SNM Horror Magazine

*Page to read the current July Issue 2 of SNM Mag.

*We publish a new issue every month on the 1st of the month. We are here on behalf of the interest of the writers to promote them on a consistent basis. We will feature 8 new short stories every month. Thank you and enjoy the July issue of SNM MAG.

                                   Theme: 

   Big shocker twist endings that you never saw coming.

Dr. Spindle's House - Brett Graham / SOTM!

Grave Offerings - Daniel Fabiani / 2nd Place

The Voice Within - Stephen Roberts

Fertile Grounds - Shells Walter

                                    SEE ISSUE BELOW

DR. SPINDLE’S HOUSE

Brett Matthew Graham

           I'm awakened in the middle of the night by Mr. Peterson’s screams. It's been the same thing every night for the past three days. He wanders up and down the hallway, banging on the walls and screaming "Why won't Dr. Spindle fix my face!" Over and over he screams this. Nurse Carlie tries to calm him the same way she always does by telling him that Dr. Spindle is very busy with other patients and will be with him as soon as possible. His raving soon turns to sobbing, then silence.

           I roll over in bed pulling the sheets up to what's left of my chin. It is now my tenth day here and I've still not met Dr. Spindle. I don't even know what the man looks like.

          Here, the mornings are vague. It always seems to be cloudy, but there’s no rain, like the clouds forgot how. The sparse sunlight only illuminates my room to the extent of a candle; a hazy orange glow. I sit up in bed and stretch, trying to stifle a yawn because it hurts my face. I step into my slippers and head into the bathroom to brush what's left of my teeth.

          The mirror above the sink is broken, apparently from a blow to the center of it, with spider web-like cracks stretching to its borders. I just assumed this was done by a previous patient. Nevertheless, my reflection is but a kaleidoscope of horrid disfigurement.

          I put on my bathrobe and head downstairs for breakfast. We eat in the dining room, seated at a large oak table and served by Nurse Carlie. This is not a hospital, mind you, but a house of convalescence. Located on the edge of nowhere, it is completely secluded. We've come here to seek out Dr. Spindle. He is the only one that can help us.

          I am the first one seated. Shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Milford arrive, followed by Mr. Adell, and lastly, Mr. Peterson. Everyone quietly takes their seats and stares at the table, waiting for Nurse Carlie.

          We each sit with two chairs between us, even Mr. and Mrs. Milford. A horrible car crash left them both so disfigured, they can't stand to look at each other anymore. Mr. Adell was mauled by a bear during a hunting expedition. Mr. Peterson was brutally beaten during a mugging. I was in a fire...     

         I'm the only one who looks up when Nurse Carlie enters the room. She looks to be in her early twenties, with long black hair and alabaster skin. She is truly a remarkable beauty, with no flaws at all in her delicate facial structure. She's wheeling a cart, on top of which sits multiple plates of eggs, bacon, hash browns and glasses of orange juice. Although Dr. Spindle has thus far ignored our presence, he makes sure we are well taken care of.

          When Nurse Carlie approaches me, I look away. I can't even bare to look at myself and I wouldn't want anyone else to shoulder such a burden. Instead, I look to the people around me.

          Mr. Milford gives her a brief smile, but he's missing his left cheek, so it always looks like he's smiling. Mrs. Milford is missing skin from her brow to her scalp, but her scowl is undeniable. It's obvious she's jealous of Nurse Carlie's beauty. Mr. Adell's face is a shredded mess of scar tissue and his left eye is missing. He closes his right eye, presumably to avoid Nurse Carlie just as I have. Despite his crushed eye socket and shattered jaw, Mr. Peterson seems to be the most confident of us all, or at least the most outspoken. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

          "I'm not eating another bite until I see Dr. Spindle," he states with conviction.

          "Now, Mr. Peterson," Nurse Carlie says warmly. "You have to eat to keep up your strength. For your surgery."

          "What surgery? I am currently under the impression that there won't be any surgery. I've been here for god knows how long and haven't even received a consultation yet."

          "I know it's been a long wait, Mr. Peterson, but Dr. Spindle has many patients to attend to. He's only one man."

          "Yeah? Well so am I. I'm only one man. I'm only one, horribly disfigured man and I paid for results, of which I have yet to see."

          "Now, Mr. Peterson."

          "Don't you Mr. Peterson me, young lady! I want to see Dr. Spindle! And until I do, I'm going on a hunger strike!"

          I look up from my eggs. "Mr. Peterson. Please calm yourself. If Nurse Carlie says he's busy, then he must be busy. Please be patient."

          "Be patient?” he asks, incredulous. “Be patient? I am a patient! And I want to see my doctor!" Mr. Peterson slams his fist on the table, jolting our breakfast about with a quick shudder of silverware and porcelain.

          Nurse Carlie sighs. "If that's your wish, Mr. Peterson. I will do my best to arrange a meeting."

          Mr. Peterson slowly calms at her words. He relaxes his posture, but keeps his arms crossed, intent on starving himself. Nurse Carlie gives him a look of genuine remorse then puts his plate back on her cart and wheels it into the kitchen. I hear Mrs. Milford  mutter "She thinks she's so great."

          Back in my room, I stare out the window at the west wing of the house. I see an obese woman in a nurse's uniform carrying a tray filled with cups of pudding. She exits from the front door then makes her way to the back of the house. I've seen this before; a few days ago and a few days before that, always just after breakfast. I catch a brief glimpse of my reflection in the window pane and have to avert my gaze. I do hope Dr. Spindle sees us soon.

          I watch night arrive by staring at the wall for hours. It slowly dims until it's gone. I decide to light a candle and stare at it instead. I never developed a fear of fire after my accident like so many other burn victims have. Instead, I appreciate it. I know its power. It can start as the fingernail on the tip of a candle then quickly transform into this vastly uncontrollable beast that devours everything: homes, belongings, sentimental things…even family.

          I'm startled from my trance by Mr. Peterson's screams. He's starting earlier now. I hear Nurse Carlie trying to console him, trying to tell him it'll be alright. A loud thump prompts me to run out into the hall. I see Nurse Carlie on the floor, dazed with Mr. Peterson standing over her. Without thinking, I charge him, shoving him away and helping Nurse Carlie to her feet. There's a brief moment when she looks into my eyes. She doesn't look at my face at all, just my eyes and whispers, "Thank you."

          I look to Mr. Peterson down the hall. He blankly stares at the floor, apologizing profusely. I tell him to go back to his room and he does. I quickly turn away from Nurse Carlie and re-enter my room. My candle still flickers. With one breath, it's gone and I go to sleep.

          The next morning I leap out of my bed. I could've sworn I felt something crawling up my leg but, after a considerable examination of my bed sheets, I found it to be nothing. Regardless, I am awake earlier than usual. It's just before sunrise, even though the sun never really rises around here. I walk to my window and peek out at the vast landscape. It's a flat, dark green field as far as the eye can see. No trees, no birds; a field of nothing, stretching across a barren horizon.

          I turn my attention to the west wing. I watch the faded sun slowly color its dull grey exterior into a dim orange. Then I notice something. There's a girl sitting at one of the windows. She's in a wheelchair and, inexplicably, she looks exactly like Nurse Carlie. I lean as close to my window as I can, squinting and trying to see what she's doing.

         The girl just sits there, touching her face and apparently talking to herself since her mouth moves constantly and I can see no one else in the room. I stare at her for hours, trying to focus on her lips, trying to figure out what she's saying. She speaks in a rhythm. It almost seems like she's saying the same thing over and over. Then suddenly, someone grabs the handles of her wheelchair and pulls her away from the window, out of my sight.

          At breakfast everyone is stealing glances at Mr. Peterson. Some, I imagine, are curious to see how he is going to approach Nurse Carlie after last night's altercation. Others are probably curious to know how his hunger strike is going.

          Suddenly Mr. Milford jumps up from his chair. He's frantically swatting at his lap and when I ask him what's wrong, he just gives me a confused look. He brushes his hand over his arm a few times then returns to his seat.

          The kitchen doors swing open and there's Nurse Carlie, looking as beautiful as ever. She wheels her cart around, doling out plates of pancakes, oatmeal and glasses of milk. When she approaches Mr. Peterson, she timidly asks him if he would like to eat today and he simply shakes his head no. She sighs and wheels her cart back into the kitchen.

          We sit and eat in near silence, save for the sound of Mr. Milford awkwardly trying to chew his food with a missing cheek and Mr. Adell's misguided attempts to stab at his pancakes with only one eye to guide him. Mrs. Milford just stares at the kitchen door, no doubt seething from another day of looking at someone so much more aesthetically appealing than herself.

          Mr. Peterson lets out a brief laugh. "Just look at all of you. Obediently consuming your meals. Like dogs in a kennel. You think Dr. Spindle will agree to see any of you? Ha! He'll see me before anybody because I'm taking a stand here. Day two of my hunger strike and I'm not even hungry."

          I calmly set down my fork and look up at him. "Surely, you must want something to eat."

          Mr. Peterson crosses his arms. "Nope. Not a single thing. I tell you I’m completely fine. We'll see who waits who out in this situation. You'll thank me later. I'm drawing attention to the east wing while the talented and incomparable Dr. Spindle busies himself with the west wing. He'll be here before you know it. Just you wait and see."

          "Well, Mr. Peterson, that's all we really can do, isn't it?"

          When I go back to my room, I catch Nurse Carlie there. She has her back to me, fiddling with something on my nightstand. I stand in the doorway, patiently waiting for her to finish. She turns with a start, placing a hand on her chest.

          "Oh, dear. I am so sorry, Mr. Philips. I thought you would still be downstairs.”

          "That's quite alright,” I reply. “I know you have many things to attend to around here."

          "Well, yes I do, but that's not why I came up here." Nurse Carlie averts her eyes and steps away from my nightstand, revealing a bouquet of flowers. I don’t know how to respond, so I stand in an awkward silence that Nurse Carlie mercifully breaks.

          "I just wanted to thank you for last night. No one's ever...no one has ever shown me such kindness."

          "I may very well share the appearance of a monster, but not the mentality."

          Nurse Carlie shakes her head. "Please. Don't say such things about yourself."

          I stare at the floor, ashamed of my open display of self loathing. "I'm sorry. I just feel...You're very...No one has ever shown me such kindness, either. Especially after my accident. I was just returning the favor."

          "Well I want you to know that I appreciate it very much. Please enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Philips."

          I look up at her and smile. "Call me Howard."

         Nurse Carlie bows her head and softly whispers, "Howard." She shuffles past me toward the door.

          "Excuse me, Nurse Carlie."  

          She quickly turns with a surprising look of expectance.

          "Yes?"

          "Do you...have a sister?"

          She suddenly looks nervous, so I feel the need to validate my inquiry.

          "It's just that...I saw a girl this morning. In a window of the west wing. She shared a striking resemblance to you."

          Nurse Carlie starts tugging at the bottom of her uniform.

          "You shouldn't look over there."

          "Why?"

          "It's just...The others patients have a right to their privacy. I'm sure you understand."

          "But she just looked so much like --"

          "-- Good day, Mr. Philips." Nurse Carlie abruptly exits, but still somehow manages to gently close the door.

          "Call me Howard," I say to myself.

          I pick up the flowers and try to smell them. The fire caused significant damage to my olfactory senses, but I'm sure they smell very nice.

          Now I will admit that I was surprised at Mr. Peterson's willpower this morning. This is day three for him and he still hasn't touched his breakfast. I also noticed that Mr. Adell only ate half of his. I think Mr. Peterson is having an effect on him.

          Back in my room, I stare out the window waiting for what I am sure is going to happen. And sure enough, it does. The same obese woman, wearing the same nurse's uniform, walks to the back of the house carrying a tray full of pudding cups. They must have a different system over in the west wing.

          I suddenly feel something crawling on the back of my neck and swat at it. I pull my hand away, expecting to see something dead in my palm, but there is nothing. I run my hand over the spot and check one more time. Still nothing.

          The rest of my day is the same as when I first came here; I stare at the wall, waiting for night to turn into day, hoping that Dr. Spindle will see at least one of us. I hold out no hope of being the first, since I was the last one of my group to arrive here.

          And I wonder about the girl in the window, the one that could pass for Nurse Carlie's twin. Did Dr. Spindle treat her as well? Is she a patient here? I only saw her on the morning when I awoke before sunrise. I’ll do my best to awaken early once more to further confirm my suspicions. I feel a tinge of guilt, however, for it is against Nurse Carlie's wishes. But I have to know.

          My dreams are the same as they've always been; a barrage of images and sounds, fire and screams. They swirl and intertwine, forming a hellish nightmare that I have to accept because it's not just a nightmare…it's a memory.      

          I'm jolted from my sleep by screams. I let out an agitated sigh and throw off my bed sheets. Mr. Peterson is at it again. Now in the hall, I'm surprised to see that it's Mr. Milford causing the disturbance. Nurse Carlie is already at his side, trying to calm him, but he keeps swatting at his bathrobe and shouting, "they're all over me!" After a moment, Mr. Milford finally calms himself and Nurse Carlie leads him back to his room. I go back to mine as well, only now realizing that I've been rubbing my neck the entire time.

          I'm awake before sunrise, fixed at the window and waiting for her. I see the curtains moving, and once they're drawn, I see the obese nurse. She's only visible for a moment before she's gone and the girl is then wheeled to the window.

         Once again, she is touching her face and repeating the same thing over and over. The fire in no way damaged my eyesight, so I know what I'm looking at and the girl is a spitting image of Nurse Carlie. I watch her until the sun rises, then she's gone.

          At breakfast, there's a commotion. Mr. Milford is nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Milford doesn't seem to care at all, but Mr. Adell and Mr. Peterson are locked in speculation.

          "He was acting strangely last night," Mr. Adell recalls. "Kept saying something was on him."

          Mr. Peterson sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, a crooked smile on his broken face.

         "I know exactly what happened to him. It's because of me."

          "Whatever do you mean?" Mr. Adell asks.

          Mr. Peterson nods to the kitchen door.

          "You'll see."

          Seconds later, the kitchen door swings open and Nurse Carlie wheels in her cart. Mr. Peterson calls out to her before she can even reach our table.

          "I know where Mr. Milford is."

          Nurse Carlie briefly looks up from her cart then quickly averted her eyes after seeing that we were all looking at her.

          "You do?" she asks timidly.

          "Yes," Mr. Peterson says proudly. "Yes I do. Dr. Spindle came to fetch him last night, didn't he?"

          Nurse Carlie answers while staring at her cart.

          "Um...Yes. Yes he did."

          "I knew it!" Mr. Peterson exclaims. "It's because of my hunger strike, I tell you. He's finally taken notice of us!"

          As Nurse Carlie hands out our breakfast plates, Mr. Peterson prattles on.

          "I must admit, I'm a little annoyed that he came for Mr. Milford first, seeing as I'm the one who initiated the hunger strike, but I suppose he was here longer than me. I'll wait my turn.Let me assure you all, we'll each have our turn and it's all thanks to me!"

          I see Nurse Carlie's hand as she lowers my plate to the table. She's shaking. When she approaches Mr. Peterson, he keeps his arms crossed.

          "No thank you. If I'm to keep this situation swayed in our favor, I must remain strong. Besides, I'm not even hungry."

          "Please eat, Mr. Peterson," Nurse Carlie pleads. "Please."

          "Absolutely not."

          I shake my head and Mr. Peterson notices.

          "Oh, you can shake your head all you want, my dear boy, but you'll thank me in the end. You will all thank me."

           In my room, I try to smell Nurse Carlie's flowers once again. Still nothing. I try to remember what flowers smell like so I can enjoy them, but even the memory is scentless. The last thing I remember smelling was the acrid smoke. Sometimes I think I can still smell it. That suffocating aroma. It was the last thing Howard Philips smelled before he became this...thing.

          I walk into the bathroom and stare at my reflection within the cracked mirror. My skin is stretched and leathery; pure scar tissue. I have no hair, not even eyelashes. The fire caused significant damage to my nerves, so my left eyelid droops lower than the right. The same is true of my mouth. I look like a melted candle.

          The mirror is web-cracked, showcasing various segments of my deformity, each one a blatant reminder that I am no longer human. I remember the first time my friends came to visit me. I still had the bandages on, so they only saw good old Howard covered in white gauze. I had just lost my wife and daughter and was in the midst of a devastating depression, but eventually they brought me out of it.

          After months and months of visits, I started to feel better. They were there everyday for hours, talking and laughing and bringing me gifts. Until the bandages came off…

          I remember hearing them in the hall as they approached my room, laughing and in high spirits. They had no idea what they were about to walk into. In the doorway, everyone froze.

        Their smiles were replaced with blank expressions of restrained disgust. Their voices cracked as they spoke to me. They only stayed for an uncomfortable fifteen minutes then rushed away, never again to return. And just like that, I had no one. I was all alone.

          I stare into the cracked mirror now, that all-too-familiar rage filling me to the brim. Without even thinking, I punch the mirror, jarring a piece loose. It falls to the floor and when I look down, I cannot see it. I crouch and check behind the toilet, under the bath tub, but it's nowhere in sight. I stand and look into the mirror once again, focusing on that one little piece that's missing.

          At breakfast, everyone sits in our usual silence, looking at our tables and waiting to be fed. That is, everyone but Mr. Peterson. He sits with his arms crossed, his chin raised with pride.

          "Are you all as excited about today as I am?" he asks.

          I see Mrs. Milford give her trademark sneer. Mr. Adell gives a subtle nod and what I assume to be a smile. We can hear Nurse Carlie's voice in the kitchen, organizing our plates. Everyone except Mr. Peterson lowers their heads and waits.

          The kitchen door swings open and Nurse Carlie enters, pushing a cart. No sooner than she reaches the table, Mr. Peterson is speaking.

          "Nurse Carlie. I wated to ask you how Mr. Milford is doing."

          "He's fine," she answers with her head down. "Just fine." Her face turns an embarrassed red.

          "So Dr. Spindle is taking good care of him then?"

          "Yes."

          "How does he look?" Mr. Peterson asks.

          Suddenly, Nurse Carlie's face turns from an embarrassed red to a frightened white.

          "I don't know," she answers in a voice that sounds choked.

          Nurse Carlie quickly hands out our plates then rushes her cart into the kitchen. The clanking of silverware soon fills the room as everyone commences with their breakfast. That is, everyone but Mr. Peterson and I. Mr. Peterson sits in a proud silence, arms crossed and smiling. I just stare at the kitchen door as it is still slowly closing. I know Nurse Carlie is hiding something.

          After breakfast, I do something I've never done before. I walk into the kitchen. Nurse Carlie is wearing a hairnet, smock and rubber gloves. She scrubs the dishes with her back to me, oblivious to my presence, until I speak her name. She turns with a slight gasp and is noticeably shaken.

          "I'm sorry, Nurse Carlie. I didn't mean to frighten you."

          She sighs and smiles. "Please. Just call me Carlie. If I'm allowed to call you Howard, it's only fair."

          "Okay,” I briefly smile before responding, “Carlie." Her name seems so much more beautiful without her occupational title.

          "What can I help you with?" Carlie asks.

          "I saw that girl again."

          I can see Carlie's face turning red.

          "What girl?"

          "You know what girl. The one that looks exactly like you."

          "I kindly asked you not to --"

          "Another nurse wheels her to the window at sunrise, but she doesn't seem to notice. She seems to be in a daze."

          "I...I wouldn't know how the patients are handled over in the west wing."

          "And why is that?" I ask, taking a step towards her, pressing her for the truth.

          "I...I'm not allowed over there."

          "What do you mean? You're a nurse. Shouldn't you have access to everything?"

          "Nurse Farmer handles the west wing. I handle the east."

          "Is that her name? Nurse Farmer?"

          "Yes,” Carlie replies, avoiding my scrutinizing stare. “Now will you please go?"

          "What happened to your sister?"

          "My sister?"

          "The one in the window."

          "She...Had an accident. I don't want to talk about it."

          "Okay. Then will you talk about what really happened to Mr. Milford?"

          "Dr. Spindle came to see him. He's probably prepping him for surgery this very moment."

          "You and I both know that's not true."  

          I feel something crawling on the back of my neck and swat at it. I check my hand and there's nothing there. Then I feel something on my lower back and tug at my shirt to shake it out, but nothing falls. I look to Nurse Carlie, confused. She gently places her hand to her chest, a look of remorse on her face.

          "No," she says under her breath. "Not you, too."        

         "What? What about me?" I feel something on my leg and pull up my pants to see what it is. My legs are completely bare, but I can distinctly feel something crawling on them. I rub them vigorously, trying to make it stop, but it won't. I look at Carlie, lost and desperate.

          "What's wrong with me?"

          "I'm sorry, Howard," Carlie says with tears forming in her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

          "Sorry for what?" I continue rubbing at my leg, but something is definitely still there. I feel more of the same on my spine, heading upwards toward my neck. My breathing hastens. I begin to shake. Carlie just stands there looking terrified. I lunge at her, grabbing her by the shoulders.

          "Please help me!"

          Tears stream down her cheeks. She tries to speak, but it only comes out as a choked gasp. She hugs me tightly, squeezing me so hard I almost forget about the crawling…Almost.

          "I will tell you," she sobs into my chest. "I'll tell you everything."

          We go up to my room and Carlie asks me to sit on the bed. She paces back and forth, wringing her hands nervously and taking deep breaths.

          "I don't know quite how to say this," she says, a pained look corrupting her beautiful face. "And I don't know how to make you understand…"

          "Just say it. Just tell me."

          Carlie walks to the window and presses her hand to the glass.

          "What's your earliest memory of arriving here?"

          "I came here and..." I try to think back. "I came here and you showed me to my room."

          "That's it?"

          "I think so. Yes."

          "You don't remember meeting Dr. Spindle?"

          "I've never met Dr. Spindle."

          Carlie turns away from the window. She walks over to the bed and sits beside me, taking my hands in hers.

          "Yes, Howard. I'm afraid you have."

          The revelations that Carlie tells me in the following hour both frighten and confuse me. She tells me that not only have I met Dr. Spindle, but I've already had my surgery. When I touch my disfigured face in protest, Carlie explains that the surgery wasn't on the outside. It was on the inside.

          Dr. Spindle believed that people who have had cosmetic surgery is not because they wanted to look like someone else, but because they wanted to be someone else. He believed you could remove the part that perceived imperfection, thereby creating a person that not only saw themselves as beautiful, but everyone around them as well.

          I sit and stare at Carlie. My entire body tenses up because I already know the answer to the question I'm about to ask.

          "Why are you speaking of Dr. Spindle in the past tense?"

          Carlie looks into my eyes, her beautiful face nearly calming me until she speaks.

          "Because he's dead. He's been dead for months."

          I stand up from the bed. "Then why are you keeping us here?"

          "I'm not keeping you here, Howard. It's not me."

          I shake my head. "This is insane. I'm leaving."

          I walk toward the door. Carlie runs to me and grabs my hand.

          "You can't leave, Howard."

          "Why not? You told me that I've already had my surgery, even though I don't look or feel any better. You've told me that my doctor is dead. There's no reason for me to stay."

          I try to turn back to the door. Carlie's grip tightens.

          "You can't leave, Howard."

          "Why not!" I shout.

          "Because...you're the imperfection; the piece Dr. Spindle cut out of you…"

          "You...You're talking nonsense...None of this makes any sense. I want to speak to Nurse Farmer. Maybe the people in the west wing know what's going on."

          "There is no west wing. There is only Dr. Spindle's house. What you see out the window, what you think is the west wing...that's all there really is; a mirror reflection"

          "Then where are we?"

          Carlie turns from me and walks over to my nightstand. She picks up the flowers and stares down at them as she speaks.

          "This place...is where the imperfections go. None of it is real."

          Carlie holds the vase high above her head. "None of it." Carlie drops the vase to the floor. It shatters, dispersing water and roses everywhere.

          I laugh, pointing to the mess. "Not real, huh?" I crouch and pick up a single rose. I carry it to Carlie, holding it in my open palm for her to see.

Looking into her eyes, I see her staring at the rose with a look of remorse. When I follow her eyes down to my hand, the rose is gone. I jump back, searching the floor. The entire mess has disappeared.

          Carlie takes my hand. "Come. I want to show you my room."

          Carlie leads me downstairs, toward the front door. She stops and gently places her hands on my shoulders.

          "Now there's going to be a moment of darkness, but don't be afraid."

          I nod in understanding, even though I don't. Even more so, I'm lying. I’m afraid.

          A moment of darkness and we're standing in a room that looks like every room in the house. The only difference is the girl in the wheelchair; the girl from the window.

          We walk around to the front of her. A giant scar cuts across her forehead. She sits with a blank stare, touching her face and mumbling something over and over. I lean in close to hear what it is.

          "I'm...Perfect...I'm...Perfect..." Over and over, the same thing.

          I look to Carlie. "This...This is supposed to be you?"

          Carlie nods. I shake my head in disgust. "What kind of surgery is this? This hasn't done anything but turn you into a zombie."

          "Yes, I know. Dr. Spindle's theory was only that: a theory. It was purely experimental."

          I look from the girl in the chair to Carlie. They look exactly the same. Completely identical beauties.

          "Well then why did you even come here? You don't have any disfigurements. You didn't need surgery."

          "It wasn't by choice."

          "You were forced?"

          "Dr. Spindle knew his work would be misunderstood. He knew it would be decades before anyone would even take him seriously. And with his age and health, he knew he wouldn't be around to see it come to fruition."

          Carlie walks around to the front of herself, crouching and staring into her own face.

          "He needed an heir. Someone to take over his work after he was gone. He wanted to pass it on to a son, but he only had a daughter."

          "No," I whisper in disbelief, shaking my head.

          "I'm afraid so. You see, Howard, I was his first. He thought he could cut out any imperfection. My imperfection was that I was his daughter and not his son."

          I‘m completely aghast! It‘s all too much…"This…this is sick. We have to get help."

          "There is no help for us, Howard. We're trapped here."

          "Like hell we are." Thus I walk around to the back of the girl's wheelchair. I try to grab the handles on the back, but my hand...it just passes through. I try again and again, watching in terror as my hand suddenly turns transparent when it nears the wheelchair handles.

          "Oh my God," I whisper. "This can't be."

          Something begins to fill me. It’s the same thing I felt the first time I looked in the mirror after my accident. I knew then that I was forever changed. I knew there was no going back, that I was trapped in something hideous. People still called me Howard, but I wasn't him anymore. Howard Philips didn't die in that fire, he was just encased in the shell of a monster; the same way the monster was now trapped in the shell of this Godforsaken house.

          Carlie is on her knees now, staring at the floor. "I didn't know what to do. I was trapped and alone for so long. Then one day, Mr. and Mrs. Milford are there. They were confused and scared, just as I was. I didn't want anyone to know what I knew, for it was too horrid, too unspeakable. So I pretended to be your nurse."

          She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. "I just wanted to take care of you. All of you."

          I fight through the fear that's filling me and smile back at her. Caressing her face, I whisper "Dr. Spindle was wrong. You're already perfect."

          Suddenly, I feel something crawling on my neck again. I swat it and look at my palm to see nothing there. There's more crawling on my legs. On my spine. Everywhere.

          I fall to the floor, swatting everywhere on my body and scream, "help me! Please help me!"

          I stare up at Carlie, who is just as helpless as me. She clutches at her face; her eyes all wide with fear. Her screams match mine in a harmonious cry of terror. We scream so loudly, I think the windows are going to burst.

          But just as soon as the crawling came, it was gone. I lay on the floor, emitting panicked breaths. My entire body shudders with the aftermath of uncontrollable violation. I curl up into a fetal position, closing my eyes and hoping this is just some God-awful nightmare.

          I shriek when I suddenly feel hands on my shoulders. It's Carlie. She's crouching over me now, crying and whispering in my ear.

          "I wish he didn't put you down there."

          She helps me to my feet and leads me to the door. A moment of darkness and we're outside, facing the rear of the house. Facing the cellar door, Carlie leans into my ear and whispers again.

          "You have to know, Howard. I never wanted you to see this."

          Another moment of darkness and we're in the cellar. It is dark down here. The only lighting comes in the form of razor-thin streaks  from the cracks in the upstairs floorboards. Those lines illuminate the bodies of everyone in the house. We're sitting in chairs, donning blank stares and touching our faces. We're all muttering the same thing Carlie's body is muttering upstairs: "I'm…Perfect…I'm…”        

          I can see everyone except for Mr. Milford. He doesn't seem to be down here. I want to ask where he is, but I'm choked with fear and confusion. None of this makes any sense. I'm staring at myself in this cellar...I'm staring at myself in this cellar...I'm staring at myself...

          "He moved all of you down here after your surgery," Carlie tells me. "He didn't want any other potential patients to see you. But there were no more patients. Not after you, Howard."

          Carlie turns to face me. I only see a small portion of her face due to the sparse lighting.

          "I was his first. You were his last."

          "Then why are we still here?" I ask. "If Dr. Spindle is dead, why are we still here?"

          "Nurse Farmer was very loyal. She promised Dr. Spindle that she would take care of his patients for as long as necessary."

          I walk toward my body. I see that I'm dressed just like everyone else; a blue bathrobe and black slippers. It's like looking into a three- dimensional mirror, which makes me wonder what dimension I have entered in order to be able to see it. With a trembling hand, I reach out to touch my face, only to see my hand turn transparent and pass through. It is only then that the absolute truth of the situation crushes me into acceptance. I have been cut out of my own head. I am the imperfection that Dr. Spindle has chosen to eliminate.

          Suddenly, I hear the dull wooden creak of the cellar door. A bright light floods the room, illuminating everything I didn't want to know. Nurse Farmer has arrived, carrying her tray of pudding. In the outside light that she brought with her, I can now see the spider's nest. It is gigantic. It starts from the farthest corner of the cellar, stretching across the ceiling, shadowing the room's inhabitants with a crawling mess of tiny black creatures.

          And in this new light, I finally see Mr. Milford. He seems to be frozen in the same pose we've all adopted, only he's not speaking our continuous mantra. He's not speaking at all. I take a few steps closer and see that something is moving under his bathrobe, like a wave rippling through an ocean.

          Over and over this wave runs, reaching higher and higher up his body until I can see that same wave running up the flesh in his neck, toward his face. Mr. Milford's entire head starts to twitch and soon, spiders are spilling out of the hole in his cheek. They engulf his entire face, turning it a writhing black. I watch this horrid sight unfold while I listen as the rest of us muttering, "I'm...Perfect... I'm... Perfect..."

          The spiders crawl so frantically over his face, a few are knocked off and land on...me. It's then that I realize that my body is sitting right next to Mr. Milford's corpse. I watch the spiders crawl into my body's bathrobe, creating the same ripples, filling me with both an understanding of my condition and a complete helplessness to stop it.

          I turn to Nurse Farmer and scream "Get them off of me!" but she doesn't hear. Her eyes are a dull gray, underscored by dark, puffy bags. She looks as zombified as the rest of us.

          I watch her calmly place her tray of pudding on the floor. She walks to a far corner of the cellar and retrieves a long pole, on the end of which is a spoon. Nurse Farmer grabs the pole and dips the spoon into one of the pudding cups. She then extends it across the room, toward Mr. Peterson's face.

           Thus he continues chanting our mantra, slightly muffled, when the spoon enters his mouth. I suddenly realize why his hunger strike was so successful. He was still eating, whether he knew it or not.

          I look to Carlie with desperation, filling every cell in my being. I'm on the verge of a panic attack when I ask, “what can we do?” She slowly shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. I look back to my body. Everywhere I see a spider crawling, I can feel it.

          It could happen at any moment. The constant movement of my mouth as it repeats our mantra, my hand constantly stroking my face, even the slightest twitch could be perceived as a threat, any reason for the spiders to bite me.

          I watch as one of them crawls its way onto my chin, resting only centimeters from my mouth. It moves a little closer. I can feel the tickle of it, like the slightest tip of a feather, caressing in the deadliest of ways.

          Nurse Farmer dips her spoon into another cup of pudding and extends the long pole towards my face. I see the spoon shaking violently, not from her nervousness, but from the weight of the pole. Nurse Farmer has no reason to be nervous because she obviously doesn't care whether we live or die at this point. She more than likely hopes for the latter. When we're gone, her obligation to Dr. Spindle is over and she can finally leave this horrible place.

          As the spoon nears my mouth, the spider becomes aware. It completely freezes; its legs spread wide with two in the air. It's ready to defend itself. The spoon touches my bottom lip and I can see the spider momentarily disappear. Seconds later, it reappears back on top of the pudding as it enters my mouth. My body begins to smack its lips, sloppily consuming both the pudding and the spider.

          I close my eyes and wait for a stinging feeling in my mouth, but it never comes. I see my body swallowing and pray to God that the spider went down with it. I pray it's not still inside of my mouth, alive and agitated.

          I feel Carlie's hand on my shoulder and her breath in my ear when she whispers:

           "If I'm not there when you leave us, I want you to know that I will always remember you, Howard Philips."

          I close my eyes and let Carlie lead me to the cellar door. When I open it, I am back in my room and all alone. I walk to the window and stare out at the vast landscape, one that no doubt stretches to places where people are living actual lives. They wake up and go about their daily routines, taking so many things for granted. I know this because I used to take a lot of things for granted. My face. My family. My life. I took it all for granted until it was all taken from me.

          Now I wander the hallowed halls of Dr. Spindle's house, not necessarily a ghost because my body isn't dead. It sits in the cellar of this house, helpless and covered with spiders. I feel more and more crawling on me everyday, but I no longer fight them. I patiently wait for their merciful release.

          I drag myself to the bathroom and stare deeply into the kaleidoscopic mirror with every fragmented piece showcasing every section of my disfigured face. But most of all, I stare at that one little piece of the mirror that's still missing...

                                                           *    

Brett Matthew Graham writes poetry, prose and music. This is his debut story at SNM and we are hoping for more. All we can say is this was one Hell of a story; unbelievable wicked twist and multilayered plot. Indeed, this story will be appearing in Bonded By Blood II. Now this is what writing good horror and dark fiction is all about!  He currently resides in Shadyside, Ohio with his lovely wife and he enjoys playing in a local band with friends. Samples of his published poetry can be found at www.poetry.com. Welcome home to the SNM Mausoleum!                    

                                        Brett Graham

Grave Offerings

Daniel Fabiani

Queens, New York: October 2006

Danny Ingui sat arrow-straight with his back against the great white mausoleum in St. John’s cemetery as Adeline’s hand crept onto his leg. A bluish-green labyrinth of veins wrapped tightly around its upside; the distant twilight making them glow. New York City had never seen them so calm.

Runaways, the jargon of the road was all they knew to decipher, which traveled them to New Orleans, an overcast city springing with decadence. All the way to the tip of Miami big white gulls glided along the jade water -- the only thing of interest to the pair.

Siblings not by blood, but by adoption, now partners in the art of grave robbing, they looked out to the cemetery. The moon reflected a waning light off of the frozen saints as they praised the career of peddling whatever might lie underneath.

Weather-beaten Catholic statues, some as big as humans, dull tombstones and slews of the Lord and his perpetually sad mother had bloated St. Johns like rush hour traffic. Danny took solace in the quiet; Adeline was pious about its rich history.

Her fanaticism of the silence that the dead made loud -- the ubiquitous tombs that echoed with the lost whispers of the deceased and the rigor mortis that made bones snap like brittle twigs as she stuffed bodies back into cramped coffins, was innocuously intended. Yet innocence’s hymn could not control the symphony of inquisition that reveled within her.

The moribund architecture in St. Johns was heaped in moss like a living green blanket, offering a second chance at life. Adeline stared the saints down, furrowed her black eyebrows, dragged the last of her Turkish silver, and nodded to Danny. He looked at her, held back a quiver and agreed, then pecked her baby-smooth lips with his.

He was cold, though he’d never admit it, afraid of his big sister’s spats about his meatless body, bone dry lips and odd skin tone; albeit, the argument of the latter was hypocrisy as her pallor could compete with the color of a corpse after a lobotomy.

“Drink this,” Adeline said, passing the leather-trimmed flask to Danny, “I know you are cold, I can see it in the way you’re squinting your eyes -- just like mom.”

“Wow, love you too, Addy,” Danny sniffed the tip of the flask, caught the zephyr of a liquor that did not agree with him. “Not this stuff again, didn’t we leave it in New Orleans?”

“Just drink it. You know you love the lime green of it, the burn going down your throat, the immediate intoxication...come on, Danny boy.”

He sipped reluctantly at the Absinthe, cringed as it coated his pallet like battery acid, then a spasm like regurgitation and teeny pricks to his wind-burnt lips. Adeline smiled mockingly as she found his hand once again, her teeth like thirty-six mint Chiclets, and took it back from him.

“Woosie,” she sneered.

“Fuck man, why are you being so unbelievably stupid tonight?”

“Because we are back home Danny, remember? I don’t want to think straight while we’re here.”

“Well even so-”

“Even so what?” she demanded.

Calmly, “Addy...this place is where some of the richest people ever to crawl through this shitty borough are buried. You have to think straight if we are to hit it big.”

“Yea well, guess you forgot all the shit we were put through.”

“I haven’t forgotten, I can cope with it. You’re too hard-headed for your own good.”

“So...”

“So? So she says,” Danny turned, “Do you know how many Mafiosi are buried here?”

“I don’t know, Danny, and who cares! We will get our piece; I just want to chill now and finish my drink!”

“Ugh, fine,” Danny looked over the beige graveled roadway, the statues ghostly, “Is it hitting you yet?”

“Maybe.”

“Ha! I think it has, you and Mom sure have that one thing in common.” Danny leaned on his sister’s cragged shoulder. “I knew that’s why you were getting the ‘tude!”

Danny closed his eyes, and let the soothing respirations of his sister lull him into a dreamy state. Their time spent in New Orleans rushed in and enveloped all other thoughts like an object wrapped tight with cellophane.

                       New Orleans, Louisiana: August 2006

New Orleans had always been a resplendent, simmering stew of cultures. French and Spanish housing holding steadfast, but newer immigrants from Italy and the Caribbean also sewed their substantial impact into the Creole and Cajun culture of the city, forming the kaleidoscope population that Danny and Adeline loved.

They prepared to leave New York after deciding in unison that their mother’s self-destructive habits would be best cured on her own. He tried to hide the bottles, the needles of opalescent dope swirling red with her blood -- the ceaseless high.

But his mother, Maria, did not appreciate his effort. No matter how clever his ways used to curb her addiction, she’d come back at Danny waving fists and death threats.

No one took it harder than Adeline. Their mother’s backward Electra complex, an inferiority of her daughter, continually told Maria to try and end her daughter’s life everyday.

So when her heart had imploded within her thorax, Danny and Adeline did not even stay for the funeral, they ran off to New Orleans the same day.

It was Adeline’s hunger for excitement that sprung the idea to grave-rob. Danny was unaware that it even existed, thought of it as a myth, something only passed down through the vine from generation to generation to cause a ruckus.

It wasn’t until she roused him awake in their Best Western motel on Bourbon Street with a golden urn, her face clumped with bone dust and wet gravel. Danny knew she was serious.

St. Louis’ cemetery is one of the oldest Catholic cemeteries in New Orleans and Adeline had spread her curiosity over it. A Haitian voodooist had confirmed her suspicions of old French and Spanish dignitaries buried within -- containing possibly anything.

On the night she completed her first job, she woke Danny with bright beam of a flashlight and the sour odor of liquor on her breath.

“The tomb was so hard to break open,” she said, wiping the grey dust and ash off her forehead. “It was all worth it; the rush, Danny, the feeling of never having to really work or to ever go home again!” she said bouncing up and down on the cheap hotel bed.

“This urn looks so old,” he saw through sleep crusted eyes, “but so priceless. What should we do with it?”

“Sell it, you fool,” Adeline slapped Danny on the back of his head to trigger his common sense.

“God I hate when you do that, you’re just like mom.”

“Fuck her.”

“Relax.”

“Fine, I’m relaxed. Now where do you think we could take this?” Addy’s eyes were as bright as the blue flame on a welding torch; her hair a silken ebony.

“I am sure in a city as hedonistic as this we could find a pawn shop, you know? I kinda like the idea.”

“How long do you think you can get ready?” Adeline rushed.

“What do you mean?” Danny asked.

“I mean that it is three o’clock in the morning and we don’t have a lot of time…Let’s go back to the cemetery if you like the idea.”

Danny was silent for a moment, “are you drunk? I can smell the alcohol on you.”

“I may have had a few sips here and there of something with tonic, but who cares. Check this out.”

Adeline lugged her potato sack over to the side of the bed, her footprints stark in the white carpet; glass chinks beat in the bag as she parted the top to showcase its contents.

She pulled out two spoons that looked like they belonged in a Victorian era picture book. They were tarnished, but Danny could see that they had once sparkled, their make-up an inherent style of New Orleans in what would have been the equivalent of a liquid crack.

“These are absinthe spoons. I looked them up. Ones this old are priceless. See that little bar that sticks out? It allows people to rest a sugar cube on the tip to dilute the liquor, which is why there are so many elaborate designs throughout these old things.”

She held the spoons up to the lamp: little yellow lights shaped like baby stars and crucifixes coruscated onto the near wall. Danny looked at her dubiously, not at all amused by her story. Then his eyes sailed to the glowing bag.

“What’s with the bag?”

“This is the best part.”

Adeline stuck her hand in, limy glares bled onto her alabaster skin; dirt fell from the top of the bag onto the floor. She removed a reservoir glass that looked like it had once belonged to royalty then a square bottle of greenish alcohol.

She popped open the top and let Danny see the algae diamond shimmer of the liquid fall in wavelets to the crystal cup; his eyes instantaneously transfixed on the color.

“I have never seen anything like it,” he said.

“This is Absinthe. It was left in some luggage by the grave I just emptied.” She turned The Perfect Drug up to full volume on her Ipod.

My soul is too afraid to realize...

Adeline swigged from the reservoir, was taken back by the razor taste; the caustic sting. She winced, coughed a bit, but let the absinthe steal her taste buds, then down her throat with its dry, herbal flavor.

“What’s it like?” Danny asked eagerly.

She handed the reservoir to her brother and he took it bravely, not wanting Adeline to start up her usual merry-go-round of name calling. As Danny drank, his features contorted in the middle of his face. Adeline laughed; the strong liquor had already lassoed her brain, felt like he pulled it right out of her head.

Danny set the glass down, watched the brazened hotel ceiling paint plaster itself over and over again, a typical reaction to first time absinthe drinkers is having hallucinations.

“I heard this stuff used to be banned,” Adeline said.

“I dunno...”

“I think I taste...anise and wormwood,” she added.

“When the hell did you ever taste wormwood. Do you even know what it is?”

“It’s just some plant. I saw it at the Voodoo museum in the French Quarter. Now get up!”

Adeline capped the bottle and put it back into the potato sack. Danny put on construction boots and a pair of rubber gloves, Addy remained in her dirty outfit.

Then they set out into the mucky Louisiana night on their way to disturb the eternally resting…

                  New Orleans: August 2006, nigh midnight

Danny’s first time was all ennui -- but with a colossal curiosity. Madness heaped upon Addy’s ravenous face that night; a look of pure desire, the memory of sanity in the mouth of St. Louis’s cemetery.

The night was a wet rag rung on their bodies, sweat puked from every pore, soaked every strand of fabric on their clothing. A pearled fog wheezed from the ground.

Muggy vapors licked their limbs while wet grass deplored their footsteps and sucked at their feet. The moon seemed to mock their every step, spotlighting them with its cast metal glare.

Adeline carried the shovel, Danny the claw-ended crow bar. They set down a muddy path, pre-marked by Adeline with the help of the old Voodoo woman’s map. The Barrel vaulted tomb waited as per the fragile paper said; it was the size of small meteor. A black spire gate surrounded it and gave way to the soft ground, confirming the vast sinking capabilities of New Orleans.

The padlock on the tall, blighted front was rusted to a dark orange from what Danny could see. It crumbled away as his finger grazed it. The golden doorknob had long been shaved of its value, looked like a gnawed chew toy for a dog.

Spanish moss bearded the vault like army green varicose veins. Insects scaled up and down the tomb like tiny, leggy soldiers.

Adeline pushed Danny forward knowing the inside of the tomb would be loaded with ancient goods; with things they could never dream of -- endless possibilities to pawn. Danny stole her bony hand, fingered the tourniquet-tight veins, and closed his eyes as their blood became one long rhythm.

“The old Voodoo woman decreed that most of these tombs are thriving treasure chests, that people here in New Orleans are just too superstitious for their own good to come and seek them out,” Adeline said, her face nearly argent from sweat.

“You spent way too much time in that museum on Dumaine,” Danny said, squeezing her hand tighter.

She felt his qualm, “Don’t tell me you’re scared. If I hadn’t been lurking around that museum, I would have never met real people who know the real things about New Orleans.”

“Ugh.”

Danny pushed the door open as a noise like metal scraping bone scraped as flashlights illuminated like saffron swords. The inside was practically empty, languid from many decades of hurricanes and nonchalant visitors, but Adeline knew within the feeble walls of the tomb would be something sacred, something heavy -- something worth value.

She grabbed the crowbar from Danny who could not move and smashed the walls. A plume of dust peppered their bodies; stuck to their faces like flies on glue traps. The cloud stunned Addy, but she was determined to get what was coming to her.

She stuck her greedy hand into the wall, with a sound like a thousand snapping rubber bands, and pulled up a moth-eaten skull; dried out flakes of what looked like skin fell off the face like eggshells crushed in an angry grip.

Adeline smashed it against a jutting piece of stone, cut along the circumference with the jagged edge and popped it off and placed it on the faded altar like a bowl.

“Here we go,” Adeline said as she forced an array of golden teeth out of the skull’s mouth.

Danny’s chestnut eyes lit, “I can’t believe they stayed so shiny after years and years of being buried.”

Addy stayed on trajectory of sucking the tomb dry of whatever it beheld, whatever she perceived was of value, and didn’t hear Danny. She bashed the wall harder, toppling over the mini-red altar then found what she came for. At the bottom of the hollowed wall, six bottles of absinthe gleamed.

“Not that stuff again,” Danny said.

“Looks like even the dead loved it, and it’s still fresh!” she said as the top popped off; her grin maniacal.

Addy poured the acid green drink into the skull cap on the floor. Danny watched it catch the moonlight. With each sip Adeline’s face metamorphosed like an apparition had taken control.

Before Danny could react, she was pulling the rest of the French dignitary’s body out of the tomb, outstretched its flaccid and skeletal arms, wiped the cobwebs from the velvet red suit and danced with it. As she garnished no reaction from Danny, she dropped the dead man abruptly in the dirt.

She clasped Danny’s frail throat and pressed her face into his, spread his cracked, chafed lips with her hungry tongue and found his, poisoning him with her absinthe breathe, green spit and noxious lust.

Danny explored her mouth as well, slipped his finger in and out of her dirty blouse, ended at the tender spot between her thighs and invaded. She bit his lip; a layer of skin pulled away. The blood was sluggish in her mouth, salty, but she licked the wound to comfort him.

Then she undressed and wrapped herself in the lovely bones of the dead man and wore it like a pompous Mardi Gras outfit. Danny unzipped his jeans and entered his sister, wrapping his body against hers with unabashed, shameless lust.

The night climaxed in the slave quarters in St. Louis.’ Yet Addy’s hunger for Voodoo was not quite extinguished. She searched desirously until she stumbled upon the name she learned at the museum, pushed over the headstone marked with faded letters; it cracked like a lattice from distended vines and selfish kudzu.

She stuck her hand in the summer mud and pushed away the squirming earthworms which squished like eyeballs between Danny’s toes. Adeline pulled up the box and ousted the amulet.

She took the red gem, sparkling against the clustery night sky of white embers, encrusted atop an ivory human finger and pocketed it right away; its long chain hung from her jeans. She kicked the cheap box back into its sodden sepulcher of earth, grabbed Danny and ran with him to the exit.

                            Queens, New York: October 2006

They watched the autumn black sky over New York arduously, the temperature as cool as dead skin, as unwelcoming as fastidious in laws. Danny’s mind stopped dallying in the past. It jumped back on track to the items that they could lift from the mausoleum tonight.

  Adeline put her cigarette out and swigged the flask again then passed it to Danny. His hand trembled for a quick moment, thought he saw her wicked blue eyes twitch at the sight of his fear. She turned around and fished in her jeans then pulled out the amulet and twirled it from its thin silver chain.

“This is going to be the key to our big money in the Big Apple,” Adeline said, rubbing the garnet.

“What is that thing, Addy? You didn’t tell me before we got back up here,” Danny denoted, pretending to sip the awful green alcohol, keeping himself calm, cool and collected.

“It is an amulet that supposedly belonged to Baron Samedi, the keeper of the Voodooan underworld; devisor of the crossroads between life and death. His power was the acceptance of the dead -- to ascend and descend them back to earth. To bring them back to life, however he felt they had lived in mortality, good or evil.

“With this, Danny, we could wake up a Mafioso, trick him into letting us in on the secret of the many Dons who have been buried with thousands of dollars in cash; their wives with priceless jewelry, their daughters and sons with rings and bracelets that are invaluable. We will never go hungry again!” Her eyes were insatiable under the mausoleum’s light.

“You’re really getting to me. You know how nutty this sounds?”

“Oh shut up, Danny,” she smacked his head as she always did. “Don’t be such a baby. Let’s get inside before the sun comes up.”

They stood and chivied along to the large tinted doors of the mausoleum and smiled at the English/Italian signs. They noticed that there were absolutely no flowers inside of the house of the dead. Danny’s shovel forced the electronic doors open, a stink of burnt rubber and electrical shortage bloated the muggy air.

Danny looked over his shoulder. The graveyard looked alive, breathing as the wind pulsed through the fog like a heartbeat. The exhale from the trees slithered into their spines, tainting Danny more than his warm-faced sister, lost in the splendor of the absinthe.

Moonlight imbued the ground and branded everything with a pale shine. Piles of dead orange leaves the color of rotted pumpkins whirled into the air like a small tornado then broke as the disturbance of the cemetery had ceased.

Danny watched this and knew something was different. Adeline kept quiet as the amulet warmed in her pocket like friction between lovers or a heating pad on a sore muscle.

“Move it,” she said as they walked inside the mausoleum.

They ran up the scarlet carpeted stairs where the second floor opened up to an exquisite display of beige and white marble; Europe’s finest. Gold letters marked the spots where the dead slept; Danny forced a few consonants off of their soldered holders with his crow bar and pocketed them to sell later on.

The pew in the center of the rectangular room was a rainbow of granite, onyx and transparent crystal. The lights above shone against it, melted them into one sloppy attempt at a portrait as the colors seemed to rise into the air and mingle.

Adeline wandered to a section that was gated off by a wrought iron fence, padlocked with a thick steel chain. She kissed it.

“Piece of cake,” she said.

Fumbling with a paper clip, Adeline stuck two pieces into the mechanism and toyed with its insides until she heard a click and the chain links crumpled into a pile like a dead metallic snake.

Adeline hissed positively as the name on the wall was just the one she was looking for. Danny pushed the shovel into the crevices of the marble wall and pried off the plate. As it shattered, loose chunks of very high priced European design scattered like a spilled box of cereal, Adeline inhaled forcibly; her mouth agape.

“There’s nothing here!”

“What do you mean? Let me see.”

Danny pushed her out of the way, looked into the old dapper Don’s place of rest and saw nothing but a square hole; cobwebs hung like white threads.

“God damn it!” Addy smacked her thigh.

“Figures the Mafia wouldn’t be as stupid as to actually put the bodies in where they are marked,” Danny added.

“No, there should have been someone here! Why is the coffin missing?” Adeline grew frenetic, drank from the flask like a parched jogger swilling down a bottle of water.

“Forget it,” Danny said.

He took the letters off the crushed marble. Addy kept herself busy with the flask. The absinthe worked its evil green way into her system, riving beneath her blood vessels like a dance of death with ceaseless intoxication.

Danny turned. “Now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?” Addy’s words a drunk’s slur.

“What are we doing from here?”

“We’re in a place where half of the New York Mafia is buried. There has got to be something here!”

“So...which...section next?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know, let’s find a Mafia wife.”

“Lead the way,” Danny said, let down.

He tailed Adeline around a corner, nearly losing his fast-paced sister, and stopped at the pew. A colored statue of Mother Mary jolted them like she was waiting for an answer. They’d never seen a painted statue of her before.

The next section was adjacent to the Holy mother. A marble plate was set loose in the stone wall. It read “M.I.” Danny touched it and thought he felt a tepid breeze come from the encasement.

“Move, Danny!” Adeline said after taking her final swig.

He bowed away gracefully, allowing his sister to do the work. Her attitude had worn out his patience, but he did his best to let it go. Adeline removed the smooth, white marble; so fresh it still smelled of a blacksmith’s shop.

As it fell to their feet, the thud ricocheted off the hollow walls, carrying on a cacophony of pitchy booms until it came back at them and nearly knocked them to their knees with a vicious wind.

“What was that?”

“I have no idea,” Danny said, nervous, fingers in mouth.

“Stop biting your nails, Danny, you wussie.”  

He bit them to the raw pink beneath, into half-crimson moons. Adeline took Danny’s wrist and licked the blood that ran down his fingers like sprigs from acacia. She marveled the flavor, accentuated by his anxiety, enhanced by the potent absinthe.

They dropped to the marble floor and began undressing. They gripped each other tightly and lapped at the sweat from the continual body heat and the egging-on of bleeding from Danny’s self-inflicted wounds. They were no more than half-undressed before they heard the punch like a meaty fist on a cinder block.

The loud thumping continued, enough to jar them from their imminent love making.

“Are you playing games?” Danny said as his bleeding tongue slipped from Adeline’s.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said.

Another punch then scratches like fingernails raking concrete walls snapping loudly.

A hot spike burnt her inner thigh; Adeline held the amulet up, “Danny, look, it’s glowing like a laser pointer!”

Danny took it, “it’s boiling hot!”

He threw it on the floor. Then another sound erupted and their heads turned toward the open square section and they saw the maple colored coffin heaving. Adeline was the first to break the hypnotizing cadence and saw that the amulet was no longer there.

“Danny! Where is it?” Adeline jumped up; desperation spilling.

“Shit! I knew you should have never brought that stupid thing here! You are probably waking the fucking dead with it!”

They both stood and put on their clothes. The coffin jumped up and down in its cramped space like an earthquake was beneath it. Danny took the crow bar and Addy grabbed the shovel. They pulled out the dark wooden casket and let it drop to the floor from its two-foot drop.

“We’re seeing things,” Danny said. “They’re hallucinations.”

“Let's open it to make sure.”

Danny forced the teeth of the crow bar into the cover of the coffin. He kicked it in and pressed down with all his body weight, gagging as it broke open. The acrid, bland smell of a morgue gusted up to his nostrils. Adeline fell on her backside. The glowing amulet was still on one of the woman’s fingers.

“It’s there!” Adeline turned one-eighty to run.

“Wait!”

Danny stood holding his nose over the woman in the casket. Her dress was relatively new. Her skin was close to that of a prune sucked of its insides; wrinkled like laundry left too long in the dryer. She was as oily as rice pudding when his fingers pressed into her skin.

Her hair was even darker than the onyx that catapulted black shadows from the pew; her nails as long and curled as meat hooks pinched into her hands in a permanent prayer position.

Her face was eerily androgynous and hungry; her cheekbones like sunken doorknobs; bruised eye sockets. She looked like she was fending for something beneath the parchment skin pulled tightly over her bones by gravity’s helping hand.

The atrophied muscles were gelatinous like the body had lived without exercise or a life of over-indulgence. The woman’s rigid chin segued Danny’s eyes to the square cut diamond on her necklace; a necklace very familiar to him. Samedi’s jewel hung off of the woman’s pinky nail from the old silver chain.

“Grab something!” Adeline ordered, her head whirling, the absinthe working against her better judgment.

Part entranced, “I...can’t...there is just something...”

“Danny!” she shook him, “grab the fucking thing!”

Adeline snatched the necklace from the withered woman. She pulled Danny’s face away from the nearly-mummified creature, its chest seemingly pumping up and down, chestnut eyes wide-open. Her bony arms raised and Danny froze in his tracts.

“Give me the absinthe!” it groaned; breath part formaldehyde, part rot, which rose in the air like a humidifier of death.

A funnel of horripilation drained them of bravery. The peach fuzz on their arms sat pin-straight; their pores dilating and sweating.

“Give me the drink, Addy!” it said.

“M...”Adeline stammered.

“What the…” Danny screamed.

But it was too late and too sudden.

Adeline managed to release only one consonant before the dead woman pounced from the casket and leached onto her face, plunging its curled nails into her scalp. They scoured her head, peeled the skin back, exposing her gummy cranium.

Danny tried valiantly to pry the vice grip from Addy’s head, but was jostled by a sharp, boney elbow which knocked him to the wall. His head met the marble, softening his skull.

The woman cradled Adeline’s face with its mouth yawning and latched onto her sticky green lips. She unfurled a moldy, black tongue and fondled Addy’s pallet the snaked it all the way down into Addy’s stomach, molesting her liquor-soaked intestines.

When Danny’s vision swirled back to one picture, he saw his sister as dead as a snail long-dried out of its shell…then realized that the dead woman was their mother…

From Danny’s journal:

She was just as much of an addict in the after life as she was alive. I still wonder why the “M.I.” did not clue us in on whose grave we were breaking into, Maria Ingiu; or that ostentatious square-cut necklace she always wore as some show of class from her supposed Mafioso brother that we never met. Because of this, we had no idea that he had arranged for her to be buried there. And since we didn’t attend the funeral that was the last place we suspected her to be. 

Ma drained Addy of the luscious green liquid that stirred in her craving innards like curdling milk. I saw her shrivel like a dried out fish; her skin imploding like a sun-baked tomato dead on a vine, then crumbling into a bag of brittle bones.

Then my dead mother’s mouth erupted with the xanthous dregs she did not desire, dripping down her neck and into her clavicles like bug guts. She dragged Addy back into the coffin and shut the door. I knew she should have never stolen that necklace. But greed always prevails and takes it chances against its outcome.

I laid a red rose next her plot today -- against the rules of the mausoleum, and a bottle of that kindling green alcohol for her and my sister to share eternally…wherever they may be now.

                                                            *

Daniel Fabiani makes an impactful debut here at SNM with his first ever published piece. Loaded with twists and turns, he really captivates readers and lures them in with a very unique narrative expression. A freshly turned 22 year old kid from New York City, he makes a living working in a hospital where his encounters with the dead are an everyday affair. He is a lover of all things horror and is working on his BA in Journalism and Creative writing. He has a novel that has been long overdue in the works. He has a live journal and FB. His live journal link is: http://prose-lover.livejournal.com  After reading Daniel's story you would not expect him to look or be so young. You will be seeing more from this very talented wordsmith in the future. *Readers may also contact him by email with your comments:

                 dfabiani46@yahoo.com

                               Daniel Fabiani

The Voice Within

Stephen W. Roberts

            As the flames violently engulfed the wreckage that was presumably his car, the young man sat upright on the cement ledge of the bridge. His spine was jolted as if he were just jerked out of a deep sleep. He had no idea of what had happened to him, or who he even was for that matter. The only thing he could focus on was the sharp pain in his head, a deep migraine that made it hard for him to even keep his eyes open, let alone focus on any one thought for a long period of time.

          He tried to get back to his feet as to take a few steps away from the smoldering smoke that grew from the burning sedan, though his legs were rubbery and tingly as if they had lost circulation or fallen asleep. Stumbling slightly, the man just barely caught himself before flipping over the edge to his death. The bridge stood high over trees and brush that lined a river below; the view startled the man and he knew without a doubt that the fall would kill him with the sharp rocks in the rapids below. Pulling back away from the ledge, he stumbled again, but this time he managed to maintain his balance.

          Staring at the fire as he slowly backed away, he wracked his brain over what had happened to him, though this only caused piercing pains to pulsate throughout his skull. He removed his glasses from his face and rubbed at his eyes uncontrollably hoping for relief, though finding little to none. Sweat poured down his face as he frantically wiped at it with his sleeve. Discomfort filled his body and all he knew was that he needed to get away from this bridge; something terrible had obviously happened though he couldn't remember a thing about it. Yes.

          His slow steps backward increased in speed. As he turned around to run away from the wreckage he suddenly tripped. His glasses flew off of his face and he fell hard against the road, scraping his hands and hurting his ankle. Crawling forward, he grabbed around amidst the blur until he felt his thick rimmed glasses, which he promptly placed upon his face. In doing so he became a witness to a gruesome sight. 

          A woman's body with countless wounds lay on the road in a tattered dress. He crawled over to her to see if she was alive, but her body was ice cold. You killed her! The thought flashed before his mind as if somebody else were saying it. His heart began to race and it became hard for him to catch his breath. He caressed her face gently and felt a tear stream down his face. Murderer! You killed her! He broke down sobbing over her lifeless body. He couldn't remember just who she was, but he realized he knew her somehow. Perhaps he loved her once.

          You did this to her, Cameron. You did this to her! You murderer! You killed her!

          "Stop it. Stop it. Leave me alone!" He shouted.

          His voice crackled and cut a bit through the tears. His lip quivered uncontrollably as he clutched his head, searching for the answers as to what had happened to him and, more importantly, the answers to what happened to her. Your fault entirely! The man threw himself away from her cold body rocking back and forth in a seated position as he mentally tried to fight off the flashes in his head.

          "I didn't do this. I couldn't hurt her. I swear to God, I didn't--" He paused, coming to a realization as he rummaged through his pockets. The voices, yes, the voices called me Cameron.

          Leaning forward, he pulled a leather wallet from his back, right jean pocket. He knew that the answers must be hidden within; he searched every pocket and zipper until he found a driver's license, which had a picture that he assumed was his.

          "Cameron? Is Cameron my name?" He wondered.

          He knew that he must be Cameron. It only made sense since he had the wallet in his pocket. He had no other choice but to accept this to be true. He needed to know something was concrete. That he could make a decision without anything internally or otherwise standing in his way, which is why he was hell-bent on being Cameron. You did this to her Cameron; you took your Wife's life! Suddenly, Cameron's spine arched again like it had before on the bridge, forcing him to throw himself backwards from this horrific scene.

          In the blink of an eye, Cameron left the wreckage on the bridge. He found himself behind the wheel of a car; the music blasting a soulful soft rock song. The woman who was riding shotgun knew every word. She had the voice of an angel and when she smiled at Cameron he knew that he loved her.

          "I love you." She mouthed in between lyrics.

          "And I love you, Shannon." Cameron mouthed back.

          Murder! With another flash he lost control of the car. The tires burst and screeched as the car began to roll. Fire! Burning! Rage! Death! Your fault! Cameron banged his head on the steering wheel, though he felt no pain beyond his headache.

          He watched in slow motion as the woman whom he assumed was his wife launched from the car through the windshield. The smell of gasoline filled his nostrils so much that he could taste it as he was jerked around the car and back into consciousness.

          "Shannon. Wasn’t that the name of my wife?" Cameron asked himself expecting no response.

          Murder! Death! Betrayal! You butchered Shannon!

          “Shut up!” he screamed out into the air the at himself.

          He looked all around; at the trees that surrounded the fiery bridge and crash site with hope of the answers that he sought to the questions that he couldn’t conceive. He felt a dreadful silence that rushed upon him like a chilling breeze upon his face. He didn’t know exactly what took place, yet couldn’t help but feel responsible.

          He leaned forward, gently moving the long hair out of Shannon’s face as tears streamed down. He wished she would wake up. He couldn’t seem to remember much about who he was in his current state, but he knew that he didn’t want to be alone. He downright feared it. He wanted to look into her eyes again, to see the light of her life and his and to hear her angelic voice just one more time.

          He cradled her in his arms, squeezing her head into his chest as he kissed her scalp, begging her not to leave. His tears flowed more and more as he clutched her body and tried to console her through his own pain. His entire skull and eyes seared with intense pain, though he fought it off in an effort to comfort her lifeless body.

           Cameron…

          “No!” The words forced from his lips like a child in defiance.

           Cameron…you listen to me…

           “No!” Cameron pulled Shannon even closer. “Please just leave us be.”

           Cameron…she’s gone…

          “No. She’s--“Cameron paused, looking down in shock to see that he was, in fact, alone. He felt a sharp pain in his chest like the one in his head, with his arms held closely to his chest. Still he felt nothing. “Just leave me alone!”

          …But you are alone…

          This thought pierced Cameron’s head and heart equally as the sudden realization had set it; the voices were right about everything, especially that Cameron was what he feared the most. He was all alone.

          Cameron willfully forced himself to his feet once more; cursing the night, though giving in to his urge to simply run. Run as fast as he could to get away from the crash, from the voices and this ungodly pain he felt.

          Cameron…

          On and on Cameron raced, trying hard to ignore the voices, though noticing that his advances seemed to work for the voices faded in volume. He raced down a road that seemed to lead nowhere. The trees rushed by in a blur and the road never seemed to change. Cameron focused on the road lines before him and trudged on. His chest began to feel heavy and a sharp pain pierced his side, though he forced himself to run until he couldn’t any more.

          His tireless stint of running was cut short by exhaustion. It felt as if he ran head first into a brick wall. Cameron was thrust backwards on his feet; falling backwards on the brittle ground and striking his head upon the cold asphalt. The headache worsened even more. He clutched his head in agony and was overwhelmed by the warm liquid that now oozed from his head.

          Cameron…

          As the pain subsided, Cameron began to hear the voices again, though the pain in his body made him far too tired to fight them away. As he looked around him the world around him began to fade, fade like water rushing over a painting.

          Cameron…

          “Please, just end this…”

          A jolt of pain shot through Cameron again; causing his body to arch in pain and his vision to go blurry. Every thought became incoherent and any movement was impossible. His body quivered in pain as he lay on the cold asphalt; awaiting the answers no more. The last sound he heard was a faint echo of voices that finally offered him a bit of comfort.

          Cameron…it is over…

                                                            *

          The room filled with an eerie sound as the heart monitor signified the death of a heart rate. The surrounding hospital staff seemingly let out a gasp of distress in unison. The doctor handed off the defibrillator paddles and began to remove his gloves as he locked eyes with a police officer.

          “We lost them both.” The doctor said.

          “That’s a real shame.” The officer replied. “Have you determined the cause of death?”

          “Drinking and driving.  They must have been out having a good time and the climate got the best of them. Looks like a head on collision.”

          “Too bad. They were very young.”

          “Yeah, well, the graveyard is full of young people.”

          The police officer exited the room and down the hall while the doctor remained in Cameron’s room. He looked at his patient’s chart, confirming that he was right about the alcohol consumption. He shook his head at the sight. They had no health issues to ever end up in a hospital.

          “Damn it, Cameron, what were you thinking?” The doctor asked the lifeless body. “You blew it all for nothing, lost it all for nothing but a good time.”

          “Doctor, are you okay?” The nurse asked.

          “Yeah, I just recognize that this case acts as a reminder to us all. Regardless of how we live, healthy or not, death still lingers around every corner and in the blink of an eye. Any one of us can wind up like this poor bastard.”

          The nurse’s eyes came into view of the patient. A shrill scream froze the doctor’s blood in horror.  Clearly this wasn’t her first encounter with the face of death.

          “What is it? What’s wrong? He asked, completely baffled.

         “That’s…that’s my son! Oh, please tell me he isn’t dead. Pleeease!

“I’m sooo sorry,” he sympathized, feeling more powerless than he had ever felt in his career.

          “No, Cameron, noooo! Tell me it’s not true! She cried.

          “Need some help in here!” the doctor shouted through the door trying to restrain and comfort her at the same time.        

          More orderlies burst in the room and could feel the fever of hysteria that haunted the nurse, now just a mother reduced to tears and disdain at the sight of her dead son.

          Indeed, Cameron had heard a familiar voice in his semi-conscious state, but it was not that of Shannon, it was that of his mother in some clairvoyant way, whispering intuitively in his brain as mother’s often do, warning him of danger; now having to confront her worst personal fear in the untimely death of her only son. Instinctually, Cameron heard the voice within… 

                                                           *

Stephen Roberts is a proud newcomer here at SNM Mag --although he’s been around the block in the past 16 months, appearing in such publications as Word Weavers, Darkened Horizons, Microhorror, Monsters Next Door, Black Hound, the Edward Ballister project, and Serial Killer magazine (through Serial Killer Calendar.) Stephen was the first ever Muse Writing short story contest winner, just to name but a few accolades from his short career that will surely surmount to much more. Stephen prides himself on his work, as well as the many writers whom he has had the pleasure of working with thus far. He now proudly adds Steven Marshall and the SNM family to his list of thrills and chills. He is actually amongst the 2 youngest new voices to have found a home here and be published at age 21!  Stephen currently hails to us from Baltimore, Md. Readers may contact him through his Myspace pages.

www.myspace.com/darkestb4dawn8008

       www.myspace.com/weaverofwords

                                 Stephen Roberts

Fertile Grounds

Shells Walter

The meshing of metal could be heard from across the city. People came rushing out of businesses located on either side of the long road. Flashing lights played shadows across the crushed station wagon.

“Miss, can you hear me?” The woman just groaned.

“Sal, call this in. The woman looks badly injured. The driver, well, just call it in.” The other officer ran to his car and called in the accident.

The woman stirred some more. She leaned slowly over to look at the driver of their car, her husband.

“No! No!” The woman shook. The police officer quickly turned to look back at the woman.

“Miss, you’ll be fine. They are coming to take you to the hospital.”

“No! My husband.” She looked at her husband once more. Her eyes wet with tears.

The police officer looked down. He knew there was no hope for the woman’s husband. He had crashed right through the window. His head had smashed against the tree they had hit. The police officer turned to look at the approaching lights. The ambulance had arrived.

“Miss, try to remain calm. Can you tell me your name?”

“Karen, my name is Karen,” she said in a whisper.

*

Many months had passed since Karen’s husband had died in the car accident. It was advised by her doctor to try and seek some kind of grief counseling. There was a group that met every Thursday in the school down from her apartment. The meetings were long and Karen often thought they were a waste of time, until she met Russ.

Russ was the head of a landscaping company that did large projects sponsored by the city. His wife had passed on a year ago due to cancer. He had been in these meetings a short time after Karen had started. It wasn’t long after that they’d be seen outside the meetings talking and drinking the old coffee that was offered at each meeting.

Russ and Karen soon became inseparable. Their dates were long and the mornings were longer. The months had passed and soon they were engaged then married. The life Karen always wanted was now before her eyes.

The birth of their children soon followed.  Russ wasn’t allowed in the room during delivery because of some anticipated complications. Their children came happy and healthy despite any misgivings they had. They were happy beyond belief. Then one day a phone call came.

“Yes, I’m sorry to hear that too. We’ve what? I’ll talk to Russ. Yes, I know it would be a good change for the children. Yes, okay.” Karen hung up the phone.

“What is it?” Russ asked sitting in the blue leather chair they had just bought.

“It’s my uncle. He died.”

Russ got up and went to grab her hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He looked at her drawn out face; tears slowly forming in her eyes now passing down her cheeks.

“They said I’ve inherited a farm.”

“A farm?”

Karen nodded. Russ let go of her hand and scratched his chin.

“They said he always wanted me to have it. Aunt Mary said it would do us good to get the kids out of the city.”

Russ nodded envisioning it.

“Well, lately you’ve been working so hard at the hospice clinic downtown. I know it must wear on you. The kids, well, it could be good for them. At the very least, we can go check it out and see if it’s right for us before making any final decisions.”

Karen turned to face Russ.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to drag the kids somewhere just because it seems like I’m burnt out from the city.” She closed her eyes and looked down. Russ came over and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, you’ve been the beacon of this family since we started one. You’ve always made sure we’ve had everything we’ve needed. I think now it is our turn to give you something. I think this farm is just what this family needs.  

“Okay, when did you want to tell the kids?”

“Tonight, we can start packing tomorrow. I'll call and tell them I’m taking a working vacation. I’m sure they will understand. The paperwork I can still do on the farm, it's no big deal.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Karen wiped away the wetness from the tears on her cheeks.

“Yes I’m sure,” Russ said and kissed her gently on the forehead.

*

The road started to look never ending. It would only be a few miles before Karen and Russ were at their new farmhouse. Karen sighed. She still wasn’t sure that she had made a good decision.

The radio played the local country station and dust came though the window from the road. Russ turned to look at Karen, patted her on her arm and turned to focus on the road. There were very few cars that drove by and there was only farmland for miles, separated by more crops.

The old, broken-down wooden farmhouse on their right was theirs. Russ turned, drove up the gravel driveway and stopped in front of their newly bought home.

“It’ll be okay,” Russ said and turned to Karen, placing his hand in hers. Karen smiled briefly, opened the truck door and stepped onto the gravel.

Russ opened the truck door, stepped down and looked at the house. It was beaten up with wooden boards half-falling down, paint chipped and the window shutters barely hanging. He smiled despite all this. It was going to be a project he was looking forward to. He stepped over some of the pieces of wood from the door and walked inside.

Inside the house was not much better. The cupboards were a pale yellow; most of the paint had worn off. There was a beaten up stove on the side that looked like it had not been replaced since the 1950’s. He turned when he heard a sigh come from Karen.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean what if we can’t find a decent school for the girls, or maybe they won’t like it here?” She pleaded with her eyes, waiting for some reassurance from him. He walked over to her, grabbed her shoulders and gently nudged her into his arms.

“Honey, everything will be fine. I know it will. The girls are with their grandmother for a few days and I’m sure she is spoiling them rotten. It will give us a few days to get the house somewhat in order before they arrive.” He smiled as he held her closer to him.

“I guess you’re right. It’s just that at times I wonder if uprooting us from our home is just because I feel guilty about my uncle’s passing. Maybe I’m just being selfish.”

“Maybe a little.” He giggled and she pushed away from him, gently hitting him on the shoulder with her hand. He grinned and looked around some more. A few things here and there and he knew this place would be perfect for them.

*

The next day was early for Russ. Neither he nor Karen had slept well on the old mattress that became their bed for the evening. He crawled unwillingly off the mattress, almost rolling off, stretched, yawned and walked out to the kitchen. Karen had gotten up earlier than him and was making some fresh brewed coffee. The smell reminded Russ of being back in Milwaukee.

He came behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her gently on the back of her neck. She turned to face him, holding the coffee pot in her hand.

“So what’s on your agenda for today?” She asked and poured some coffee into the mugs she had put on the old wooden table.

“I was thinking of going downtown to see what the hardware store has to offer. I’m hoping to get some things done here to fix up this place.” She smiled and sat down across from him.

“What are we going to do about those fields out there,” she said taking a sip of her coffee. “They seem to be empty with nothing in them.”

Russ turned to look out the back window. The fields had been not been kept up for a long time and he was trying to think of what crop to place in them.

“I have no idea what to do with them; maybe an idea will come up when I go down to the hardware store. Some of the local farmers might be able to help me think of an idea.”

“Are you sure they'll be friendly?” Karen joked.

“Well, it won’t hurt to try.” Russ got up, put his mug into the kitchen sink and went to get dressed. A short time later, he was dressed in a plaid shirt, shorts and a baseball cap that was bought a long time ago when he saw his very first game in Milwaukee.

“Okay, I’m off,” he said and walked up to Karen who was still sitting by the table, kissed her quickly and headed out the door to his new red pick up truck.

The roads were smoother than he had thought they would be heading toward the downtown area. He pulled up to the corner, parked his truck, got out and looked around. There were just a few buildings that made up the downtown business area. The shops were basic need types for the town. The pharmacy shown the only neon lights in the business district which reflected onto his truck in a white hue.

The hardware store was on his right and he headed over to it. The sign read, Central Hardware Store. It was basic and to the point. Above the door was a bell that rang when the door opened. As he walked inside, an elderly man ranging in his seventies stood behind the counter organizing some papers. The man looked up briefly at Russ then went back to what he was doing.

Russ walked down the aisle that was labeled paint. Red paint is what he thought he should paint the barn and house, a cliché he knew, but he still liked it. He studied the different types of paint when he heard footsteps behind him. Russ turned to see the old man that was behind the counter staring at him.

“Bill, here,” the man reached out his hand, Russ shook it. “You’re new here?” The man asked and Russ nodded.

“Looking for paint? We have some of the best here.” Bill took a paint can from the top shelf and handed it to Russ. Russ took the can and looked at it.

“Just trying to get the barn up and going you know,” he said as he looked at the paint can then set it back on the shelf.

“You bought the James’s old farmhouse a few miles up the road?” He asked Russ who had already moved on to the next can of paint and was studying it.

“Uh, yeah, up the road,” he said and made a decision that was the can of paint he wanted. He started walking back to the counter, Bill followed him.

“Started any crops yet?” Bill asked as he rung up the sale of the paint.

“Uh, not yet, I’m not even sure what I want to plant.” Russ reached into his shorts pocket for his wallet, pulled out some cash and set it on the counter.

“I think I have an idea for you, that’s if you’re interested,” Bill said.

“What would that be?” Russ asked as he took the receipt and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Well, we have a farmer’s meeting here every Tuesday. The next one is tonight at eight sharp. You’re welcome to join us, might help with your problems.”

Russ looked at Bill for a moment, grabbed the paint can and walked toward the door to go out. He turned for a moment.

“I’ll think about it, thanks,” he said and Bill nodded.

Russ walked out the door.

Bill locked the door behind him and went back to the counter. His friend Jerry was still in the backroom, but came out after closing.

“I heard you talking to that new guy,” he said to Bill who was putting keys away in a cabinet facing the back wall behind the counter.

“Yeah, I’m thinking he’ll make a great new addition to the farmer’s community,” Bill said, turning and looking at Jerry.

“Hope so, last ones weren’t that great, crops looking bad this season. We need a good harvest this year.” Bill nodded.

“I think it’ll be good. He seems willing to make an effort here.”

“Good, cause we really need it,” Jerry replied, grabbing his coat and heading out the door of the hardware store. He watched as Russ got into his truck.

Russ opened his truck door, plopped the paint can on the passenger seat, hopped in and started driving the truck back to the farmhouse.

He turned  the radio back on which produced another country station. A horrible smell rose from the air through the window as he drove. Russ turned to look out his window briefly to try and see where the smell was coming from. His nose scrunched in disgust. He turned back to focus on the road, but the smell became unbearable. Once again, he turned to look out his window; this time he caught a glimpse of a couple of men that looked like farmers, pushing something into the dirt in one of their fields.

His mouth stayed open as he stared at the sight of the two men. Shaking his head, he turned back to looking at the road. His mind was not able to place the thought of seeing two men pushing what seemed like human arms into the ground. Russ smiled and assumed it was because he was tired from the move.

The truck moved slowly up the gravel driveway and stopped. Russ got out, grabbing the paint can as he did and looked ahead at his open fields. A slight shimmer of something bright caught his attention. He walked closer to the start of the field and stared. The light became brighter. Russ bent down, moved some of the grass and weeds out of the way and saw what looked like a finger. Quickly, he stood back up and almost fell backwards.

“What the hell?” He screamed out. Russ stood there in shock. The door to the farmhouse swung open and Karen came running out.

“What’s wrong?” She ran over to Russ who was frozen in fear. He just pointed to where he saw what he thought was a finger.

“Honey, what? I don’t see anything, what is it?” Karen became more concerned as she watched her husband.  She walked over to where he was pointing, but she saw nothing. Karen stood back up and turned to face her husband, grabbing his arm.

“Russ, what is it, what did you see?” She saw his eyes widen.

“I, I don’t know. There was something there.” Sweat dripped down his forehead and Karen took the paint can from him, set it down on the grass and gestured for him to sit down on the picnic bench that faced the fields.

“Honey, are you okay, you have me worried,” she said in a softer tone. He nodded, trying to reassure her.

“It must be because I’m tired,” he said, trying to make her feel better, but he didn’t believe what he was telling her. There was something there. He saw it. Why it was there or if he saw the actual finger, he wasn’t sure. The image was still strong in his mind and he shook a bit.

“Russ, why don’t you come inside and rest for a bit. Go lay down or something. When you wake up I’ll have lunch ready, maybe you’re just tired and hungry.” Karen got up, took his hand and led him back into the house. Russ followed willingly. If by chance she was right that he was tired and hungry, a nap wouldn’t hurt him.

“Honey, wait.” He let go of her hand and stopped in front of the bedroom door.

“What’s the matter Russ?” She turned her eyes narrowing.

“The guy at the paint store said something about a Farmer’s meeting. I just remembered that as we came in.”

“Are you sure? You were freaked out a bit before; maybe you need to just rest for awhile.”

“No, I think it’s just because I’m tired from the move and everything.”

“Are you sure? I can come with you if you really want to go. I would like to get to know these people as well; never hurts to learn more about farming – you know, being a city girl and all.” She started to laugh. Russ just grinned.

“Okay, the meeting starts at eight o’clock sharp. I’ll have lunch ready for you when you wake up.”

They sat down and waited. Karen poured Russ some water as they looked outside their new surroundings.

*

They came home an hour after the meeting, exhausted and sweaty from the heat outside.

“The meeting was interesting,” Russ said pulling of his shirt. Karen nodded in agreement.

“I never knew there was so much to do when it came to farming. The people there seemed nice too, welcoming us and all,” she added.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect that in such a small community. I’m going to get some sleep. Whew, I’m tired.” He smiled at Karen, gently kissing her on the forehead and went into the bedroom. Karen remained in the kitchen and sat down on one of the chairs.

Russ jumped on the mattress and fell asleep quickly. He woke up just as quickly a few hours later. The weather was hot this time of year and he wiped his forehead to get rid of some of the sweat. He got up from the mattress and walked over to the window that faced the crops; lights shown, leaving a shadow on the picnic table. He walked closer to the window, looked out and stared. Something poked out of one area of the crops in plain view. Russ blinked his eyes repeatedly to focus more clearly at what he was seeing.

A decayed human arm waved gently in the small breeze. Russ felt goose bumps forming on his arms and a cold feeling ran through his body. Yet curiosity filled his blood and he walked through the house out the back door. He moved slowly toward the arm, not sure if something would happen if he got closer to it. As he approached it, he saw shadows out of the corner of his eye and stopped.

Two men stood by the edge of the crop opening. Russ stood still as he looked at the men.

“What are you doing here?” He asked. His voice still shaken by what he saw.

“Oh, Russ, we like to help the new farmers out by looking at their lands. We meant no intrusion.” Bill turned to Jerry who had a grin on his face. Jerry extended his hand but Russ did not take it.

“I’m Jerry. It’s nice to meet you. I’m part of the farmer’s group that Bill talked to you about.” Russ didn’t say anything. He turned back to look at the arm that was still swinging back and forth in the wind.

“Oh, Russ, don’t worry about that. It helps our crops to grow,” Bill said. Russ turned quickly to look at Bill.

“What?” He yelled.

“The bodies help make our crops grow better. Karen didn’t tell you?” Bill looked over at Jerry who stifled a laugh. Russ ran away from both of them into the house.

“Karen?” He yelled through the house, but he couldn’t find her. Russ stood in the hallway, sweat dripping down past his arms to the floor. His breath became labored and he wondered where Karen had gone, what the men outside just said and if he could get out of this house as quickly as possible.

He ran to the front door but Karen had blocked it.

“Karen?” He was startled and stood just before her.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I knew you wouldn’t come here if I told you the truth. Do you forgive me?” She cocked her head sideways, giving a desperate look in her eyes. Russ was shaken. He had no idea what to do next. If Karen knew about all this like they said, what did it mean?

“I…” Russ was not able to finish his sentence before he heard some footsteps from behind. About a dozen men had gathered in the front, led by Bill and Jerry.

“Hi ya Russ, these are a few of the farmers from the group. They wanted to welcome you and say hello.” Bill grinned. Russ turned back to Karen who also was now smiling.

“Karen?”

“Russ, it has to be this way. These people are my family, my real family. The crops were bad. The last ones didn’t work out as good.”

“The last ones?” Russ asked, not sure if wanted the answer.

“The last family that was brought here.” She looked at him. Her eyes were not as sweet as he remembered.

“That what, that who, who was brought here and by whom?” He asked, trying to process it all.

“Well, by me of course, Russ. You didn’t think you were my first, did you?”

Russ’s mouth dropped open.

“The girls, what about our girls?” He pleaded with her to give him the answers he needed.

“They’re not yours.”

“But, but I saw you give birth. I saw you…”

“That you did, but they were never even yours. I was implanted with someone else’s sperm. You were tested to be infertile. I just never told you when the results came. It was all part of the plan to eventually get you out here.” Her eyes darted back and forth to Bill, then to Russ.

Russ looked down at the floor. His thoughts ran about like a tornado. He tried to think clearly. It had been going on for years and he had no idea. His mind was not able to wrap around everything that was going on. Russ’s instinct kicked into gear and he made a run for it. He looked quickly at his gold watch noting the time. If he got out of the house soon, he could make the plane ride, get out of here and never be a part of it again.

He pushed past the men who stood watching him run out the back door to the crop area, running as fast as he could, but suddenly tripping over the paint can that was never picked up from earlier in the day. Russ groaned in pain from his newly acquired sprained ankle. He managed to move his leg and got up. He turned quickly for a moment to see if they had followed him. The last thing he saw was a shovel coming right for his head.

*

“I think this is going to be good for us,” Jim said driving his truck down the old road.

“I know it will,” his wife replied. I almost died in a car wreck from the last guy, as you know. Wasn’t supposed to go down quite that way. At least this one was easier and though impotent, he can still be fertile in another way.”

“It will help with the stress you have been feeling. You needed a break from the city.” Jim grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

They kept on driving down the road. She looked out the side window and saw the crops had bloomed. The house they had just bought was approaching in their view. She smiled as she saw the crops to the right. In the faintness of her view, an arm waved gently in the breeze. A bright shimmering light was caught by the sun. A watch still told the time that had stopped two years before.

“Karen, it will be a lot of work, but I think we can do it.” Jim smiled.

“I know we can, honey, lots of work, but worth it in the end.”

She smiled at him, turned away from the crop and they walked into their farmhouse together.

                                                             *

Shells Walter is making waves as an author and editor as she makes her SNM debut. She started writing when she was about 11 years old. First came poetry. As a person at one time who was shy and had trouble communicating with others, Shells made her poetry into a diary. She continued writing ever since she picked up her first story by Edgar Allen Poe. Years later she still writes stories, flashes, micros, screenplays, plays, novels and novellas. She is a freelance writer for a living. She's appeared in MicroHorror, Static Movement, Sonar4 Publications, TMND, and now SNM. She has just published a new short story novel: Demon Alley: 10 Short stories based on your favorite Urban Legends, published by Sonar4 Publications. For more details, please visit her website or Myspace page and drop comments:

             www.myspace.com/shellswalter

                Shells Walter

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