts from his wounds, staining the carpet and splattering the flat screen. I can see James’s eyes, his beautiful eyes, crying before more of the slimy slugs eat and dissolve them.

And then, he’s not a person anymore, just a loose collection of disconnected parts. Every part of him is separated at the joints. Piece by piece, like a freakishly obscene conga line, various bits of James are carried to the cavity in my stomach.

I still can’t move, but each body part is shoved into the hole, stretching my stomach skin further and further. There’s no more pain rather a tickling that clouds my thoughts.

The buzzing is louder.

I watch as James’ head, half-melted and seemingly boneless, is recoiled to my gaping belly. It is the last of the pieces, carried by four of the insects leaving behind a trail of blood and slime. Once inside, I watch as a score of smaller bugs repair the jagged flaps of my stomach skin, knitting them together.

The crackling gets louder.

And louder.

When it finally stops, I sleep.

I wake.

I am aware.

I have a vague sense that my name is Raymond.

But that doesn’t matter.

I hunger.

I leave the building in search of more food.

The colony is all that matters.

We must thrive.

*

Travis Gates makes his SNM debut and nails Second Place. He is a 30 year old writer and film enthusiast who lives in Tulsa, OK. He spends most of his time with his wonderful girlfriend, a stack of books and his cat, Adolph. His short fiction appeared in Polyphony Online and Bewildering Stories. Travis is currently  working on a novel about the Second Coming. Fans can email:

 travisjgates@hotmail.com

Travis Gates