Earworm

by Aaron Thomas Milstead

  Don’t do it buddy, a faint voice pleaded.

  “Silence,” Chod shouted.

  I lifted the horse tablets up to my mouth and then remembered Shadow. She was maybe a few weeks old and I was staring at her beautiful round face while her tiny hand gripped my finger. I was so hung over that I could barely breathe, but she was perfect, and in that moment, so was I.

  I threw the pills against the wall.

  Chod sprung to her feet and threw back her head as if to scream up at an uncompromising God, but the sound was the wet retching of a drunk choking to death on their own vomit. The façade of Chod quickly parted and Carrion-Six-Toes appeared. A veiny, ropey, pulsing appendage slithered out of Chod’s gaping mouth and stretched towards the ceiling. My mind flashed to the first time I’d seen a bull’s erection and how surreally large and fascinatingly perverse it had been.

  Chod’s skin was quickly becoming slack and appeared like it might soon fall away, like a stewed tomato, to reveal the full monstrosity beneath.

  The filthy appendage flailed blindly while it continued to pour out of the Chod skin bag. I noted several rows of fine millipede-like legs and several wood-like pustules that held gnashing teeth. There was a wet popping sound like an enormous boil being lanced. The foreskin at the end of the appendage parted, revealing a massive moist eye that stared into me and somehow understood me on a more intimate level than anyone had previously dared, but it quickly determined I was unfit to live.

  I had been rejected my entire life by my parents, friends, and wife, but I’d managed to cling to the irrational belief that it was because they didn’t understand me. They were simply rejecting the protective shell I’d created out of fear and insecurity, but if they knew the real me hidden beneath the surface they’d accept me.

  They’d love me.

  But I was wrong.

  That hope was just another convenient lie I’d told myself—an insubstantial life preserver drifting in an endless sea of self-doubt and hatred.

  As I leaned in toward the writhing appendage, a chunk of meat that looked like afterbirth hanging out of a baboon’s ass opened and a long, dark, spidery leg emerged—it was barbed like the tail of a stingray. The glistening, obsidian tip moved toward my eye and I recognized and accepted that this is how I was going to die— lobotomized and absorbed by an alien force I couldn’t even understand. A release to true oblivion.

  I know the real you, and I love you, kid.

  Bogart’s faint voice shook me out of my daze. I realized I’d been deeply entranced. I jerked away from the spiny protrusion that was only a moment away from penetrating me beneath my left eye. My stiff chair flipped and I landed on my back, staring up at a popcorn textured white ceiling.

  I screamed.

  I was still screaming when the office door flung open and Fieldy scrambled inside. “What the fuck, mate?” he shouted.

  I quickly crawled toward him, expecting the dark proboscis to enter the back of my skull at any moment to liquefy and then suck out my brain like a spider feedingon a helpless prey.

  Fieldy pulled me to my feet and I dared a glance back at Carrion-Six-Toes.

  Chod was calmly seated in the swiveled chair—the abomination had reentered her and there was no trace of it left behind except for a faint sheen on her lips and a smudge of red lipstick beneath her chin. Just a calm, compliant skin suit.

  “What’s wrong?” Fieldy asked. “Jesus, you are shaking, man. Are you having a seizure?”

  I shook my head and tried to control my breathing and gather my thoughts.

  “Your friend is deeply troubled,” Carrion-Six-Toes said.

  “I can see that,” Fieldy said.

  I pushed past Fieldy into the hallway and muttered, “We need to get out of here.”

  Fieldy reached back and squeezed my shoulder. “What happened?”

  “That thing is . . . in her,” I stammered. “It came out . . . ” I ran out of breath and gasped.

  “Your friend is regressing quickly,” Carrion-Six-Toe said. “Even I had no idea how delusional he’s become. It is not uncommon for schizophrenia to manifest during the last stages of CJD, but I’ve never seen a mental shift to such an alarming fashion. You can plainly see he’s horrified of me. Clearly I triggered him.”

  Fieldy nodded. “What was the trigger?”

  “I simply asked him to take his medication,” Carrion-Six-Toes said. “As you can see he was not receptive and certainly not compliant.”

  “It was garlic,” I muttered. “She wants to kill me.”

  “Ripley . . . ” Fieldy began.

  “There is no point in trying to reason with him,” Carrion-Six-Toes said. “I’m afraid he’s fully in the grip of paranoia and his condition is only going to get worse and at an accelerated rate since he refuses to take his medication.”

  Fieldy nodded.

  “Did he tell you that he also thinks his mother-in-law is possessed?”

  “Yeah,” Fieldy said. “He told me.”

  It was clear that Fieldy didn’t believe me. I tried to say something that might convince him, but instead of speaking I began sobbing. Fieldy pulled me in close and squeezed me.

  “If you care about your friend you need to take him home and watch him.”

  Fieldy took a long breath. “Doesn’t he need to be . . . hospitalized?”

  “I don’t think so,” Carrion-Six-Toes said. “What do you think, Ripley? Are you a danger to yourself or anyone else?”

  I shook my head and buried my face in my hands, trying to stop my tears and push back my anguish.

  “Good,” Carrion-Six-Toes said. “Despite the severity of his delusions I don’t think he’s any real threat. If you think the circumstances change and you think he might pose a risk to himself or others, then call me. He only has a short time left to live, it would be a shame if his last few days were spent strapped down to a hospital bed.”

  “Okay,” Fieldy said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll be checking back in with him very soon, but I don’t think he’s a threat. Are you, Ripley?”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” Carrion-Six-Toes said. “No threat at all.”

  Fieldy helped me out of the office. When we reached the stairs, the thunderstorm in my head began to clear. With each step down, the intense fear and the pounding migraine faded a bit more. I realize now that Bogart was slowly regaining control and had already started synthesizing the right combination of chemicals to chill me out.

  By the time we stepped outside my breathing had normalized. Throwing back my shoulders, I pulled away from Fieldy, “Thanks.” My mind drifted to the shotgun nestled in the duffle bag in the backseat. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Ripley.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out several yellow pills and dry swallowed them. “Let’s go home, mate. You can stay with me for as long as . . . As long as you want.”

  “No. I did what you wanted, now we need to go see Creek.”

  “Mate, I’m with you, but you have to let these thoughts go. You heard your doctor.”

  “That wasn’t my doctor,” I said. “I don’t have the strength to argue with you. I’m going to go see him, with or without you.”

  “And if he says this is all bullshit?”

  “Then I’ll let it go,” I lied.

  “Fair enough.”

  We drove in silence, and that includes Bogart, but his last words rang in my ears.

  Daydream in the desert, with no pressure.

  That’s the way, cause,

  I’m up the creek.

  Although I’ve lost a little ground,

  I’m up the creek.

  I think that time is on my side.

  I’m up the creek.

  Don’t you go pull the plug on me.

  I’m up the creek.

  —Cheap Trick

  14.

  Everything’s A Hoax

  When we rolled into Lufkin, Fieldy drove through Taco Casa and loaded up on bean bur
ritos, but I just sullenly chewed on my beef jerky. Fieldy called the History department and we were fortunate that Dr. Creek Johnson had office hours for the rest of the afternoon.

  The barren Angelina Jr. College campus was about as impressive as an abandoned coal mine. A ridiculous statue of a roadrunner was poised at the entrance to greet visitors. Summer enrollment must have been low, because the parking lot was practically empty. There were more squirrels on the grounds than students. Creek’s office was at the end of a sterile hallway. His door was closed and his office hours were covered by a picture of President Trump wearing a Nazi uniform.

  “Well, you can’t fault his political views,” Fieldy said. “Apparently they let tenured professors get away with murder.” He lightly knocked on the door and I heard rustling inside, then a moment later the door cracked open. The first thing I noticed about Creek was his ridiculous necklace composed of garlic—several cloves had been peeled and were glistening like massive grub worms. The stench was intolerable and my migraine immediately returned.

  “Can I help you?” Creek asked.

  Fieldy stared at the necklace and mumbled, “Shit.”

  Creek smiled. “I’m used to that reaction.” Necklace aside, Creek looked like a retired porn star with a silver Burt Reynolds sized moustache, thick winged hair and a round belly that would put Ron Jeremy to shame. His dark eyes were skittish, and his gray slacks and blue blazer looked like they’d never been properly ironed. Creek lifted the necklace. “It’s just a teaching prop. I wear it to remind my students how superstition plays a pivotal role in humanity’s perception of history. Ancient man hung cloves of garlic on their doors to ward off disease. They perceived evils, and in a dream sense, the use of garlic represented a cautious attitude involving a corrupt or contemptible situation in our waking life. It also—”

  “Save it,” I said. “We know the truth.”

  “I see.” He stuck his head out and scanned the empty hallway. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

  Creek sat down at a desk that was covered with ungraded student essays. Fieldy and I sat in chairs that were sufficiently uncomfortable to provoke a short stay. “Is this about my old podcast?” Creek asked. “I’m sorry, but I’m not doing any more interviews. I’ve already been roasted plenty.”

  “I’m not here to roast you,” I said. “I believe you.”

  Creek laughed and when I didn’t join in he asked, “Are you fucking serious?”

  “I am,” I said. “I believe you were telling the truth.”

  “I don’t,” Fieldy said. “I’m just here as a courtesy for my mate.”

  “Mate?” Creek asked. “Is that supposed to be a British accent? What are you boys up to?”

  “He’s my friend,” Fieldy corrected. “He’s currently in a unique mental state.”

  “Unique?” Creek asked. “More like nuts. Listen, my podcast was just a goof. I played it straight, but I never thought there’d be someone dumb enough to take it seriously.”

  “I’ve never even listened to your podcast,” I began, “but I know what it was about. I’ve got Bogart, a symbiote living inside me.”

  “Symbiote?” Creek asked “Fuck off. I’m not taking your bait, go back to Redditt and tell the other trolls I’m retired. In fact, tell them this—it was all just an elaborate hoax. A product of my loneliness and boredom and an overactive imagination. I regret it. I had a cancer scare and . . . it was a goof that got out of hand.”

  “It wasn’t,” I insisted.

  Creek turned to Fieldy. “You and your mate need to go. If I had a dollar for every fanboy that messaged me . . . And now you have the balls to come to my work?”

  “Fair enough.” Fieldy stood.

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  Can’t you smell it? Bogart asked.

  Yeah.

  Tell him to lose the garlic. He’s got a renegade like me inside him, but he’s holding him down.

  “Take off your necklace,” I demanded. “I know you have a symbiote in you.”

  “Get the fuck out of my office,” Creek growled.

  “Come on, Ripley,” Fieldy pleaded. “We gave it a shot.”

  “I need your help,” I pleaded. “Carrion-Six-Toes is coming for me. If you don’t help—”

  My cellphone rang. I glanced down to see that the caller was Wife. Without a thought I answered it. Fieldy was trying to pull me up to my feet, but my body had become stone. “Hello?”

  “Do you have her?” Dare screamed.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Our daughter. Did you pick her up from school?’

  “No.” A wave of fear washed over me. “Could your . . . could your mom have taken her?”

  “I don’t know,” Dare shouted. “She won’t answer her phone. You know she misplaces it. Please, Ripley, come over, I need—”

  “I’m on my way,” I said. “I’m in Lufkin, but I’m coming. I’ll find her.”

  “Hurry.” The phone went dead.

  My hand was wildly trembling as I tried to put away the cellphone.

  “What’s happening?” Fieldy asked.

  “Shadow wasn’t at school when Dare went to pick her up. The fucking teachers didn’t even see who took her. She was just gone.”

  “Somebody kidnapped your daughter?” Creek asked.

  I glared at him and said, “You know who took her.”

  “Fuck it all,” Creek said. He scribbled an address on a yellow legal pad and tore it. “I’ll help you. I’m tired of being scared. I’m tired of hiding. Fucking Carrion-Six-Toes. What is an Elder doing taking a child?”

  “Wait,” Fieldy said. “You actually believe this shit? What about all of that rhetoric about superstition and your podcast being a hoax?”

  Creek shrugged. “I lied.”

  ***

  I knocked on my front door and Dare flung it open. “Do you have her? Please, I won’t even call the cops if you give her to me right now.”

  “Dare . . . ” I began.

  “He’s been with me all day long,” Fieldy said.

  “You really think I’d hurt our daughter?”

  “Not hurt,” Dare said, “but . . . I read your cryptic note. What was I supposed to think? I thought maybe you’d decided to take her with you.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “Did you get ahold of your mother?”

  “Not yet. I drove past her house and she’s not there. Ripley, I’m sorry. I was just hoping . . . ”

  “Gladys has probably got her,” I said. “They are getting a Sno-cone or something.”

  “Let me try her again,” Dare said. She called her mom and a moment later shouted, “Mom, did you pick up Shadow? Are you sure? But . . . no, he didn’t. No, his friend has been with him all day. He . . . ” Dare dropped the cellphone.

  The screen cracked.

  “She was at her hairdresser,” Dare mumbled. “Who has my . . . has my . . . ?” She fell to her knees, then collapsed face down on the marble floor. I turned her over on her side. Her eyes briefly rolled back and I was staring into pure white. She frantically gasped.

  “Should I call 911?” Fieldy asked.

  “She’s just having a panic attack,” I said. “Breathe, Dare. Quick short breaths, like when you were in labor. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”

  Her pale face was beet red, but she slowly managed to take in shallow gulps of air until her breathing began to normalize. Her lovely body was limp in my arms. “Ripley,” she whispered. “Please go find her.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “We’ll go to the cops,” Fieldy said. “Maybe she’s just threatening to run away. She might even be hiding somewhere close. Divorce can be hard on a kid and sometimes they don’t know any other way to express themselves.”

  “I haven’t told her yet,” Dare muttered. She slowly sat up and added, “But I’m sure she knows. You must be right.” Her mood was visibly improving and with a bit of help she got back on her feet. “That’s a great plan, Fieldy. You tw
o go to the police and I’ll search around here. Maybe she’s in the house hiding. If not, then maybe she’s down at the pool house looking for her . . . Looking for you, Ripley.”

  “Maybe,” I said, wondering how putrid the pool must look by now.

  Dare actually managed a faint smile and added, “If I don’t find her here then I’ll retrace her steps all the way back to her school. It’s no more than two miles away and the neighborhood’s pretty safe.”

  “That’s right,” I said reassuringly. “And she could be trying to get home right now, those neighborhoods can be pretty tricky to navigate.”

  “Oh my God,” Dare said. “Do you think my baby is lost?”

  “I’ll find her.” I pulled her in for an embrace. “I’ll find our baby.” Her heart was rapidly beating next to mine and I whispered into her ear, “I promise.”

  Back in the Mini Cooper, Fieldy cranked the engine. “The cops will find her. She’s probably just hiding at Pecan Park or maybe the soccer fields. I used to run away all the time when I was her age. She’s a smart kid. She’s probably just trying to send you a message.”

  “She’s not the one sending the message,” I said. “And we aren’t going to the police.”

  “Come on, Ripley. Enough of this horseshit. I promised Dare we’d go to the cops. This is too serious for . . . . It’s time to pull your shit together, mate.”

  “The cops can’t help us,” I said. “You know who has her.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Fieldy said.

  “Well, I do. Listen Fieldy, you’ve been a good friend to me and I appreciate it, but it’s time to commit. Either you believe me or you don’t.”

  He doesn’t.

  “I believe that you believe,” Fieldy said. “But I don’t believe in parasitic aliens bent on destroying the Earth. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” I said. “If you want to go to the cops then do it, but first I need for you to drop me off at my vehicle.”

  “Fine. My apartment is on the way. I have to get off this train, but Ripley, be careful mate.”

  I told you he was a loser. Never trust a druggie, they are always waiting to sell you out. We need to run, kid. Anything else is suicide.