Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2

by Wrath James White

  “Oh my god, you’re hot,” he said.

  She giggled, not realizing he hadn’t meant it colloquially. He boosted her back onto the desk and she pulled him between her legs, drawing him flush against her body. He fought the urge to recoil, like he would if he’d laid his hand on a hot stove.

  “Cymbria, are you feeling okay?” he said. “You’re really—”

  “Shh.”

  Tate closed his eyes, falling into the taste of cinnamon, sugar, and butter. Everything good and satisfying in the world and all of it plated up so nicely on his new desk.

  “Tell me what you want,” she whispered.

  Trick question? To hell with it. He ran his hands up her long legs, under her skirt. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties. “I’d like to get you out of these.”

  He didn’t know how long they kissed like that, his hands on her hips under her skirt. She wasn’t craft beer, nor was she a cloying white zin. She was Tequila, straight up. Anejo. The good stuff you insist on but always regret.

  Cymbria whimpered and wriggled against him. He tugged her panties down and wrestled them over her boots, lace snagging on steel hooks and chunky rubber tread.

  “I’m sorry, Tate. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop … saying that,” he said between kisses, scalding his mouth on her neck and along her shoulder. His hand inched up her inner thigh, until he scorched his fingertips on slippery flesh that turned his brain to soup and his cock to stone.

  “It’s too soon,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t … it’s too soon.”

  His hand stilled between her legs. “Want me to stop?”

  “Mmm, and would you?” She rocked against his hand. “If I asked you to, right now?”

  This was not the time for an interrogation. He was in a far too honest place. You have questions? Ask away. Don’t be shy. Let’s get personal.

  Yes. Within three minutes of making her acquaintance, he’d wanted to fuck this bug-eyed weirdo blind. Yes. Her warning about Leighaven chilled him on a basement level of himself he didn’t understand. And yes. If she asked him to stop now he would but …

  “Barely,” he whispered and caught her mouth under his again.

  She’d started this. She had. Hadn’t she? And now he needed it, needed her, like all the light in the universe would gutter out and he’d freeze to death in the dark if she were to push him away.

  Her laughter rippled down his throat as she reached between them. He was in her hand. Then he was in her. Tate flinched as intense heat gloved him. Was she full of lava or something? This wasn’t normal. She had a fever. She sure as hell looked sick. Whatever it was, he hoped it wasn’t contagious.

  Speaking of contagious. No condom. This was beyond idiotic.

  Sweat slicked down his back under his shirt. Cymbria clawed at his shoulders and those awful boots scraped his hips. The desk creaked. His socks slipped on the floor. Her hair caught between their mouths, tying their tongues together.

  The bartender always gets laid. An embarrassingly true stereotype. However, losing almost one hundred pounds had a curious effect on his game. He got more looks for sure, more flirty smiles, arm petting, and phone numbers scratched on napkins slid across the bar at him from the insanely hot Stella-from-the-bottle Thursday Girls that never would have looked at him twice before. But when it came to the women he genuinely wanted to get to know better, they were less receptive than they’d been when he was pudgy. Ergo, the last sex he’d had was over a year and fifty pounds ago. A long time. And now it was too soon. Too late.

  “Cymbria.”

  “Wait.” She pushed her forehead hard against his. “Almost there.”

  Distraction. Delay. Provincial capitals, the Greek alphabet, open gut surgery. But for whatever reason, an image of Will formed in his mind. Prince Charmless, with a morbidly obese chip on his stupid, perfect shoulders. Will, with the same pale skin, long limbs, and black velvet eyes full of I-know-something-you-don’t.

  Tate buried his face in Cymbria’s hot neck as he came. Not a second later, she tensed around him. And the noise that came out of her. No exaggeration. The woman roared.

  Murmuring nonsense, they bumbled their way to the bedroom.

  “I tried not to … thought maybe just touching you a little … but you feel so good.” Words dropped like wilted flower petals. “Couldn’t help it … did you mind?”

  “Stop talking,” Tate said. “And I’ll show you how much I mind.”

  He stripped her like the Barbie doll she’d always wanted to be and they fell onto the white duvet. A slower pace, yet not a moment to spare for sober second thought. In the dark she clutched him, pleading, repeating, a chant, a mantra.

  “Please, Tate. Please let me … just let me … please …”

  “Yes,” he whispered into her soft, wet mouth, holding her hips against his. The question didn’t matter when there existed only one conceivable answer.

  ***

  Concentric circles. Nine rows of nine. Tate blinked at the ceiling tiles, pink ripples in the early light. Blinking felt like an accomplishment. Now, if he could only turn his head. The sound of his hair dragging over the pillow was like wire bristles on wooden planks. His neck muscles felt inflamed and tight as they rolled his leaden skull to the left. Toward an empty pillow. Another blink.

  “Cymbria?” he croaked, not really expecting an answer, not really expecting the gummy meat of his throat to produce sound.

  He shambled out of the bedroom. The only evidence that it hadn’t been an acid-etched hallucination was the plate of cinnamon rolls on the desk. That, and the big bastard of a sex hangover that couldn’t have been worse if he’d downed a fifth of Patrón. The parquet floor went swirly. His stomach lurched.

  “Ugh.”

  Cymbria. She’d been an animal, a lion. She’d run him down and ripped him open. Even as she ate him alive, his body reported only pleasure. Metaphor or not, it freaked him out.

  Tate rubbed the glue out of his eyes. Shower. The most glorious idea of all time. Hot water. Soap. Yes.

  He pulled the shower curtain around the inner circumference of the freestanding tub. Water hissed. Tate stood under the spray, listening to the downpour hit the bottom of the tub in a steady rumble.

  The warm water turned to freezing rain when an outline of a face slowly pushed in on the opaque shower curtain. Two shadowy hands pressed in on either side of the face. Tate yanked the curtain aside. White tiles, toilet, pedestal sink, painted pipes. His towel on the rack.

  Slick plastic slapped against his back.

  Tate whipped around, slipping on the enamel and taking the curtain down with him. He hit his head on the edge of the tub. Black fog obscured his vision and the pattering of water on the curtain exploded into gunfire. In the midst of it, he heard giggling. Silver bullets.

  Hastily dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, Tate fought off waves of nausea from the throbbing gull’s egg on his head as he stalked down the dim hallway and around the corner. Two doors, one on either side of the corridor. The kids lived in one of these units. Every time they disappeared on the third floor.

  His knock echoed in the empty hall. He listened for movement, watched for a shift in the light creeping through the gap between the door and the floor. He knocked again. Waited. Crossed the hall. More knocking, listening and watching. Someone had to be home. Tate raised his fist, prepared to bang on the door. He paused. Maybe there was a better way to do this than terrorizing potentially innocent neighbors.

  On the ground floor, Tate didn’t knock. He shoved the office door open. Two near-identical faces fixed on him from opposite ends of the room. Will behind the desk, hands frozen mid-stitch on his needles, and Cymbria in the corner kitchen, yawning as she twirled a spoon in a mug.

  “Oh my god, Tate!” Cymbria dropped her spoon and snatched up a white tea towel.

  “The kids,” Tate snapped. “Where do they live? I want to speak to their parents.”

  Will resumed his knitting. “You know you�
�re bleeding from the head, right? Like a medium amount?”

  Tate touched his temple and his fingers came away scarlet.

  “What happened?” Cymbria skittered over, pressing the warm towel to the cut.

  “They broke into my apartment, at least the girl did. I heard her.”

  Will glanced at Cymbria. “You sure, Tater? This building makes a lot of weird noises. Old pipes and what not.”

  “It wasn’t the fucking pipes, Will. I was in the shower. I saw a face through the curtain. I heard them. That damn creepy giggling.”

  “Come sit, okay?” Cymbria guided him to an armchair and knelt at his feet, keeping the towel on his head. “They didn’t break in, Tate. I left the door unlocked behind me. I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Tate felt Will’s gaze incinerating them both.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm,” Cymbria said, gripping Tate’s hand. “She just likes to play. If she’d known you were hurt …”

  Will strolled over, giving Tate’s shoulder an ungentle nudge. “You don’t waste any fucking time, do you?”

  Tate stood, looking Will in the eye. “That’s none of your business.”

  Cymbria wedged herself between them. “Will, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Will glared her down. “Don’t spread ‘em for number nine?”

  “Hey, that’s enough,” Tate said.

  “You really wanna get into it with me, Tater Tot?” Will snarled so ferociously that Tate actually stepped back. So Cymbria wasn’t the only poorly domesticated animal at Leighaven.

  “Shh, there’s no need for that.” Cymbria cupped Will’s face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “No need, no need …” Will jerked his chin out of her grasp. Vertigo clapped Tate right back into the chair. Cymbria turned to him. “Let’s get you upstairs. You need to rest, and you should eat something.”

  Will snorted. “Like that’s going to help? Damage is done, Little Sister.”

  Cymbria quailed under her brother’s scorn. Tate didn’t understand. Where did this crabby, son-of-a-bitch get off, shaming a grown woman like he would a misbehaving child?

  Didn’t help that Cymbria was dressed like a damn toddler in overalls and a purple t-shirt. Tate found it hard to reconcile that just a few hours ago he’d been inside her. Hard to believe her cinnamon-sweet mouth had dripped onto him filth that would’ve made a roughneck blush.

  She also looked a hell of a lot healthier than she had last night. Her cheeks pink and plump, eyes sparkling, hair shiny. Now that he was paying attention, it looked like whatever had been draining her had latched on to Will. Bruised circles bagged under his eyes and where his sister’s skin was heavy cream, his had the bluish tint of skim milk.

  It was the first time he’d seen both Leighavens in the same room. Maybe it was the concussion, but together, they were even more bizarre. Like aliens zipped up in humanish skin. Passing, but barely.

  “Please, don’t be cross,” she said softly to Will, her thin arms flexing as she gathered handfuls of his shirt. “I’m not as strong as you are.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Will said, and then he turned to Tate. “I’ll sort out your trespasser problem. Now go home, get some sleep, and lock your goddamn door.”

  “Tell the parents to get a leash on their kids. Next time I’m calling the police.” Tate took several lurching steps down the hall. When he looked back, Will leaned out of the office door, like a frost glazed bottle of vodka rolling out of an open freezer.

  “I told you to stay away from her,” he said.

  Tate bobbed his head. Acknowledgment, rather than agreement. The truth was, Will had never told him any such thing.

  The stairs took forever. His pulse boomed in his temples and he kept losing his balance. In his apartment, he searched every corner, cupboard and closet. Satisfied he was alone, he noodled into his desk chair. The blood on the side of his head itched. The plate of cinnamon rolls was within arm’s reach. When he peeled off the wrap, the spicy smell hit him and his dick semi-hardened in his sweats. After last night, he was surprised the thing wasn’t dead.

  He picked up a pastry and took a bite, chewing slowly. Saliva flooded into his mouth and his stomach shivered. What was she? A freak in the sack. A god in the kitchen. He stared at the handful of heaven in his palm, one bite missing. If he ate any more, what was to stop him from eating them all?

  With a flump they slid into the trashcan. Fat Tate would be appalled over the waste, but mostly, over the rudeness of it. How much of his weight problem was gluttony, and how much was his crippling desire to please?

  Staring at those cinnamon rolls in the trashcan, Tate couldn’t pretend he wasn’t conflicted, but he’d made the decision. He’d had his taste and now they were gone.

  ***

  It had to happen sooner or later. He’d been lucky to avoid it as long as he had, but after nearly a week, Tate’s uppance had come. Outside the laundry room, around the bend in the hall, he heard a series of scrapes and thumps. He poured detergent into the drum, shut the lid, and started the machine. A diffuse glow bled around the corner of the hallway.

  Tate hadn’t explored this part of the basement. Instead of another hallway, he found a large open space with three massive boilers, a modern electrical panel, shelves loaded with cardboard boxes, and Will, dragging a rolled up carpet over the concrete floor.

  “I expected skeletons,” said Tate.

  Black eyes glittered in the low light. “Say what?”

  “Decent creep factor down here. Just seems like there should be skeletons.”

  Will grunted. “Make yourself useful, yeah? Grab the other end.”

  Fibers from the cut edge dug into Tate’s hands. “What is this?”

  “Old stuff I ripped out before you moved in. Last tenant ruined it. Never got around to feeding it to the bin.”

  Tate’s arms strained. “You were going to move this yourself?”

  “See anyone else lining up to help? Little Sister’s more about the play than the work, as you might’ve noticed,” Will said with a pointed look. “C’mon.”

  Tate puffed as they lugged the carpet down the hall and through the stairwell door. “Thanks for dealing with the kids for me. No sign of them since that day.”

  “They were just having fun, Tater.” Will took the first few stairs, pulling the roll with him. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a kid?”

  “I never broke into people’s homes.”

  “They’ve been at Leighaven their whole lives. They think of the entire building as their home.”

  “Are they related to you?”

  Will stopped halfway up the stairs, abruptly dropping his end and letting the full weight of the roll rest against Tate. “Could say that.”

  “Uh … Will, could you maybe …” Tate groaned under the strain.

  “Jesus, Tater Tot.” Will picked up the carpet, tucking it under one long arm. “We gotta work on your upper body strength. There, just give’r another shove. That’s it.”

  They manhandled the carpet out of the stairwell, down the main floor hall and out the back door. Together, they tipped the roll into the dumpster. A thick plume of dust shimmered in the sunset.

  “Thanks,” Will panted.

  “Anytime,” Tate said, and surprisingly, meant it. It felt good to be useful. He had scratches all over his arms, but the sting was satisfying. In his old life, he’d resented being the only one hauling a sledge loaded with several people’s burdens. But with Will in harness right next to him, pulling just as hard, it was different.

  Will braced an arm against Leighaven’s exterior sandstone, hanging his head. A faint wheeze accompanied the outline of his ribs heaving through his t-shirt.

  “You okay?” Tate asked.

  “Fine … just … dandy.” Will flipped his head back. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat and the sinking sun deepened the shadows around his eyes. “What’re you looking at?”


  “Not a thing. D’you want to come up for a beer?”

  The combination of his greyish pallor and lopsided smirk made Will look downright sinister. “Don’t think it’s a good idea, Tater.”

  “Okay.” Tate tried not to look disappointed.

  “I’m not saying no,” Will added. “I’m just … saying.”

  “Right.” Tate paused. “But, I’m just saying, the last ghoul-faced Leighaven to walk through my door walked out looking like a million bucks.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed to the size of regular eyes. “Man, you got a hell of a cheek on you.”

  “Are you coming or what?” Tate opened the door and stepped into the gloomy hallway.

  ***

  “It’s not that I hate kids.” Tate reached into the fridge, fingers closing around two cold glass necks. “I have two nephews.”

  “Angels, I suppose?” Will produced a pocketknife and pried the caps off the bottles.

  They sat down on opposite ends of the pink sofa. Tate took a pull from his beer, letting it drain deliciously thick down his throat. Usually, he couldn’t justify the calories, but Russian stout was created for Monday nights with awkward company.

  “My nephews are a lot like my brother,” Tate said. “So they’re kind of awful, but great, too. They laugh until they fall down, they’re noisy, messy, and when they hug you, it’s like getting tackled by a rhino. They go at life so hard, you know?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But the kids here, they aren’t like that. They’re sly. Almost feral.”

  Will said nothing. They stared straight ahead at an empty yellow wall, filling the silence with quiet gulps of stout while dusk barged through the window and fouled the apartment with shadows. Within minutes, Tate couldn’t make out much more than a silhouette of his guest. The silhouette tilted its head and Tate felt dilated pupils fix on him like spotlights. Or the exact opposite. Focused beams of zero illumination. Notlights.

  “Saw a thing on TV once, about feral kids.” Will’s smoky voice curled through the darkness. “Babies ditched in abandoned tenements in Ukraine.”

  “Scary.”

  The shadow man shrugged. “These kids develop differently. They can see in the dark, smell a storm two days away, and hear a spider walking on its web. They learn how to forage and stay warm. Some of them even figure out how to trap live meat.”