SNM Horror Magazine
If You Build A Mausoleum...The Dead Will Come!
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Carole Gill - Dem Vermin / SOTM
Dem Vermin
Carole Gill
Her heels make clacking noises down the street with no name. Actually the street had a name. It was 45th Street, just off 10th Avenue. Broadway was a few Avenues to the East.
Sin and poverty were locals here.
A couple of kids—she with expectation in her heart and he with lust in his loins, were planning to spend the night together.
He had tried to get into her pants for some time. He had heard she was easy and responsive.
The truth was she wanted to be popular and she really was a good actress.
They had been to a movie. He chose it. It had a lot of nude scenes--something to prime her.
A warm wind with a terrible stench smacked them in the face. There were a lot of alleys with vagrants and no bathrooms.
She didn’t want to be there at all. But they were both sixteen and Scott couldn’t exactly afford the Holiday Inn.
“We’re almost there.”
A prostitute sidles over and says something obscene to him.
He shakes the woman loose.
How romantic.
Suddenly they’re both distracted by the sounds of salsa music from somewhere close by.
“Look!” she says pointing towards Pedro’s Dance Palace. “How about it?”
They have a glance inside. The place is full of music—guiros and panderetas--and a whole lot of dancing—people sweeping each other closer as they gyrate to the beat.
There’s a lot of twirling and ass patting too.
She giggles but he just squeezes her hand and tells her how he can’t wait to be alone with her.
The smile fades from her face because she’s been sweating this out for a long time. For a week, ever since she agreed to spend the night with him.
Her parents are out of town. Her mom doesn’t trust her, but her dad does and he’s the one who won that argument.
At least she won’t “do anything” in her home.
She’s feeling guilty enough as it is.
Scott’s voice now, cutting into her thoughts: “It isn’t much of a hotel. So don’t be disappointed.”
How many times has he told her that?
“I won’t be.”
Liar.
They almost miss it. In fact, they do miss it at first--since they walk all the way up to 12th Avenue.
“What was that number again?”
“440 West, why?”
“We passed it, I think. Look it’s over there.”
She’s pointing to a building directly opposite the dance hall.
They cross the street.
And there it is—Hotel Fleabag. That’s not the actual name, she’s thinking, but it may as well be.
Two suspicious looking men are eyeing them. They make special note of her--especially her rear end. Then they nod to one another.
He doesn’t notice—his loins again.
She hates it as soon as she steps into the place. The lobby is the pits -- green, peeling paint and torn plastic -- covered sofas and chairs.
There’s an old man sleeping on one of the two sofas. His fly is undone.
“I’ll check us in.”
A man suddenly appears. He’s holding a newspaper.
“Want the manager?”
Scott nods—while Brandy bites her lip nervously.
“Frank!”
The manager is summoned from somewhere behind the front desk. He’s a pudgy guy with five-o'clock shadow and major tattoos on both of his arms.
He smiles. “May I help you?”
“We’d like a room please.”
He gives them the once over twice and smiles a little wider. “Have any I.D.?”
Scott smirks and palms him a ten dollar bill.
“Will that be for one night, sir?”
Scott says yes, thinks up a name and signs the register—while Brandy checks to see if her lip is bleeding.
By this time the manager has pocketed the ten and Scott is staring at a brass key with room 410 stamped on it.
“Just up one flight—turn left and you can’t miss it.”
At least they don’t have to walk up all four flights. There’s no elevator.
“Get into bed Brandy, I’m waiting!”
“I’ll be right there, Scott!”
Her hand shakes because it’s only the third time and she didn’t enjoy the first two other clinches.
The second went nowhere and the first hurt.
And it wasn’t supposed to, was it?
Fuck all that crap—from movies to books where it’s suppose to be the best damned thing ever.
In Brandy’s case, it hurt like hell.
She steals out of the bathroom. Her eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the darkness.
Well it’s not completely dark—he’s got the blinds up and there’s some murky light--soft and moody looking. Blue and orange neon from Pedro’s across the street.
“I’m here, Scotty!”
She hears him giggle and she giggles too.
He peels back the cover and she slips her fragrant self into the bed.
The shower didn’t work well but she washed her target areas.
His hands find her breasts instantly.
Hands and lips, both of them—working frantically; mad passion unyielding. Nothing’s a mortal sin anymore.
So he hasn’t made any commitment yet. Who cares what her mother thinks?
Not her, she’s not going to tell her what to do!
You stayed in a hotel with him—with that pimple? How could you lower yourself?
Save it Mom—I bet you’ve never been—oh baby!!!
So this is how it’s supposed to be. Hey! She could get used to this!
Humping and bumping and the springs in room 410 are having a hell of a work out.
It’s hammer and tong time.
And then riding the crest of a huge orgasm (her first) she opens her eyes. She’s just so carried away. Except that’s when she sees them.
At first she thinks they’re red lights--tiny red lights all around the foot of the bed.
“What the hell is that?!”
He doesn’t stop. He’s otherwise engaged. She taps him on his back.
“Scott?!”
Nothing. Zilch. The boy is scoring the touchdown he always wanted to. Yeah sure, he may never call her again. He might not even remember her name at 6:00 a.m. when he has to take a pee. But it doesn’t matter.
“Scott!”
She punches him on the back finally.
“What the fuck--?!”
“Quick, turn on the light!”
He doesn’t react fast enough, but she does.
She turns on the light then stomps toward the foot of the bed.
There’s nothing there. No little space men with red eyes that glow in the dark—no boogey man—absolutely nothing at all.
She looks all around, getting onto her knees to check under the bed.
She doesn’t see anything.
“I know what I saw!”
Time for a cigarette.
Brandy stopped smoking last year after her father clouted her one.
Scott lights up. He’s got a stupid smile on his face an expression of amused tolerance.
“What are ya smiling for you, moron?!”
The smile fades as Scott inhales.
“Don’t call me a moron. I’m not the one who’s seeing things!”
A little huffing and pouting and Brandy eyes the cancer stick hungrily.
“Want one, prostitute-turned-nun? Hmm?”
She grabs it away from him and he shakes his head.
But now that he sees her hands are shaking and all the blood appears to have drained from her face, he looks a bit more concerned. “So what do you think you saw?”
Brandy has started to cry. Not a lot—just a little as her feelings of fright become feelings of embarrassment.
“Maybe you were dreaming—!”
“What?! Like I fell asleep while you were banging me?! Don’t be ridiculous!”
Neither say anything after that. The room is silent—but for their thoughtful breathing and the muffled sounds of traffic in the streets below.
But then on top of that sound is something else.
Scratching.
They look at one another.
“What’s that noise?!” he asks.
She can’t answer.
Another sound now—of something being torn.
They see it at the same time—the wallpaper is tearing by itself!
They make for the door. But they’re so anxious to get out of there, neither can turn the knob.
So they start hyperventilating and gasping and calling out -- stupid things; dumb, insensible things.
Brandy, ever the practical one, throws her head back and screams her brains out.
Her face flushed from the action, she holds her breath. Actually both hold their breath.
Someone’s got to come. Someone has to have heard!
No one comes.
Try the door again. They do, first him then her pulling his hand away while she tries. Him not caring that she just accidentally clawed him.
He doesn’t say anything.
Finally, he bends down to look through the keyhole.
There’s no one there.
He straightens up.
“I don’t see anyone at all!” She’s just about to ask what they are going to do when suddenly; the paper starts to tear again but faster.
They back up towards the window.
“Scott!”
He is looking, just as she is. They’re watching the most amazing and horrific thing they have ever seen.
Rrripppp!!!
Down the wallpaper goes, until it begins to curl over onto the bed.
The door is next to the bed. They eye it, even though they don’t want to be there anymore.
Is something in the hall causing this? The hall is on the other side of the lousy wall.
And then it suddenly stops tearing. They stand there looking; their breath caught in their throats.
It’s worse now because now there’s a hole in the wall. Not a big hole—but one big enough for something to crawl out of.
They’re both naked and the blinds are up but it doesn’t matter.
They’re not thinking about that! They’re thinking about what’s in the wall!
Suddenly something scurries from within the exposed space. They see it. Might as well admit it to themselves—something moved in there.
“It’s got to be rats!”
Ah Scott’s figured it out. He’s nodding to himself and consoling, completely oblivious to the fact that Brandy doesn’t buy into his rodent theory one iota.
Brandy is shaking her head. “It’s not rats!”
“What are you an expert? How do you know it isn’t?”
She doesn’t answer. Finally, she does: “No…they’re definitely not rats.”
He lights another cigarette. “Nah. It’s rats or mice. Some kinda rodent. That’s what it is.”
They might have both started feeling better—if the lights hadn’t suddenly gone out.
The dark nearly killed them.
Scott dropped the lit cigarette, only he didn’t give a rat’s ass.
Red eyes. Loads of them. Staring back at them!
He opened his mouth to scream and that’s when they heard the tittering. Yes, tittering. Like something evil laughing its ass off at them.
“Brandy?!”
He had found his voice. She was clinging to him now. But he was clinging to her too.
That’s when they felt it.
Something touched their legs!
They jumped back violently—Brandy nearly tumbling out of the window—Scott catching her as she sank to her knees.
He would have comforted her, but he couldn’t move his arms.
There was something sitting on his shoulder!
He first felt it brush against his cheek.
When he was child, a bird had come too close to him; its wing touching his face. It felt like that!
Sudden pressure on his shoulder as the thing suddenly bites him. He screams and stumbles forward.
He trips over Brandy and looks down.
He shouldn’t have.
She’s lying in a pool of pastel neon light—Pedro’s again.
Something begins moving across her, like a shadow.
Only it isn’t a shadow.
It’s them!
He screams—but the sound of chewing silences him.
Chewing and slurping. Sucking sounds—licking sounds too— sounds like their lovemaking.
He starts to cry. Loud, hoarse-sounding sobs -- tears from the heart -- angst from the soul; total terror.
He knew he was going to die. Hell, she was dead already, wasn’t she?
I’m going to die. Something demonic from hell is going to kill me the way it killed her! BUT I DON’T WANT TO DIE!
He would escape. After all, he’d made the football team, hadn’t he? So why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to get away from some lousy rats from Hell?
But the thing was he also knew they weren’t rats.
Rats don’t titter.
He didn’t want to glance down at her again. He knew he’d be sorry. He was.
She was unrecognizable.
Even in the half-light he could still see her exposed mutilated corpse.
Some of her hair blew against his feet. His knees buckled but he stayed upright.
He knew why her hair was free of her head.
They hadn’t wanted to consume her hair! But they’d sure eaten everything else!
Maybe they would leave now. Maybe they’d scurry back into the wall and go after someone else.
Nah.
The thing on his shoulder was still there. He'd forgotten about it momentarily, but it had crawled over to his right ear and was nibbling it.
He felt its teeth! So razor sharp—it was nearly painless—nearly, but not quite.
Soon, he could no longer move. Not a muscle.
He tried—crying softly and as silently as he could, he really did try.
The creature laughed—a real laugh. Not a titter. More like a high-pitched cackle.
Like a friggin’ crow on acid!
If he couldn’t move, he found his eyes could. So there he stood this terrorized teenager who had only wanted a good screw.
They won’t know who we are!
The thought passed quickly from his mind, for out of the corner of his eye, he began to watch the thing on his shoulder become two things.
Had another one of them landed there?
They started to move around, squeaking and tittering at the same time. Now fluttering.
And then the thought hit him!
They were mating!
Sure enough, he could just make it out. Two pairs of wings—not bats—bats don’t moan sensually.
They were moaning with pleasure! These two little critters— were getting off on each other!
Find a shoulder to lean on, guys and let’s bang one another! Then later we can eat the bastard. Really eat! Hmmm, blood and flesh and organs for the tummy! How yummy!
“Stop that!”
Why not shout? Why not interrupt them? Coitus interruptus after all—serves ‘em right!
Hot bile tasting of poison and death filled his mouth. It was the shock, after all.
They had stopped mating. He could see their red eyes. Only this time one of them hopped onto his head and leaned over to study his face.
Then it hissed.
He felt it right after he heard it, like a knife stab in his forehead.
If they get the brain--!
But he could still think and reason.
Suddenly the sound of mad wings flapping in the room is heard -- hundreds of them.
Hundreds of wings—hundreds of creatures!
His head slumps forward as a great weight hits the back of his neck.
It is their combined weight that pushes his head down.
If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have seen all the others there.
Even in the semi-lucid darkness, he could make them out— there, between his legs—little red eyes looking up at him!
Oh, the pain -- like a million needles tearing into his scrotum -- tearing his penis--pulling his genitals apart like paper.
But not needles! Teeth. Tiny teeth to go with their red eyes and their claws!
The room began to fill with the soft light of daybreak.
No, these things didn’t have to creep away like vampires on the edge of daybreak.
These demon vermin were immune to such fanciful “rules.”
They came, fed and ate— terrorized and killed to their own beat.
The sound of paper and plaster tearing apart as the entire wall opened and thousands of pairs of little winged creatures began to fill the room.
It didn’t matter anymore. He would soon be dead.
He was on his knees when he saw the door burst open.
He didn’t think of being rescued. It never crossed his mind.
He was beyond that.
Two towering beings stood there. Man-like but not men.
Not unless men were eight feet tall and had scales and wings!
They stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before them. Then they stepped inside.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. They had other ways of communication.
The vermin watched them. Not as they'd watched their victims, but meekly—almost timidly.
They fluttered quietly and gathered in small groups along the floor, waiting.
A high-pitched wail of joy suddenly rose as the demons pointed at the young man.
The boy wasn’t dead yet.
“Go.”
A command to finish the kill.
The tiny creatures obeyed.
Scott passed from dying to death in a micro second.
A bell rang from downstairs.
The demons had to leave.
The vermin, now visible in bright daylight—clustered together.
They were joyous. Like happy pets they scampered and played with one another.
Then they went back into the wall and the paper became whole again -- as if by magic.
*
No one would have known the two men at the front desk were demons. How could they have possibly? They could change at will.
When wearing their human skins they looked like regular guys. One even drove a cab part time.
When the hotel was busy he’d come into help his friend.
Not a friend really as much as mentor.
That’s just the way it was.
They liked the City called New York. Are you kidding? So many people doing illicit things--like checking into seedy hotels for a quick screw.
And who would really miss the bastards?
What man cheating on his wife is going to use his real name to check in?
Bullshit names, kids with money to blow--it didn’t matter.
This was the hotel where all linens were not only changed, but replaced.
Oddly enough, considering it was such a crummy old building, no pest exterminators were ever called.
They had absolutely no problem with infestation of any kind.
The demon vermin kept all the freeloaders away.
They might as well branch out--and why not?
The vermin deserved to be happy, they were faithful servants— loyal and loving and oh so compliant.
So unlike these heartless, mindless creatures they fed on.
*
Carole "Darklynn" Gill will always remember her first with SNM. She made her debut publication here back in June 2009. She lives in the UK and is our only female author in this issue. She writes dark-themed horror and sci-fi. Her stories appear in Mythica Publishing’s Sci-Fi Anthology, Maybe Tormorow and Sci Fi Almanac 2009, Vol 1: An Anthology of Short Stories, Sci-Fi Talk’s Tales of Time and Space and Masters of Horror Anthology, Published by Triskaideka Books.She is also one of Sonar 4 Publication’s Ladies of Horror for 2010. Come visit her website and blogspot below. This is Carole's very first SOTM!
Carole "Darklynn" Gill
John Arthur Miller / Sophisticated Fear
Sophisticated Fear
John “JAM” Arthur Miller
Grieving, he sat in the light of the noon sun, burning red and not deeming his discomfort painful enough to move into the shaded part of the park bench. Tomorrow he would pay, he knew, perhaps with hundreds of blisters on his neck and shoulders. His head would peel, if not in the morning, then in the afternoon, if the sunburn was bad enough. People just never knew how badly they were burnt while in the heat of the day: eyes seared with the sun’s haze, unable to perceive just how red their skin had become. Danny didn’t care how sunburned he was. He adjusted his sweaty tank top to keep it from sticking to his chest and watched his son playing on the monkey bars. It gave Danny pleasure to imagine his skin peeling; hair melting from the fires of Hell. After all, he of all people deserved to burn.
Stevie had grown so fast this past year, despite his only being eleven, and was spellbound by the grossest utterances of the human body. A fart or burp could cause loud, undulating laughter among all his friends—young boys competing for the loudest sounds. Danny remembered his own youth; days spent wrestling with his friends, competing at sports and the boyish love of farts. Danny grinned, despite his misery, because he remembered thatthere were many farts and loud burps, gross things to enjoy.
And ghost stories! God, the scary stories he could tell around the fire, scaring the hell out of their camp instructors. It had been so fun seeing the adults’ faces turn white.
Aren’t we supposed to be telling scary stories? Danny had asked after being told to stop.
Yes, but not when the stories are that frightening, Danny.
Danny’s friends began calling him Bram, attributed to Bram Stoker, because his scary stories had a way of taking flight like bats in the night. He remembered it all: memories conjured by Stevie’s antics on the playground with the other boys. One of Stevie’s friends held up his leg and let one rip, which was followed by muted laughter, boys glancing back sheepishly at their parents seated on benches and the parents pretending not to notice their antics.
“Want to hear a ghost story?” one boy asked. After a murmur of approval, the boy pointed at Stevie and said, “This guy tells the best stories, the ultimate scary tale. Trust me.”
They looked at Stevie who merely shrugged.
“Go on,” another boy goaded. “We’re getting to be too old to play on monkey bars anyway.”
Stevie looked back at Danny who gave his son a slight nod. They shared a secret smile; a special knowing locked in their gaze as they held each other’s eyes. Then Stevie looked away and said, “Okay, but not here—there’s too many adults.”
The boys followed Stevie to a grove of trees where he could work his magic in private, as Danny remembered working his magic so many years before and scaring the hell out of the camp instructors. Danny checked his watch to make sure Stevie had time to tell his tale before he had to pretend getting him back to his mother. Everything had to be timed just perfectly.
The wonders of childhood faded, gradually eclipsing in Danny’s mind by the power of horror; the innate gift Stevie and he possessed that literally scared the hell out of others. As Danny had grown, his ability to scare had increased until—
So many times he’d told his tales of terror; so many times he’d used his gift. As the power of his dark gift increased with his maturity, as people began to die while hearing his terrible stories, Danny realized he couldn’t stop. He was like a gambler at a high stakes game, unable to walk away and incapable of saying no. Danny knew all about power and how it corrupted and all he had to do was open his mouth and start to speak; a natural born storyteller. How different life might have turned out had he not possessed this power. His eyes followed Stevie, leading the boys into the clump of woods, and he knew…he knew. It was addictive, this power to frighten, to maim by terror, and Danny wiped a tear away. He’d used his dark gift one too many times and, now addicted, he couldn’t stop.
Don’t tell me to stop when you won’t, Dad.
Stevie, don’t you see you’re losing your dark gift as I have?
Dark gift? Stevie laughed. I prefer to think of it as the power of the curse, Dad.
A woman walked past on the way to her daughter who struggled up the ladder to a slide. She smiled at Danny then noticed his glazed eyes. Danny forced a smile and wiped another tear from his face, one lone tear that could bring so many more if he didn’t gain control of himself. She glanced away, not wishing to intrude, or perhaps just not wanting to get involved in a conversation with a man about to cry.
Reality tore through the park, through Danny’s mind, raging with the past, with the epiphany his son revealed to his peers in the form of a scary story. Danny felt it in his sweat-filled pores of his burnt skin, smelled it in the air: magic wafting in the hot summer breeze, cooking flesh and braising souls, the children listening to the demonic tales his son had told. Hidden from the adults, the children sat around Stevie, attentive and paralyzed by fear, unable to move. Danny could picture them in his head, for he’d seen it happen so many times himself and it even angered Danny that he actually allowed his son to perform the same rituals that had made him loathe himself.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why did Danny have this dark gift and why had he passed it on to his only son? He couldn’t fight the rage, a hopeless white-hot anger that made him clench his fists until the knuckles burned white.
The blond woman who had passed by seconds earlier passed his bench again, carrying her little girl. “You’re not old enough for the big-boy slide, honey,” she cooed into the little girl’s hair. The woman glanced at Danny again. Danny unclenched his fists, forced his stern face to soften and relax.
After the woman and her child had walked by, a symphony of sadness played through Danny’s mind, composed of memories, filled with enemies who destroyed others through telephones, through messages stored on tape recorders and answering machines. It didn’t matter how, as long as Danny was able to tell a story from beginning to end, complete with subplots and foreshadowing—even if these elements weren’t necessary, he liked to pretend his dark gift required the talent of a skilled storyteller—and if he could only convey the entire tale, the results would be disastrous.
From the clump of trees where the boys had gone, one of the boys began screaming. Fear filled that voice, and parents glanced about, shaken and worried. Danny laughed and stood, shaking his head.
“It’s just boys having fun,” he said, covering for Stevie. “I’ll go check just to make sure though.”
The blond haired woman sat on the next park bench where she bounced her daughter on her knee, dipping the girl backwards into a backbend. The child hung her head upside-down and giggled. The mother smiled back at Danny, showing white teeth, happy that at least one man was brave enough to do the right thing: check on the boys. At least that’s what Danny had told himself as their gaze lingered a bit longer than needed. He passed the park bench and broke off eye-contact.
If she only knew… if she only knew what I did earlier today.
The screams sounded grand, as if the boys’ lives were at stake under that canopy in the distance where Stevie had led them to their demise. Danny left the pretty woman and her daughter at the playground and snubbed her because he already knew how a relationship with any woman would end for someone like him. He had to visit Steven’s mother earlier that day before picking Steven up from junior league football practice. Danny left Elaine lying on the floor, bloodied and hemorrhaging. That’s the reason he couldn’t be with a lover: the melancholy associated with his dark gift made life with Danny unbearable for any woman, which was why he refused to look back at the pretty blonde as she bounced her daughter on her knees. By ignoring her, Danny was saving her life.
Danny trekked up the slight incline to the clump of trees. He knew what he would find. Danny had done the same thing many times, for they were storytellers, like Druidic bards able to spin yarns that became reality. It was so alluring, having the power to kill through words, through stories.
Power corrupts and all that...
For an instant, all the terrors from his past slammed into his mind and raped his reason. He couldn’t take another step. In the grass between the playground and the camouflage of trees he froze up. There, he felt his nightmare, felt its strength and power flowing into his mind. Unbidden images scurried across his thoughts, and he saw them: rats. Thousands and thousands of rats, scurrying like an incoming wave: tiny rat-hands with sharp nails and diminutive snouts opening in anticipation of Danny’s flesh. The story he told the most, the one that lived in his nightmares, the one he could never escape from at night, penetrated his mind with the power of his dark gift. This was the nightmare he suffered the most. Elaine held him as he sobbed, when they were still married.
It’ll be alright, she told him at first, but as the years tumbled over each other and, after all the shrinks she made him go to didn’t help—what could he really tell them?—Elaine grew distant and withdrawn, until the mailman came to drop off a package. He’d dropped off a package and the next thing Danny knew, he was standing on the front porch weeping with rage, trembling in grief and dying inside, holding the divorce papers he’d just been served,
I’m not just doing it for myself, Elaine had told him over the phone. I’m just doing this for our six-year-old son. He has nightmares just like you, Danny, and I need to get him away from you—I don’t think you’re a good role model for him. Oh, you’ll still see him twice every other weekend, but no more...
She moved back into her rich parents’ house—a mansion, really—leaving Danny the joy of starting life all over again. She took Stevie with her leaving Danny in the house and his nightmares; the rats—those fucking beady-eyed critters that began coming to him while awake.
The visions kept getting worse in the middle of the day while riding elevators to see his attorney. The rats came at him from the inside of his microwave oven when he heated frozen dinners; leapt from the toilet when he tried taking a piss. And at night—oh, at night they came alive! Those damned rats from the story he had told over and over, practicing it until the delivery was perfect until the very ending—a conclusion with a twist that would make Clive Barker shudder in fear, those rats became living and breathing things. Ad to prevent them from devouring his flesh he tried to loose them on others, distracting them from what they really wanted which was his flesh dripping from their mouths.
Earlier today he’d gone to talk to Elaine to see about getting more visitation rights with Stevie. He has some problems I think I can talk him through, Elaine. But she disagreed, saying, I won’t give you more time with Stevie unless you can prove to me, right here and now, what the hell you’re talking about.
And so he began to tell her the rat story. Just a little bit—the title and opening paragraph, that was all he had intended to reveal, just enough to get her attention. He wanted to show her that his dark gift could kill others. After telling Elaine the very beginning of his rat story, Danny had planned to say that Stevie has the same dark gift as I do, Elaine, and he’s out of control, but I can help him, I know that I can. But Danny never got that far because it was so hard to stop once he began. He’d just kept on talking, out of control from the excitement, the feel from the addicting power of seeing Elaine’s terror growing wider in her eyes.
Oh, how the rats came!—hundreds upon hundreds of huge rats, perhaps thousands crawling through Elaine’s house, shredding wallpaper and ripping up the living room carpet. They were biting, clawing and burrowing into her until she became a flesh puppet filled with rodents devouring her from the inside out. Blood had splattered and then, just like that…they were gone, leaving Elaine on the shredded carpet, partially devoured.
They were coming back now as he stood frozen in the park, those damned rats squirming into his thoughts, raping Danny’s mind with a determined and vicious passion, chewing into his reality as they’d chewed into Elaine. He’d watched them rip shreds of her flesh away, all the while thrilling to the power of his story and continuing to weave his tale. His voice grew louder and shriller with the addicting excitement:
And then as civilization poisoned the planet, the rats rose from the depths of the earth, seeking water that was clean and pure. They came through the sewers, through storm drains and up through toilets; big rats, tiny and medium-sized rodents, all hungry, all thirsty. With their sheer numbers they found they could quench their thirst by drinking the blood of humans. They ran through the city streets, faces red, whiskers dripping, seeking to devour, always seeking to devour…
“Are you alright?”
Danny turned with a gasp and found the blond woman looking at him with a concerned expression. Over her shoulder he saw her little girl trying to climb the big-boy slide again, but the blond woman had felt empathy, enough concern to leave her daughter and approach Danny. A Godsend, the woman had jolted Danny enough to free his mind from all those horrible thoughts of rats.
“Y-yes,” Danny stammered, wishing that he could hold her, as if that would make everything alright, if only for a while, perhaps a night. “I was just…dizzy.”
More screams erupted from the woods. This time, Danny saw a man leaving the park bench at the playground and take a few steps, as if deciding whether or not he should investigate.
“I’ll go,” Danny called.
The man waved and Danny turned to the woods. The woman walked with him.
“You don’t want to do this,” Danny told her. “Besides, your child—”
“One of the other mothers is watching Kylie,” she interrupted. “By the way, I’m Tabitha.”
She held her hand out and Danny went to take it. But the woman frowned and pulled her hand away, gazing at his palm where Elaine’s dried blood still remained.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.” Tabitha glanced over her shoulder and Danny sneaked a peek at her halter top, her long legs and white shorts. “Kylie really doesn’t like me to be this far away from me.”
“I understand.” Danny said smiling as the screaming increased. “Wow! That sounds really bad… I think someone’s in trouble.”
Danny took off at a jog, knowing what he’d find in the woods—exactly what he’d left at Elaine’s house. But he was hoping that Tabitha would—yes!
He heard her behind him, following Danny toward the woods. She’d seen the dried blood on his hand from when he’d moved Elaine’s mutilated body into the cellar. He just couldn’t take the chance of letting Tabitha tell somebody about the blood on his hands.
At the perimeter of the woods, Danny feigned falling so that Tabitha could run past. That way, he could block her retreat once she saw what horrors Stevie had unleashed upon the boys. But instead of running past, the woman stopped to help Danny up with a strength that belied her small size.
“You’re strong.”
She twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him up forward.
“What’s going on?”
But she ignored him and held him up easily, despite Danny’s frantic attempts to dislodge his arm from her grip. They moved down a dirt path, hidden by trees. The temperature cooled in the shade, but Danny continued to sweat.
“Hello, father,” Stevie greeted him from a bloodied clearing.
Sure enough, just as Danny had expected, the entire clearing was saturated in blood. Whatever story Danny had told had certainly done its job. A boy knelt in the middle of the clearing. Why he was still alive, Danny didn’t know.
“I see you’ve met Tabitha, Dad.”
“What? You know her?”
Stevie grinned and pointed at the boy. “This is Tabitha’s oldest son. Her daughter is still at the playground, I take it?”
“Yes,” Danny whispered. “Stevie, what is going on?”
“You killed Mom, Dad.”
“I told you in the car” Danny began, “I tried to tell you I couldn’t help it, that I was just trying to talk some sense into her—”
“By telling her a horror story? You knew what would happen.”
Tabitha’s son continued to scream.
“Would you make him stop screaming, Stevie?”
“I can’t, Dad. He’s part of my story.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t finished telling my tale. I left it at a real cliffhanger, left the story with Tommy here screaming for his Mother. And look! Here she is now.”
“Stevie, I know we haven’t been that close, but—”
“Do you know why we’re the way we are, Dad?”
“No, Stevie.”
Tabitha let go of Danny’s arm and he collapsed to his knees with a grunt of pain. He blinked through tears at Stevie, trying to comprehend what it all meant.
“I’m sorry, Stevie, but all I know are rumors, stories told by your grandpa and great-grandpa about Indians in our Family Tree, shamans who could sing prophecies that would instantly come true.”
“We come from those shamans, Dad. The Sioux.”
“We do,” Danny agreed. “But we have English mixed with some Irish and Italian in our blood, too.”
“But it’s the power of the Sioux that makes our stories come true.”
“Maybe. I don’t know, Stevie. Why do you ask?”
“Have you ever wondered why we don’t tell happy stories, Dad? Why we don’t tell stories that end with dreams coming true?”
Danny tried opening his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The question surprised and stumped him. Instead of answering Danny felt his wrist, (hoping Tabitha hadn’t broken it) while trying to remember if he’d ever told a happy story in his life.
“You know why I think we don’t tell happy stories, Dad?”
Danny waited for his son to finish speaking, watching Tabitha hug her son.
“Because of all the white man in our blood wanting to destroy everything he touches. Those legends you used to tell me about those Sioux shamans… they told happy stories, I’ll bet. But here we are with their gift—what you call a dark gift—but we don’t tell happy stories.”
“Stevie, they sang prophecies, they didn’t tell stories.”
“What’s the difference, Dad?”
An incredibly large rat lumbered out of the woods. A huge muskrat, a good twenty-five pound specimen by Danny’s guess. Two rats appeared in Danny’s peripheral vision.
“Time to finish my story, Dad.”
A cold wave shivered down Danny’s spine.
“Stevie, I just told you in the car on the way here that what happened between your mother and I was an accident and—”
“Shut up!”
Danny opened his mouth to speak but Tabitha had struck him. Danny hadn’t even seen her approach. He held his face, vertigo sweeping through him. His jaw hung limp. How did she get to be so strong?
“Tabitha and Tommy held Danny down,” Stevie said.
Immediately, Tommy and Tabitha grabbed Danny’s arms and pinned them down to the ground. Danny tried to shout to Stevie but his jaw was shattered and he realized he also couldn’t counter his son’s story with one of his own.
“The rats continued to appear around the edge of the clearing— big rats, small rats, all hungry, all waiting to feed on Stevie’s evil father.”
The bushes shook with movement. Squealing sounds rose from the shrubs. Danny tried to speak but Tabitha slapped his jaw, driving spikes of pain into his face.
“The rats rushed from the bushes at Stevie’s Dad, wanting to rip the man to shreds.”
The muskrat and the other rats loped toward Danny. He tried again to scream but Tabitha choked him with her free hand, holding his arm down with the other.
“Tabitha and her son were now empowered by supernatural strength and Stevie’s wicked father was helpless. With his jaw shattered, Danny couldn’t conclude a story by saying, ‘The End.’”
The rats ran all over his body and scurried across his face and arms. They were making room for others until a short wall had appeared around them; a wall of fur and black eyes, bald tails and humanlike hands ending in sharp little claws. The wall grew around them, like a growing nightmare. Their animal stench intensified like a wet dog and something…rotting.
“Yet the rats didn’t bother Tabitha or her son. Instead, they continued to gather, waiting for their number to grow.”
Danny’s jaw ached in agonizing pain but the fear he felt while gazing into those dark eyes staring back hurt worse than his shattered jawbone. The overwhelming terror forced Danny’s bladder to let go. The ammonia waft rose, but it didn’t mask the animal stink; a horrible nightmare smell. Tabitha and Tommy’s fingers gouged Danny’s arm. Blood oozed from his forearms. A rat wiggled its body over to lick at the blood.
“These rats weren’t normal; they were meat eaters.”
“Puh-leazze… ” he tried to say, 'please, Stevie' but his jaw didn’t work.
“Stevie loved his mother, which is why he told this story. You see, his father—in trying to help Stevie come to grips with his dark gift—had told him about what he most feared: rats. So after his father confessed to killing Stevie’s mother, Stevie decided to tell a special story—just for Dad.
“He made sure that he had help, having learned of Tabitha through Tommy. Stevie then introduced Tommy’s Mom into the picture, having her follow his Dad into the woods.
“And there in the woods the rats gathered, hungry, waiting for the story’s conclusion.”
Furry rodents converged upon Danny; hairless appendages moved over his face—bald tails slapping. Tiny claws nipped at the corners of his squinting eyes and the involuntary scream rose high-pitched.
“The sound of screaming couldn’t get to the playground—in fact, no one heard a thing, and those who had heard Tommy’s screaming quickly forgot.”
Teeth bore into Danny’s flesh. The weight of many feet pressed upon his arms, chest and stomach. Danny fought, but the sheer weight of the rats held down his torso and legs. Tabitha and Tommy easily pinned his arms. Had he known he could tell happy stories, had he known he could impart supernatural strength to people like his son had given Tabitha and Tommy, Danny might have told different stories, but the thought had never occurred to him because horror was all he knew.
“After completely consuming the evil man, the rats regurgitated Danny’s body.”
Danny glanced at Stevie; tears in his eyes as the rats began to nibble. What the hell? Stevie smiled and continued.
“After being regurgitated by hundreds of rats Danny reformed; his body completely healed. And then the rats began to devour him again.”
For an instant, Danny thought his son would change his mind, for Danny saw a tear in Stevie’s eye. Then a figure stepped from the woods. Elaine smiled warmly at Danny then turned to her son and hugged him. It had been while watching his mother approach that Stevie’s eyes misted, not because of any concern felt for his father.
Danny tried to yell, to tell them that he just didn’t know he could use his stories to bring the dead back to life. He didn’t know the good he could have created. Danny had thought the stories his family passed down about shamans prophesying words into reality had been merely legends; nothing more than myths.
I didn’t know… I really didn’t know!
The story he’d told to Elaine earlier depicted rats burrowing into her body. Danny considered that just as a rat sat on his face, it’s ass on his left eye. The rat moved into his mouth. Danny’s shattered jaw would not close no matter how hard he tried to shut it. Sharp teeth bit Danny’s tongue. Filthy fur lined the top of his mouth and tickled his tonsils.
Unsatisfied by his tongue, the rat went even deeper, scratching its way down Danny’s trachea, pulling itself along by clawed hands, burning Danny with agony where the rat burrowed into his left lung.
Somewhere in the distance, as if from a far away place, he heard Stevie’s voice—the conclusion of the story:
“But Danny never died. He always felt pain.Whenever the rats were full, new ones would come and take over; their feeding continuing eternally.”
*
Paul Mannering - For The Children
For The Children
Paul Mannering
Margaret Denver lay in bed watching the monster crawl across the ceiling. It had come from the darkest corner of the room, disguised as a trick of light. Long black tendrils reaching from deep shadow into gloom, taking the form of spider legs as it made its slow and determined way towards the bed.
Margaret watched breathlessly as the creature emerged; four long glistening legs came ahead of a black, chitinous body as large and round as a dinner plate. A third pair of legs extended from the side and a final pair of shorter limbs struggled to support a bulging, dark abdominal sack that dragged behind.
On the other side of the bed, Richard lay with his mouth open, snores rattling from his mouth like a truck revving in the back of his throat. Margaret often lay awake during the night, listening to her husband choke and rattle. She was listening for the whimpers and cries of their two children, but they were both grown by now. Grown and moved away to college, leaving her alone in the dark to listen to Richard’s labored breathing.
The spider-thing paused over the bed; its swollen abdomen pulsing; its glistening black legs twitching like antenna attuned to a beacon signal.
The monster paused over the bed, flexing along its multi-jointed limbs in a regular pumping motion. Margaret continued to watch, absorbed by this strange creature and the determined way it dragged itself onward.
The middle set of legs, those adjacent to the sack like abdomen, tucked under the body, fiddled rapidly until within moments with the smooth motion of a magic trick the spider began to drop from the ceiling towards the bed, a thin cord of white playing out from it’s underside.
The forward legs quivered over Richard’s body. He snorted, choked and twisted slightly before settling back into a rumbling symphony. The spider turned right-way up and lowered itself on to his chest. Margaret didn’t move; she could barely breathe.
The abdominal section pulsed again and the carapace of the creature’s front half quivered as if in painful contraction. A tube, bone white and wavering like a pointing finger, emerged from the front of the thing.
It swung in a seeking way, probing for a specific target. Finally, the tip of the tube touched the edge of Richard’s nostril and with another convulsion the tube was expressed from within the spider’s body and deep into Richard’s nose.
Margaret had spent enough years as a nurse to recognize a naso-gastric tube when she saw one. But why would it be going up her husband’s nose?
The spider rested for a moment, the body lying still, as large as a cat curled up on Richard’s chest. Then with renewed vigor the contractions in the sack-like belly began again and Margaret sighed with sudden realization.
The white tube bulged with regular round lumps as in conveyor belt fashion; a peristaltic wave pushed a series of small objects along the visible length, up Richard’s nose and, presumably on down into his stomach.
The realization that the spider was a mother made Margaret’s womb ache with longing. She silently encouraged the spider as the creature shook again, and another egg was expelled.
“Go on girl, you can do it,” Margaret breathed and felt her stomach muscles clenching in sympathy with each rippling contraction.
She watched enthralled as the creature carefully pushed dozens of eggs through the pulsing ovipositor into her husband.
Margaret gave a gasp of concern with the final delivery and the retraction of the tube. The spider tottered sideways on weak legs and collapsed, each of those delicate long limbs curling up like a withered flower. The taut, glistening skin of the egg sack now lacy flaccid and wrinkled flat.
Tears welled on her cheeks as Margaret slipped out of bed. Richard rattled and snored, oblivious to the occasion. Lifting the corpse she cradled it in her hands and went downstairs to the silent kitchen. With a careful respect Margaret set the remains down on the table top. The dead thing was as black and curled as charred paper.
Margaret wept silent tears, anguish jarred her, sharp stabbing sobs tore up through her and she bit her clenched fist to hold in the screams of grief that boiled within her.
Her own children, Lisa and Thomas were both gone. They would come back now and then, but as adults, not as her children. Not as those beautiful babies she had nurtured and raised. They would never need her in the same way again. What purpose did she have now? There was no one who needed her, not in that way that made her feel complete.
Margaret cried until she felt withered and dry inside; her tears faltered and she mopped her face with tissues. Her panting breath steadied and a very clear thought appeared in her mind.
Your babies will need looking after. Richard will just hurt them if I don’t do something.
It was true, the closer he came to retirement the more Richard’s diet had degenerated into an artery clogging nightmare of high fat, salt and sugar. Margaret was too adrift on her own sea of misery to care since the kids went away to college, but now she felt a surge of determination and a clear structure of renewed purpose shored up the collapsing walls of her psyche.
Leaving the spider’s tiny husk on the table, she found a white shoebox in the cupboard under the stairs. It was lined with tissue paper, so she added some tissues and gently placed the remains within and replaced the lid.
Going downstairs into the cellar she opened the furnace and with a silent prayer of gratitude and farewell she slipped the makeshift casket inside into the flames and closed the door.
The cremation of the spider stank rancid like burning car tires, but Richard didn’t seem to notice in the morning when he emerged and Margaret presented him with a cooked breakfast at the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” he sniffed at the plate of poached eggs, whole grain toast and fried tomatoes.
“Breakfast, my darling,” Margaret beamed and set a large glass of milk down next to his plate.
“Nice,” Richard said, ready to demolish it.
Margaret smiled. Today she would do some research on the latest recommendations for the basic dietary requirements of expecting mothers and get some supplements from the local drugstore.
Richard kissed his wife and headed off for his shift of driving metropolitan buses. Margaret worked part-time at the hospital and spent most the morning exploring comprehensive websites or discussing foods to favor and foods to avoid while pregnant.
After work Richard liked to sit in his armchair and watch TV, preferably with a beer and some nuts. Margaret chewed her lip. Alcohol should be avoided, especially during the first trimester; the initial three months were quite critical to embryonic brain development.
Exercise and a well balanced diet were always the keys to a healthy pregnancy. She made lists and went grocery shopping at lunch time. Returning with bags of leafy vegetables, lean meat, and multi-vitamin tablets. Richard’s supply of beer went down the kitchen sink and the cans went into the trash.
When Richard returned that night, the aroma of a warm home cooked meal wafted out the door when Margaret met him with a kiss and a glass of milk.
“Welcome home,” she purred and led him to his chair. Richard sat down gratefully and clicked the TV on.
“Grab me a beer will you hon,” he said putting the milk aside.
“Richard, there is no more beer.” Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, ready to fold her arms if necessary.
“Of course there is, it’s in the fridge,” Richard said, his gaze focused on the TV.
“No Richard, I threw them out. Drinking isn’t healthy. There will be no more beer in this house.”
He turned slowly, his face twitching with a range of emotions. “No more…? Have you gone completely crazy!?” Richard stood up, his face flushing red in sudden fury.
“No more beer,” Margaret moved her hands over to her hips. Richard always got his way because she usually didn’t care. But on his new diet she was implacable.
Richard hesitated, steel shone in his wife’s eyes and echoed in her tone. “Well, whaddami supposed to drink when I get home after a hard day?” he whined.
“Milk. It’s good for you and, at our age, we need to be ensuring plenty of calcium for strong bones and minerals. You need to take some vitamins too.
Margaret had dealt with reluctant and uncooperative patients for years; she stood over him as he took his pills and drank his milk.
“Dinner is pot roast, with all your favorite trimmings,” she said and kissed him on the cheek.
He sighed; pot roast did make up for the sudden ban on beer. After dinner she insisted they go for walk. Richard questioned her sanity again, but she refused to budge until he did.
They took it slowly, a gentle stroll around the neighborhood. Margaret held her husband’s hand and they chatted about inconsequential things. Richard slipped his arm around her shoulders and she murmured words of love as she pressed against him.
The evening came to a close with their first love making session in months. Margaret pressed her husband on to his back and rode him with a curious sensitivity. Afterwards, he fell into a deeply contented sleep while she went downstairs and surfed the internet for information on the breeding habits of spiders.
She found little that made sense to her surrogate situation until she found papers on spiders that paralyzed wasps then laid their eggs inside the frozen bodies. The young hatched and ate the wasp from the inside out. She felt this served the wasps right, those nasty stinging things. Nowhere could she find any references to spiders or any creature that laid its eggs in the way she witnessed last night.
A week later Richard came out of the bathroom, dripping from the shower and wearing only a towel. He slipped his arms around Margaret, “I’ve lost eight pounds,” he grinned. “And I feel great, must be all that exercise we are getting.” He nuzzled her neck and squeezed her buttocks playfully.
Margaret continued to monitor Richard carefully. He seemed to be thriving on the healthy diet; the weight loss concerned her. Could she have imagined the spider? Pregnant women gaining weight was normal, but so was nausea during the first trimester and Richard hadn’t shown any symptoms of that.
Richard lost weight steadily over the next three months; the square jaw and cheek bones Margaret hadn’t seen since they were first married slowly emerged like a statue being chiseled from shapeless stone. Margaret cooked his meals every day, a balance of lean protein, (no chicken or canned food) complex carbohydrates, plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables. He took his daily vitamins without comment and drank milk by the gallon jug.
Margaret’s doubts nagged at her constantly. If Richard’s was a normal pregnancy, he would have had at least two ultra-sound scans by now. They would know if there were any problems, if the developing fetus was healthy and perfect. Not knowing kept her awake at night, listening to Richard’s steady breathing, the swell of his belly as tantalizing as a mysterious gift under the Christmas tree.
At fourteen weeks pregnant Margaret asked him to meet her at the hospital. Nearing the end of an evening shift, the facility was quiet and she took him into an empty clinic room.
“What’s so important that you needed me to come in at this hour?” Richard grumbled he was finding weight loss left him restless and moody.
“Just lie down on the bed darling. I’m going to just check that you are okay.”
Richard lay down and Margaret pulled up his shirt, which hung loosely on his arms, yet still strained to cross the swollen expanse of his belly.
With a soft humming the ultrasound whirred into life, Margaret applied some clear gel to her husband’s skin, “This may feel cold,” she said calmly. Richard only grunted in response.
On a small screen a gray image moved and swirled, as clear as a badly tuned television, Richard stared curiously as she moved the sensor over his belly in smooth strokes.
“Can’t see a damn thing…” Richard muttered.
“Shhh…” Margaret saw something move. There. A thin cluster of filaments waved in concert deep inside Richard’s stomach. Another set, and another, a dozen small star-like white patches showed on the screen. Each one waving four pairs of spider legs as they floated in the warm confines of their host.
“What the hell is that…?” Richard’s voice had an edge to it. He could see something on the scan, something that didn’t feel or look right at all.
Margaret lifted the sensor off his skin, a flush of happiness and joy surging through her. “It’s nothing sweetheart. You are healthy… perfectly healthy.”
She switched the sensor off and wiped it clean before wiping the gel from Richard’s belly and pulling his shirt down.
He frowned as he struggled to sit up, “Hon, there’s something moving in there, you know. And sometimes I can feel it. Like something inside tickling me…” Richard’s voice dropped to a guilty whisper, “Like maybe I have worms or something.”
Margaret smiled at him, “You are perfectly fine my love.” She could see that the pregnancy was progressing well. His weight loss was obvious, his arms, legs chest and face must have shed at least a hundred pounds, only his belly hadn't changed much. Though what used to be swollen by a diet of beer and junk food now stood out taut and filled with the new life it contained.
“You are so beautiful,” Margaret whispered.
“Are you listening to me, woman? Look, I’m going to make an appointment to see Doc Harrow in the morning.
“Yes dear,” Margaret helped Richard slide off the table and into his jacket. Unseen, she escorted him out of the hospital and watched him drive off in his truck.
After her shift Margaret drove home from the store. The local mall never closed and included one of those home supply stores that sold everything. She bought some lengths of chain and a collection of padlocks.
Arriving home to a quiet house with Richard already tucked up in bed, Margaret sat in the kitchen, thinking about the twelve babies he carried. She had to protect them. If anyone found out about Richard’s pregnancy they would take the babies away from her, and that’s something she didn’t want to think about.
Richard would understand when he saw them for the first time. He would realize that motherhood is all about sacrifice -- the spider knew that. Using the last of her strength to deliver her brood into a suitable host, Margaret could never let her legacy fall.
The basement was warm and quiet and suitable for her needs. She dragged a spare mattress out onto the concrete floor and made a nest of bedding from the kid’s rooms. She found rope, a length of chain and a solid padlock in a box on the shelf. The preparations kept her busy until she heard Richard getting up and calling her.
“Down here, in the basement!” she hollered up the stairs.
“Whatcha doing down there? It’s
“I love you…” she whispered, stepping out of the shadows and hit Richard on the back of the head with a shovel. He grunted, stumbled forward and half-turned. She hit him again and he dropped to his knees, hand’s slapping on the concrete.
Margaret moved quickly, tossing the shovel aside she looped the chain around Richard’s wrists and ankles and cinched it tight with a padlock. The final length she ran around a support pillar and closed the loop with the last padlock.
Richard groaned, his chains clinking as he moved his arms to his head. “Doll…?” he slurred. “Ma head hurts…”
“It’s okay my darling…shush now…I’ll be right back.” Margaret retrieved the First Aid kit from the bathroom cupboard and came back. Richard was fully awake now and his eyes burned with murderous fury.
“What in the hell is this!?” He lifted his chained arms in an exaggerated shrug.
“It’s all for the children. We must keep them safe. Richard, darling, you have done a great job. But they need us to keep them safe. And that means you are on bed rest until they are ready to be born.”
Richard’s mouth opened and he stared at Margaret. “What the God damned hell are you talking about, woman? The kids are away at college. Both of them.” He bellowed out and yanked on the chains. They snapped their jaws but held, clinking and clattering against the concrete until his tantrum was spent.
“You must rest,” Margaret said calmly. “A stress-free pregnancy is best for mother and child.” She moved closer with her gentle touch, cleaned and dressed the cut that still bled profusely on the back of his head.
“Margaret, just let me go. We can talk to the doctor tomorrow. He’ll give you something to make you feel better. Then maybe we can take a vacation? Go over an’ see Tommy and Sarah at school. You’re always saying how much you miss them and I’m sure they would be glad to see us an-“
“No, all traveling should be restricted in the last trimester. Flying should certainly be avoided wherever possible.”
“Trimester? What in Sam Hill are you talking about!?”
Margaret smiled and finished bandaging Richard’s head. “Just relax my darling. I’ll get you some milk.”
Like many of her patients Richard came around to Margaret’s way of doing things. Perseverance and a firm hand always worked in her nursing career. He even said thank you when she moved the TV into the basement. She would have withheld his food and milk when he chose to be difficult, but it might harm the babies.
Margaret called Richard’s boss and the hospital, in tears she told them that her sister had fallen gravely ill and they would be out of state for the next month at least.
Three weeks passed and when Richard’s belly rippled and moved he stared at it in horror. Now his eyes were sunk deep into his cadaverous skull; the skin on his arms and face hung in loose flaps. He wheezed when he breathed and barely had the strength to plead with Margaret to call a doctor to get him help.
“Nonsense, darling, women have been giving birth forever. We don’t need to see a doctor, it is all perfectly natural,” Margaret reassured him and gently rubbed almond oil onto the distended ball of his abdomen.
Margaret was asleep when the labor had started. She woke to Richard’s shrill scream, a rough sharp hiss through raw pipes.
Dressing quickly Margaret gathered her birthing kit and headed down to the basement. Unsure how this birth would go, she had gathered supplies to cover almost every eventuality. She saw immediately that it wasn’t going to be necessary; the babies were making their own way into the world.
Richard now only whined; his voice was too weak to scream. The flesh above his navel, smooth and soft from the regular applications of almond oil, rose to a dulled point. Something pressed against it from within, then a single drop of blood welled at the tip. A black, spindly pincer claw pierced the skin and pushed hard against the containing wall of flesh. It folded down across hiss belly. Finding solid purchase a second spider leg pushed out through the widening incision and a baseball sized lump pushed outwards.
Richard fainted as the first of the babies pushed its way free. Margaret wept silent tears as each black spider body emerged, pushing through the flaps of his torn body to lie quivering and exhausted on his chest and crotch.
When all twelve of the newborns lay clustered together on Richard’s still form, Margaret crept forward and stroked his head; the last few strands of his hair sloughing off unnoticed under her hand.
“Oh Richard,” she said through a mask of ecstatic tears. “They are perfect, I am so proud of you. They are beautiful babies.”
The dilemma of what to feed Richard’s young offspring and how to dispose of his corpse resolved itself as the spiders ate his remains until only bones and teeth remained by the end of the week. After that Margaret bought bugs and worms from the local pet store.
*
Thomas Denver got off the bus and trudged through the snow towards home. Mom had been delighted when he had called to confirm his visit for Christmas. Sarah of course chose to spend the holiday season with her boyfriend’s family. Thomas had similar plans until he walked in on Kelly and Don Metcalf doing the wild thing on the floor of her dorm room only a week ago. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered. “I hope she gets the damn clap.”
The
He got the door open; the house was warm and dark. “Mom..? Dad?” The place smelled…warm; musty -- with a metallic tang to it. The light switch clicked up and down but the hallway stayed dark.
“Thomas?” Margaret’s voice came from the gloom.
“Mom? Are you okay? The lights’ aren’t working. Where’s Dad?
“They don’t like the light dear. I took out the globes. Close the door Thomas, you’re letting the heat out.”
Thomas shut the door behind him. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness and he saw Margaret standing in front of the open basement door.
“Mom, Hey…” Thomas came forward and hugged Margaret. She felt so thin in his arms. He could actually see how gaunt her face had become; only her eyes glittered with a manic life.
“Thomas. Darling, I’m so glad you are here. I have something wonderful to show you.”
“It’s good to be home and all, Mom, but where’s Dad?” The smell seemed stronger here; its source coming from below.
“He’s downstairs -- come and see.” Margaret took Thomas’ hand in one withered claw and tugged.
“Why aren’t the light’s working. It’s too dark down here, Mom.”
Thomas stumbled and grabbed the stair rail. Jerking his hand back as something sharp pressed against bare skin in a passing caress. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a Zippo, with a practiced flick he thumbed the wheel and a light flared, sending the shadows dancing and the darkness hissed and retreated.
She shrieked and knocked the lighter out of Thomas’ hand. It slid all the way across the cold, concrete floor; a wavering flame illuminating thick sheets of webbing that held a mismatched scattering of bones woven into the strands.
“Jesus!” Thomas hissed. Margaret’s skin was stretched over her protruding bones, her hair had fallen out in clumps and her eyes seemed to have caved into her skull. Puncture wounds marked her flesh in raised, purple welts.
“Thomas, I kept them alive until you came home. They are your flesh and blood, honey, your brothers and sisters! Now you can give me what I want most in the entire world…Grandchildren, Thomas! Give me grandchildren...!”
*
Norman Rubin - March Macabre
March Macabre
Norman Rubin
Within a mission hospital along the fringe of the Amazon basin, an unnamed peon in the middle years lay in agony on the white of his bed. He was swathed in bandages around his limbs and upper body; his mutilated face covered in soothing medicinal lotion.
"The ants, they're coming, they're eating me, save me, save me," he cried out, followed by an agonized scream. Over and again he had called out until the weariness of his emaciated body reduced his cries to a hoarse whisper. Two nursing nuns, tending to his wounds, tried patiently to calm his fears.
"Madre Mia, I will never forget the horror of that day!" he cried in the slur of his tongue. The good nuns administered the balm of prayer and understanding to the poor soul. They heard his words and slowly pieced together his tale of tragedy...
“The mid-summer day was hot and humid along the lands bordering the mighty and swift flowing Amazon River. Heavy rains had fallen the previous night making footfalls through the jungle the following day treacherous to the point of danger. But still another danger lurked. The sound of a soft marching tread and the tearing of the leafy plants broke the quiet of the jungle. Army ants were again on the march; their queen had laid her eggs and the horde was on the move to set up a new colony.
“The burning sun broke through the thick leafy foliage covering shining upon a legion of large sized army ants. The line of the march was nearly a eighth of mile in length with a troop of twenty million tramping on their long, spindly razor-like legs.
“Scores of dark brown driver ants with saw toothed jaws slashed through flower and leaf, devouring everything in their path. Other legionary ants with sickle shaped jaws killed all insects and small animals that were in their path, the remains to be devoured by the horde.
“The speed of the ants was swift and deadly, overwhelming to both man and beast. The legions traveled at an amazing rate destroying everything in their path. A metallic, dark-reddish luster gleamed on their thoraxes as they raced ahead with their protected queen in the center, together with worker ants, the carriers of the newly hatched young.
Black soldier ants were bridging along the column tapping with their antennas the tempo of the march; they tapped the worker ants, both the bearers and laborers, to the direction of the advancing pace that made its way through hollow logs and underbrush.
“The Amazonian basin was alive with the sound of warning calls of the furred and feathered while the rain forest drummed to the sound of their frenzied movements. The monkeys swung in haste through the wide branches of the red cedars, the capybara and tapir rushed for safety to the palm and mango groves; the anteater feared their powerful stings as his long claws cluttered along the leafy carpet. The anaconda slithered along the damp humus away from the destructive horde while toucans, hummingbirds and parrots fluttered through the purplish flowers of the jacaranda trees in their winged flight.
“Skin-taut drums beat out a signal of danger to man; escape was the word felt by all. Yet there was no escape for our small settlement of landholders along the swift flow of the piranha filled Amazon River. Spring floods had swollen the river making passage to the safety of the opposite shore impossible. The frail boats of the community were smashed through by the surge of the swift flow. Trails through the jungle growth were equally impassable by the muddy morass. Our small farms, burnt out of the jungle, were traps with no possible route of escape.
“Panic ensued amongst our small group of farmers as we gathered at the ramshackle hut of our headman. We were few in numbers, totaling nineteen in all. Survivors of a promise by the government of free land in the interior of the jungle basin; we came with our families and settled on the few acres of so-called farm land hacked from the jungle.
Now, after a few years our bodies were sucked dry by never ending toil; our faces were etched with the trying misery of our lives. Our once youthful bodies clad in dirty white pantaloons and shirts were emaciated and bent under our tiring burden. Whether they called us Juan or Pablo, we were more or less identical in our appearance from our straw sandals to our wide sombreros.
“We had come from the slums of the Favellas with a dream of being a patron of a large estate centered with a grand hacienda: Indian peons would work our wide acreage and cater to our needs. But the dreams together with the official promise were shattered when we were shipped off to a godforsaken clearing of the jungle along the Amazon.
The cleared area was interspersed with a few ramshackle huts that at one time belonged to another group of the disappointed; ones that abandoned their dreams and either disappeared in the jungle interior or returned to miseries of unwelcoming coastal cities.
“The few miserable acres that were cleared of brush and wood did not yield abundantly to our labors, as the so-called soil was nothing but a compacted covering of damp vegetation. We hungrily ate small rations freighted to the settlement, but we were ignorant of the bounty of fruits and nuts in the nearby jungle growth. We suffered in malarial fevers where the cure was in the brew of the coca plants in abundance. Only Father Death reaped a bountiful harvest as he scythed the innocent children of the community.
“Time and time again we endured the march of the army ants that destroyed our crops and flocks leaving us destitute. Yet, if we had taken wise council from the disappearing Indian tribes then we could have learned how to co-exist with the creatures. Instead we put the blame of this so-called curse to the attention of the deafened officials. "Where was the promised help of the government," we called out, facing another onslaught from the legions.”
The peon groaned in the agony of his wounds as he continued to splutter his woeful story to the attentive nursing nuns…
“Compadres, be still,” called the graying leader. Jose da Silva was his birth name; a name blessed for a promising child, now only a mark for a disillusive elder. His near emaciated features told of his trying life with the miseries inflicted by the ravages of nature in this inhospitable land. He stood tall in the shortness of white clad thin body as he raised a shaking hand in order to quiet his agitated neighbors.
“Those bastardos in the ministry would not help us! Free land! Free misery and troubles are all we got from their promises. Now again we face ruin from the driver ants. FOLLAR! This time those devils will not destroy us. We will fight them and drive them to hell. With the help of God almighty we will win the coming battle!” He called to the small crowd.
“A weak cheer was roused by the gathered group, one that spoke in the tone of doubt. We made the sign of the cross and from tired lips words of prayer were issued, "Speak," we called out in unison. Silence then followed as we waited to hear the words of their leader.
“Jose da Silva carefully outlined his plans of our defense against the marching destruction of the legion ants. "My house and outhouses are closest to the river so we’ll be able to dig a wide and deep trench around the area connecting it to the waters. Then we will fill the ditch with the blessed waters." da Silva told of the need of ready torches to burn any ants that try to swarm across the water.
"Gather your wives and children, bring your pigs and goats and bring them quickly to the outlined area."
“The words of the wounded creature told how the group of farmers accepted the plans of da Silva and they rushed to their individual homesteads to gather their families and livestock. It was in the air of near panic with the sound of screaming adults and crying children, mixed with the squealing of livestock and the cackle of poultry. Yet, he related, that within a short period of time we would see the safety of our families and the farm stock."
"We worked like devils as we bent our backs in digging the trench. Hours and hours we toiled, desperate in our task. There were no complaints as we sweated in the heat of the sun; our women slaked our thirst with pitchers of cool water. The others took a hand with the digging when there was a need.”
The exhausted peon talked in gasped breaths of how the brush was burned near the completed trench; gasoline soaked rags were bound carefully to long green sticks. The woman prepared food and arranged bundles of rations for the coming day on the branches of the hardwoods.
“All was ready as da Silva inspected the work of our labors. "Bueno, bueno!" he exclaimed. Then he went to the bank of the Amazon River and with sweep of a plunging shovel broke open the small blocking earth dam at one end; a signal by him saw the opening of the other end. He watched in satisfaction as the waters poured and circled through the wide and deep trench,”
His voice broke out in sobs as he continued. “We had little rest the following night as we took turns in watch. Brush fires had been lit when any noise was heard that could herald the arrival of the army ants, but the night was still. The following morning was eerily silent; even our bambinos were stilled in their crying. We heard a loud slithering sound rushing through the jungle growth. Slowly the legion insects made their appearance on the cleared burnt land near the trenches. Hundreds of them slowly gathered in front of the trenches, a sight that sent shivers and terror through us.
"Then at the signal of da Silva, we lit a few of our torches and, with the flaming sticks, we roasted the front ranks of the horde. But the more we destroyed, the more their numbers were replaced. The driver ants carried cut flowers and leaves and tried to float through the water in our trench but the current was too swift for them. We cheered on as we thought we had stopped their march, but alas…we were wrong.
"We watched the commanders of the troop wave their antennas as they tapped a retreat to their army. Scouts of ants circled the trench and searched for a way; for hours they moved about with their antennas waving signals. Soon, the flow of the water slowed in the eddy of its flow.
"Puta!” It was the Queen of the Waters that defeated us. The bitchy Amazon blocked the flow of water with debris of all sorts and created a wide bridge to the entrance of the trench, which the army ants were able to cross. Brave da Silva with two flaming torches ran to clear the blockage. As the flames died, the ants he battled with had moved a spade to climb the blocking debris. But the sting of the legion myriad drove him back. As he worked a scream rendered through the mist of the morning air.
“da Silva turned and saw his wife Maria, the guardian of our children, flee from the hut that was reserved as a fortress for the little ones. Her exposed face was covered with ants that were biting her skin to the white of her bones. She ran screaming to the riverfront and sacrificed herself to the flesh-eating piranhas of the Amazon waters. Three compadres turned their heels from the trench and scurried to the haven for the little ones.
Horror greeted their eyes when they saw driver ants by the thousands making meal of squirming little bodies; bodies that once resembled those of our beloved children. At last, a flaming torch thrown through a window quickly ended the suffering of our dear babies as it was the only compassionate thing to do at that point.
"The flames from the burning hut were noticed by the rest of the settlement. In horror we desisted from our laboring fight against the horde of army ants. Panic broke among our ranks as the legions feasted on us now too. Our limbs twitched and tried valiantly to swat off the onslaught, but to no avail. Then one by one the peons and their women ran to the banks and plunged into the mighty Amazon River. Schools of devilfish swarmed around the screaming multitude as they tried to float on broken planks to the opposite bank; the piranhas turned living flesh to whitened bones."
*
“The march macabre of millions of mandibles massacred man and mammal alike as the ranks of humans dwindled. I lost much on that day; more than I can speak of in words. Many years have passed and a new life for me has begun. But here with a new family in a new village, I can see the familiar rains of the Amazon ominously starting a trend of downpours again, awaking the savage, miniature demons from their slumber… this time I will be prepared, we will be prepared for the next invasion. I can just sense it coming any day now…and the battle is soon to begin all over again.”
*
Norm Rubin is no stranger to SNM with 2 previous published works dating all the way back to our second issue in June 2008. He is former correspondent for the Continental News Service (USA) now retired, but he still rocks! Email him comments. He does not have a website, but he's a nice guy who comes all the way from Israel! He's been around the block and still writing!
normrub2000@gmail.com
Norman A. Rubin
