Earworm

by Aaron Thomas Milstead

  “It’s something,” Fieldy said. “Imagine if Wuthering Heights raped an Episcopal Church.”

  “I’m guessing you aren’t a real estate agent,” Creek said.

  As we climbed out of the vehicle, Creek asked, “Is there any security around the gate?”

  “Nope,” I said. “As far as I know it’s the same setup since this place was built back in the late 1800’s. She does have an alarm system around the house.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Creek said. “An Elder isn’t going to want to bring in the cops. Regardless, it knows you are coming and probably doesn’t consider you a threat, no offense.”

  “When did you start caring about offending?” Fieldy asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  Fieldy rolled down the window and told Dante, “Stay boy.” Dante whimpered, rolling over on his side and closing his bloodshot eyes.

  Fieldy popped the trunk. Creek slung a flamethrower across his back. “Who else wants to pack heat?”

  “Go ahead, Fieldy,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” he replied. “So, I just open the gas valve and pull the trigger?”

  “Yeah,” Creek said. “And make sure you aren’t aimed at me.”

  When the guys weren’t looking I threw the contents of my bag into the trunk, except for my shotgun, which I kept hidden inside the duffle bag. My secret.

  Smart, kid. Better you should put that in your mouth and blow us both away before you let Carrion-Six-Toes take us. One of her prior hosts was the Marque De Sade.

  Pineapple.

  I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked up to a massive iron gate that was composed of ornate filigree that looked like countless strands of ivy. Fieldy and I, each, opened a side of the massive gate. It groaned but complied. A brick pathway the length of two football fields led to the house. Each brick had been laid by the calloused hands of slaves almost two-hundred years ago. There were enough bricks to build a shopping center that would include an Old Navy, Ross, Office Depot, and a movie tavern.

  My duffle-bag hung at the perfect height for my hand to rest inside it and gently wrap around the butt of my shotgun. There were three ponds nestled within the dense foliage of the property and a creek that cut across vast acreage like an appendix scar.

  There was typically a gentle cacophony of crickets and frogs and nocturnal birds, but on this night, all was silent. Even the typically swaying tops of the towering pine trees were deadly still.

  Everything was either dead or holding its breath. My aunt would have called it playing opossum.

  The brick pathway slowly sloped. In the darkness the house, still far away, seemed to float on the horizon like a broken promise. A single light shone from the highest window of the fourth story tower, but unlike the lighthouse it vaguely echoed, the light did not promise safety.

  “This place is a fucking nightmare, all of a sudden,” Fieldy said. “Is this really the same house where you had Shadow’s birthday party?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Doubt we could pay a clown enough to come out here right now.”

  “Don’t mention fucking clowns, mate,” Fieldy said. “I’m already creeped out enough.”

  After what seemed to be hours, but was probably like five minutes, we came to the front of the house and paused in front of a driveway that circled a ridiculous stone fountain made up of fat cherubs with button sized penises. Or is it peni? They had little dicks, which were so obviously marginalized that it drew attention to them, like that Asian guy from the Hangover movies.

  Creek and Fieldy were already out of breath, but Bogart was sending the good shit into my veins—the adrenaline du jour. I could have bitch-slapped the vintage Terminator. “What now?” Fieldy asked. “By our setup, I guess we aren’t taking the stealthy approach.”

  “No point,” Creek said. “Ripley and I both have symbiotes in us. That’s like GPS to an Elder.”

  “So it already knows we are here?” Fieldy asked.

  “Yeah,” Creek said. “Ripley more than me—” he gestured at his necklace and continued, “—but it knows.”

  Something large suddenly rushed out of the darkness behind us. My finger found the trigger and I spun, almost withdrawing the gun, but then I froze.

  “Dante,” Fieldy scolded. “I told you to stay.”

  The English bulldog stared up at Fieldy unapologetically. A massive bundle of useless muscle and a deficit of any capacity for intelligent thought process.

  “I nearly set your fucking dog on fire,” Creek said. “Would have served him right.”

  “Which is why I’m against the concealed flamethrower legislation,” Fieldy said. “Flamethrowers don’t kill people—”

  “Cut the shit,” Creek said. “Are you always so fucking goofy?”

  “Only when I’m high,” Fieldy said defensively.

  “So always.” Creek shook his head and turned to face the mansion.

  It’s actually a fairly famous structure among architecture buffs and I’d learned all about it from my mother-in-law during countless bragging sessions, but I’ll just give you the highlights. It was built in the early 1800’s by a guy named Richard Upjohn, who is more renowned for his Gothic Revival churches, but he also designed a few domiciles. This mansion is an example of the asymmetrical Italian villa style. The asymmetry is on account of the three-story mansion being connected to the previously mentioned four story tower with its single illuminated cyclopean eye staring down at us. A less ostentatious Sauron’s eye.

  The whole house was built of the same types of bricks that made up the driveway, including the interior walls. If we had to siege the place, we were in deep trouble because I’d left my catapult back in the pool house. It was so well made that it even still had the original standing seam terne roof.

  “What now?” Fieldy asked. The living room light flooded on and I could see a short, squat figure moving behind billowy curtains. “Oh.”

  The porch light came on and we slowly walked over to a massive front door. I’d like you to imagine it similar to the famous slow-motion shot from Reservoir Dogs as we confidently moved toward our destiny with the smooth rhythm of a Snoop Dogg track playing around us. The truth is, there were two bumbling middle-aged men carrying homemade flamethrowers while trying not to trip on the porch steps, followed by a narcoleptic dog who was distracted by the moths dancing in the porch light, and me with my chemically induced bravado masking a lifetime of insecurity and a deep commitment to failing.

  Whichever.

  The porch featured multiple arched wooden bays separated and supported by miniature Corinthian columns on pedestals that were beyond audacious and more appropriate for a palace in Venice.

  We were all standing together on the porch when the door opened and Gladys stood in the doorway, looking like a lump in a ridiculous olive green nightgown—I think it’s called a muumuu. Her hair was in curlers and she had on a matching green night cap. The old lying wench had told Dare she’d been at the hair dresser earlier that day. Her expression of choice was complete bewilderment. She was playing the part even though we all knew what was hiding inside her. “Ripley?” she asked. “What are you doing here? Did you find Shadow?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Can we come inside?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “We were hoping for a nightcap,” Fieldy said.

  “I don’t understand,” Gladys said. “What are your friends carrying, Ripley? I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” Creek said. “You aren’t in danger.”

  “Okay,” Gladys said. “Come on in.”

  We all moved into the house. The entrance hall was centered on a massive oak staircase that led up to the adjoining tower, but also formed a T-shape with a cross hall toward the back of the house. There were multiple ornamental oak arches that led to the staircase, or to the left toward a vast library of antique, unread, decorative texts, or the right towards a sitting room filled with enough antiques to furnish a season of Downton Abbey. In addition
to the chandeliers the ceiling also featured ornate plasterwork and an immense copper medallion that probably weighed a thousand pounds.

  My mind drifted to the single light in the tower, but that thought was lost when Fieldy leaned in and asked, “Are you sure she’s . . . ?”

  I nodded to Fieldy, then asked Bogart.

  Yeah, kid, Carrion-Six-Toe is still in her.

  “Are you sure I’m what?” Gladys’ eyes were suddenly wet with tears. “You are worrying me, Ripley, what’s happening? Dare told me you weren’t well.”

  “Drop the charade,” I shouted. “Where is Shadow?”

  “How should I know?” Gladys asked. “Call Dare, she won’t pick up for me. Don’t you know I’m worried to death? My granddaughter is—”

  “Enough,” I screamed. “Tell us where she is, or we will—”

  Creek put an arm out in front of me. “Calm down, buddy.” He leaned in toward me and whispered, “I think you are wrong about her. She’s not . . . ”

  “She is,” I insisted. “Bogart told me.”

  “I’m calling the police,” Gladys said. “You all need to leave.”

  “Let’s go,” Creek said.

  “Are you kidding?” I shouted. “I’m not leaving here without my daughter.”

  Gladys moved toward a landline phone that sat on an ornate end table. “That won’t be necessary, Ma’am,” Creek said. “There has been a misunderstanding.”

  Gladys paused. “Okay. I understand that everyone is upset, but you need to take Ripley away from here.”

  Fieldy leaned in close and whispered, “Let’s go, Ripley. She’s obviously not . . . ”

  “She is,” I insisted, pulling the gun out of my bag. “I’ll show you.”

  “Fuck,” Fieldy shouted.

  Creek stepped in front of me.

  Gladys stumbled back until she bumped into a massive overstuffed upholstered chair.

  Shoot her in the face, kid.

  “That’s not the way,” Creek shouted. His calm resolve had melted and his eyes were terrified. “There’s a better way. Let me prove to you how wrong you are.”

  I slowly lowered my gun, but my finger remained on the trigger.

  Creek fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the vial.

  “What is that?” Gladys asked.

  “Just drink it,” Creek said. “Then we will leave.”

  Gladys locked eyes with Creek. She threw back her narrow shoulders and nodded.

  Creek took a cork stopper out of the vial and gently handed it to her.

  I glanced at Fieldy, who was wild eyed. He had raised the nozzle of the flamethrower and was aiming it directly at my mother-in-law.

  Gladys brought the vial up to her face and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and made an audible retch.

  I carefully watched as she brought the vial up to her lips. I anticipated what would happen when she drank the foul contents—the spindly monstrosity that would pour out of her mouth or ears, the warmth as Fieldy bathed her in fire, while my putrid mother-in-law and the monster inside of her burned. I’d sprint up the stairs to grab Shadow, safely nestled in the lit room above. I would carry her out of the adjoining side door that led to a cozy landing covered with ferns and potted fruit trees and quickly descend the iron steps down to the ground while the house burned to the ground.

  I’d take her back to Dare. Triumphant. Heroic. So easy to paint the picture that I’d checked on Gladys’ house, saw it was on fire and rescued our daughter like I was one of those sexy, calendar firefighters.

  Gladys had Alzheimer’s, so it was no leap in logic to believe she’d gone off the deep end and kidnapped Shadow, then left a candle burning next to a drape or . . .

  Gladys brought the vial up to her lips and quickly gulped it down.

  She gagged, but kept it all down.

  Once second.

  Two seconds.

  “Well?” Gladys asked. “Are you satisfied?”

  Fieldy lowered his flamethrower.

  “Perfectly,” Creek said. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Ma’am. We’ll be on our way.”

  Creek is fucking you, kid. That wasn’t garlic water.

  “Fine,” I said. “Sorry, Gladys.”

  “I’d say you are,” Gladys said. “I don’t know what Dare ever saw in you.”

  I made a half turn toward the front door then I quickly spun and extended my arm until the muzzle of the shotgun was pressed up against my mother-in-law’s fat lips.

  Someone shouted “No” as I pulled the trigger.

  Her head exploded like a fleshy watermelon and painted the wall red and black. The stump of her neck sprayed like a B-grade horror movie. For a split second I wondered if I’d made a mistake, but then thin tendrils poured out of her like she’d been stuffed with countless ebony sea urchins.

  I took a long step back, bumping into Fieldy. He was frantically squeezing the trigger of his flamethrower, but nothing was happening.

  Creek dropped his backpack and sprinted out the front door.

  I continued to fire my gun into the spindly mass until the chambers were empty. Four point-blank rounds down the neck hole. The tendrils continued to wave like they were underwater. Then in an instant, they were still.

  I dropped the gun and glanced back at Fieldy. That was when I saw the massive figure striding down the stairs.

  His face was covered with a white mask.

  He had a long, curved blade called a kukri in his right hand.

  Run, kid. Run.

  Before I could react, the monster was upon us.

  Fieldy was my best friend, but the last memory I’ll ever have of him is of the kukri striking him on the top of his head and slicing so deep that it split his nose in half. First an expression of utter terror and then no expression at all. No semblance of humanity. No fake accent. No wise cracks to mask his deep depression. Underneath a pale façade we are all just meat.

  A double shot of adrenaline urged me forward and I scrambled past the white-faced man as he attempted to pull his kukri out of what remained of Fieldy. Instead of bolting through the front door I ran up the staircase.

  Maybe I panicked, or maybe I was still thinking about Shadow tucked away at the top of the tower.

  Whichever.

  It’s easy to play Monday morning quarterback and list my mistakes. The first one was in trusting Creek even when my gut and Bogart had advised otherwise. My second mistake was in firing all the rounds when two would have probably done the trick on Gladys. My fatal mistake was running up the stairs with a lumbering hulk retracing my steps like I was trapped in a Friday the 13th movie—everyone in the theatre knew I should have chosen the front door.

  Of course, that was only my most recent mistake; it takes a plethora of miscues to end up in such a predicament. It started in the apartment with my ignorant decision to check the pulse of a Pez dispenser. And Bogart, bless his metaphorical heart, had begged me to run away long before this moment.

  Worst of all was that, as I rushed to the top floor, I panicked and chose the wrong fucking room to dash into. Not the tower room with a balcony that I could have used to escape.

  Nope.

  I threw myself into a bedroom that had no exit. A dead end. The white-faced man was far enough away that he didn’t know which way I’d gone, but too close for me to risk going back out.

  Bogart summed it up in his typically eloquent fashion: We’re fucked.

  With no time for deliberation I did what came naturally to me—I hid. More specifically I scrambled under the bed like a child hiding from the boogeyman. The duvet hung low enough to hide my presence but allowed me to peek out and watch the doorway. It was an act of utter cowardice, but as I lay there and breathed in the musty floor I felt a tinge of optimism. Maybe the white-faced man would check the other room and assume I’d escaped out through the balcony.

  Maybe he’d go out after me and I could escape for real . . .

  It was a thought.

  I remained perfectly still and listene
d to the thunderous steps as he came up the stairs.

  That was when Dante casually strolled into the bedroom. The big mutt was panting, but otherwise he seemed unfazed by the horror he had just witnessed. His owner had just been split in half and there Dante was with his stumpy tail wagging like life was just a walk in the park. I delved deep into discarded superstitions and prayed the dog would go away. I was still praying when Dante walked right up to me and stuck his fat head under the duvet.

  I’m sorry, kid.

  While Dante licked my face with his probing tongue and foul, hot breathe, Bogart left me.

  I felt a tickle and saw a flash in my periphery as Bogart traded hosts.

  I was alone.

  Dante turned and sprinted out of the room.

  A few seconds later the floor shook and the light in the doorway faded. All I could make out was an old pair of unlaced work boots. The monster then stepped right up to the bed and knelt down. A gloved hand came under the bed and jerked me out of hiding by my hair.

  I didn’t even try to resist as the white-faced man wrapped his massive hands around my throat and lifted me off my feet until we were face to face.

  Out of morbid curiosity I reached out and flipped up his mask. His face was covered with cancerous growths and pulsating tumors, some crusty with scabrous tissue, others livid with swollen, veiny protrusions that leaked a thick yellow pus like discharge. There were layers of growths, like the rings of a tree, that concealed any semblance of humanity except for his wet lidless eyes. I stared into them in an effort to avoid the horror of his face and saw dozens of nematode-like creatures swirling within the sclera.

  His thumbs tightened around my windpipe and I blacked out.

  I could watch you for a lifetime, you’re my favorite movie.

  A thousand endings, you mean everything to me.

  I never know what’s coming, forever fascinated.

  Hope you don’t stop running, to me ‘cause I’ll always be waiting.

  You are my cinema, I could watch you forever.

  Action, thriller, I could watch you forever,

  You are my cinema, a Hollywood treasure.