Respect For The Dead

by Lindsey Goddard

  “No.” The disturbed woman shook her head. “He lives in there.” She pointed to the woods.

  Carolyn’s hands were suddenly at Judy’s lap, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d forgotten about the pie, she realized, as she watched the woman’s hands snatch it up.

  The addled mother gripped the dish in both hands, once again breathing deep of its scent. “Come on, then. He’s waiting for his pie. He grew up on this tradition, you know.”

  Judy followed Carolyn into the dark, foreboding woods. A million thoughts raced through her mind. What am I doing? I must be crazy! This woman clearly needs help!

  Carolyn’s nerves weren’t rattled at all. She remained courteous, holding aside branches to clear the way, careful not to snag her friend’s skin. She kept smiling, no—beaming—with unbridled joy, as if her head might explode from pure delight. The chirping of crickets was nearly deafening in these parts, but Judy thought she heard her humming softly again.

  They reached a small clearing, not too far from the barn, and Judy’s heart sank into her gut. She blinked twice, squeezing her eyelids shut until they hurt, hoping that what she saw was only the darkness playing tricks on her mind. A skeletal figure was sitting beneath an oak, its knees pulled up to its chest. Bony arms were wrapped around its rotted legs. Tattered cloth still clung to its frame.

  Carolyn approached the monstrous figure, kneeling in the dirt at its feet. She set down the pie, leaning over to run a hand down its hardened cheek. “Eat, Jacob… and be well.” Her voice wavered, a hint of sadness showing through.

  The thing suddenly lunged forward. Judy couldn’t believe it. She heard the crackling of joints as it moved, straining from years of decay. It dug its withered fingers into the pie, shoveling piles of the filling into its mouth.

  And its mouth was purely skeletal, no lips to aid the chewing, no tongue to savor the taste. It was a mechanical feeding, the likes of which Judy had never witnessed, until now. She expected to see the food falling to the earth, escaping through the skinless ribcage… but it didn’t. Curiosity drew her nearer.

  The skeleton had a throat. She could see it convulsing with the steady flow of pumpkin pie. Inside the ribcage, she could see a stomach dangling from the end a shriveled esophagus, swinging like a pendulum in the otherwise empty chest.

  “He needs to eat first, you see.” Judy jumped, not realizing Carolyn was so close. “It’s because he missed out on our pie that night. Now it’s all he ever thinks about, that pie.”

  “How—how—” Judy paused, glancing over at the corpse. “How can it be that he eats? All the other organs… they’re gone!”

  Carolyn turned her eyes to Jacob. She was pleased he was enjoying the treat. “I don’t know, really. I felt him calling to me. Two years ago… I felt his presence in my mind. I knew that he wanted a pie! It sounds silly, I know… but that feeling brought me here. To the place where he died that night.”

  “You… felt him?”

  She flicked her eyes from Jacob to Judy. They shimmered, as blue as a wild flame. “Yes, I felt him. On the one year anniversary of his death. He showed me, in my mind, what happened.”

  Frigid wind nipped at the tops of his ears, at the tip of his nose, as he peddled. His legs pumped faster and faster, until his thighs were sore and achy. Cold sweat drenched his face. He took rapid breaths of the chilly nighttime air. His heaving lungs were nearly frozen from the panting.

  Jacob glanced timidly over his shoulder, his front tire wobbling as he did. The older boys were gaining on him. It wouldn’t be long until they were at his side. Would they knock him to the ground by force?

  “Give us your candy, you shit!”

  “We won’t kick your ass if you give us the loot!”

  He wondered how long he’d been peddling away, and thanked his lucky stars for the new ten speed bike. Last year, they’d have caught him in seconds.

  The white barn rose out of the tree-studded skyline, and Jacob had a brilliant idea. He would hide in the woods near the barn. The older boys would assume he had gone inside, to cower in its shadowy depths. After searching the barn from top to bottom, they’d have to give up and go home.

  He parked his bike outside the barn and made a mad dash for the woods. His heart was racing as he stumbled over roots and underbrush. He found a clearing, looking for a tree to climb. There was an oak, with branches low enough that he could reach. He grabbed hold and began his ascent. Even if they found the clearing, they’d never see him in the tree. He’d just wait, until he heard the boys leave.

  “Screw this,” he heard when they emerged from the barn. “Let’s take his bike and throw it in the woods down the road. Hear that, you little piss? Come and get your bike! Get your bike, or you’ll have to walk and find it!”

  Jacob forced his throat to swallow. It was suddenly very tight. He scrambled down the tree… but his costume got caught. His body twisted the wrong way, and he fell from the branch, landing in a crumpled heap on the muddy forest floor.

  It was cold. Sharp pains ran up and down his leg. It was bleeding in the grass, the dark veil of night turning his blood from red to black. As he lay helpless in the woods, tears streaming down his face, he could only think of one thing. Mama’s pie.

  Judy’s heart threatened to escape her chest. “If you’ve known for two years, why not tell somebody? Why not lay him to rest?” She watched the rotted little boy as he finished his pie, scraping every last crumb from the pan.

  “Because then I couldn’t see him every year…”

  She drew closer.

  “And Judy? How are your boys doing these days? Are they happy they killed my son?”

  “What?” Judy shook her head, not believing.

  “Are they happy that he’s dead? That I’m alone?” Carolyn reached into her jacket. Her smile was more deranged than Judy had ever seen it before.

  That’s when Judy spotted the knife.

  **

  Carolyn kissed him, embracing his meager form. He didn’t need flesh to feel love. His bony fingers combed through the silkiness of her hair, leaving bits of pumpkin pie in their path. They rocked gently together, mother and son, beneath the moonlight and the oak.

  He pulled away from her, slowly, running a rough fingertip over her lips. He remembered having lips, long ago. She stopped his finger. No need for sadness tonight. She kissed him on his forehead, on his mouth. She placed a warm palm at the back of his cool skull, gazing into the empty eye sockets. She knew that he saw her, somehow.

  “You are still beautiful, Jacob… to me. Nothing will ever change that.”

  He nodded.

  “Now it’s time to lay down. To go to sleep… but only for another year.”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t argue with me. You know that I would keep you forever, if only I could. But the night is nearly gone, and I won’t have you falling to pieces in my arms. It upsets me too much, you know that.”

  He hung his head as Carolyn rose to her feet. “Lay down, Jacob. Go to sleep.”

  He laid down, and she watched as the change consumed him. First his stomach began to shrivel, quickly followed by his throat withering away into dust. She watched as the joints of his body released, hundreds of pieces falling apart into rubble—human rubble.

  Then she watched the bones sink, swallowed up by the earth, but only for another year…

  She turned around to glare at the blood body that lay at the clearing’s edge.

  Now… how to dispose of dear Judy?

  Hot Blooded

  I woke up with blood beneath my fingernails. I hate that feeling. Thick, suede drapes shrouded the room against sun light. One sliver of light broke into the room where wall and curtain failed to meet. I couldn’t see the blood, but I knew it was there. It was dried blood, almost painfully thick and hard.

  Fuck me. I forgot to wash up again. Being a lackey for murder takes a lot out of a person. The last victim took every ounce of energy. Apparently, cleaning up was not an option
.

  I didn’t want to leave the fuzzy softness of bed. The heater kicked on, a soft whir that pulled me back toward sleep. I rolled over to face the clock. 2:49. Hell, I needed to clean up. There was something stiff in the hair that fell over my neck. I had a pretty good idea what it was. A long, hot shower. That’s what I needed.

  My bathroom seemed a cruel distance from bed. I could have slept another two or three hours. He was so hungry lately. It made me nervous. I preferred to keep Him happy and fed.

  I avoided the mirror. Sometimes it’s better not to look. A monstrous little girl is all I’ll see. I’m straight as an arrow. Hips? What are those? But there’s something in my face that is old… and still aging.

  Frown lines mar my lips. Dark circles make my eyes seem ancient. My aging soul peers out from behind a thirteen year old face. It does damage to a woman’s mind, looking like a child.

  I turned the shower knob until it couldn’t go any further. Steam swirled around my face. I breathed it in, thick and dewy. I kicked the slippers into the corner. Shirt and panties on the floor. I stepped inside and let the water hit my face. It wasn’t hot enough. Never is. I bowed my head and let the water pour down my scalp and neck.

  Yellow sheets on a twin bed. “I Love Lucy” on the TV set. My cheeks are wet. Tears. Mom is out with her friends. I want her to come home.

  He yanks the sheets away. Talks to me in a friendly voice while touching me all over my breasts. How can he do this while I’m crying?

  I jumped. Steam swirled around me. Water pelted against my head. It turned my hair into a veil that streamed over my eyes. Just memories. He can’t hurt me anymore.

  **

  It was 4:58. I wore a pair of press-on nails—silver with red hearts. My make-up was already done. I look silly in too much makeup. Like a beauty pageant child. So I try to keep it minimal.

  I picked an outfit. It didn’t take much thought. Most of my clothes are black vinyl. Trust me; it’s not a fashion statement. Black vinyl is easy to clean, end of story. I chose a particularly trashy number— spaghetti strap top, high-cut at the midriff, and a zippered mini skirt.

  I threw the outfit on the bed. There was time to relax, but only a little. Winter nights were long and started early. It gave me more time to hunt, but oh… how I loathe the cold.

  I opened the nightstand drawer. I caressed the smooth, white skull of my first victim. It is sanded smooth on the shattered side. Its surface has been washed and scrubbed. There’s no expression left in his cold eyes. No eyes at all. Just meaningless empty holes, forever staring. I trailed the soft flesh of my hand down the hard cheek. Hot flesh on cold porcelain.

  Beside the skull, I found my hand-carved wooden box. It’s not much larger than my hand with outstretched fingers, but angels cover the entire surface, touching at every corner. I like angels. They’re sweet.

  The lid was attached at the back by one brass hinge. I flipped it open, found my cigarettes and lighter. Yeah, I could relax until dusk. I leaned back against my headboard, took a drag.

  “I’ll do anything to live. Don’t let me die.”

  My throat was leaking onto the floor, torrents of blood draining out between my fingers. The cut was deep. It started behind my ear, sliced down to the center of my neck. I bent my neck all the way to the right, head and shoulder nearly touching. If I didn’t, the wound would be gaping. In my palm I could feel the steady rush of blood. Warm, constant. My hand couldn’t stop the bleeding.

  Across the room, a hairy man was oozing brain matter from a large opening in his skull. He’d cut me. He’d cut me for fighting back.

  “I can help you.” A voice flowed through the air. The power in that voice seemed to fill the entire room. I was suddenly very hot, and sweating. “I can help you.” The words seemed to float on that liquid voice, suspended. I wanted to answer, ‘Please help me, please!” I didn’t have the strength.

  “You are scared and you wish to live. That man over there deserved to die. But you… you deserve life. We’ll make them pay. All of them. If you come with me.”

  A tear hit the ashtray, and sizzled against the plastic. I snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray, killing every last ember. Bad memories are a part of my daily routine, but there wasn’t time to reminisce. He’d be hungry soon. I needed to get dressed.

  **

  There was slush around the sewer lids and in the cracks of the sidewalk—old snow that refused to die. I kicked at a pile, little gray clumps hitting my leg. The grass hadn’t managed to spring back to life, but weeds danced in the brutal wind.

  I sighed. I hate the first few minutes of walking the street, like a burden that won’t go away. Hooking isn’t for everyone. In my case, please, consider it an obligation. I put both hands to my back and leaned against the street light.

  A car pulled up. Late 80s Honda with fist-sized patches of rust. Yippee. He rolled down the window. Not a looker at all, but beggars can’t be choosers. He gets angry when dinner is late.

  “Hey baby, wanna date?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “How much?”

  “40 bucks.”

  “Get in.”

  He was in his early thirties, no suit and tie. Small white splashes stained his pants and shirt. Maybe he painted houses. I wouldn’t bother to ask. I got in.

  The interior was clean, no dust build-up or stray soda cans. Most guys are messy. Maybe this one was special. Nah. They’re always the same. I mean, you don’t pay for the services of a thirteen-year-old hooker unless you’ve got mental issues.

  “Go straight for two blocks, and pull off in the alley.” He did as he was told. Good for him.

  He was tight-lipped and sweating. Maybe he had a conscience after all. Something told me that he did. The pale blue of his eyes, the nervous glances he kept passing my way. It was like the nerd with the prom queen, all thought and no speech. Aw, gee … how sweet.

  In the cup holder I spied a pack of cigarettes. I thought I might have a little fun, to see if I could get a rise out of him, aside from the one in his pants. “Can I bum one of your smokes?”

  He glanced over, his hands wrapped tight around the wheel. A crooked half-smile curled over his lips. He thought it was cute. The little girl wants to smoke. I’ve been smoking for decades, but don’t tell.

  He let out an airy chuckle. “Sure.”

  I lit the cigarette, took a drag and let it out slow. I pointed. “Pull off here.” He did as he was told. Bonus points for him. Ooh-la-la.

  He parked the car, killed the engine, and looked over at me. I smiled. I took a long, slow drag of the cigarette, the ashes growing red from within. I ran the fake nails down my side, middle finger leading the way, trailing the slight curves of my body. I brought the cigarette between my thighs, to the opening of my skirt, smoke curling around the vinyl. I pulled my panties to the side and snuffed the ember.

  The man froze, as if seeing a murder. “I don’t want to hurt you. Why’d you do that?!” he screamed “Listen, I’m not some kind of sadist! I don’t want to—”

  “I’m sorry.” I laid my palm against his chest and felt the rapid beating of his heart. I batted my eyes, pursed my lips. Just a fucked-up little girl, that’s all.

  “A lot of guys are into that. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I was lying, but he couldn’t tell. I had done it for only one reason—I wanted to see the look on his face. Maybe I’d laugh for days. Maybe not.

  “I have a place right here.” I pointed at a red brick building, pieces crumbling away into chunks on the ground.

  “You don’t expect me to go into your … home.” His voice softened when he spoke the word “home.” Maybe it evoked a picture of the way things should be—a mommy and a daddy, and no strange horny men. “What is this anyway? A set-up?”

  “If it were a set-up, would I give you this?” I unzipped my purse and found my black revolver, placing it gingerly in his lap. He made no effort to pick it up, just stared at the gun in shock. “It�
�s loaded, all right. There’s six bullets in that thing.”

  He was genuinely confused, eyebrows closer together than before. I told him the truth.

  “I like to do it in my house. I don’t have parents. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  He was collecting his thoughts, eyes fixed on the gun. “Men never want to come with me … so I started giving them protection. Shit, I don’t care if someone shoots me.” It was the truth. Once you die, a gun is nothing but a toy. Shoot me. Shoot me, please!

  He picked up the gun and checked it for bullets. Touché, dark stranger, touché.

  He shook his head, but with a smile creeping over his lips. He put his hand to his mouth and laughed. “You’re the strangest girl I’ve ever met.”

  Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, I wanted to say.

  I led the way, stepping over the broken glass. My thick-soled boots would keep it from cutting to the flesh, but pulling a chunk of glass out of your boots is a real pain in the ass.

  “You live here?” The gun was stuffed into the waistband of his pants, untucked shirt nearly hiding it from view. “This looks abandoned to me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just wait until you see my apartment. It’s the only one left. I’ll be leaving soon, too.”

  He sort of stationed himself at the foot of the stairs, watched me slip the key into the hole. Did he think the boogeyman was just inside, waiting to explode out the door?

  The second lock gave a click. I pushed the door open wide, leaning my back against the jam. The man peered inside, from the bottom of the stairs, at my red couch and marble table. He took a deep breath. Steam blossomed through the air when he let it out. A sigh of relief at having found no boogeyman?

  When we were safely inside, door double-locked, I got right down to business. “I don’t like to stain the furniture, so I prefer to do it in the bath. Is that okay?” He didn’t need to answer. The crotch of his pants did all the talking. Yes. Bath. Good.

  Fuckin’ pervert.

  I ran the water. Lukewarm. Just gag me with a spoon. But then, scalding water might send him running.

  I began to untie my knee-high boots, and he shot me a painful look. They all hate to see the boots go, but my job gets messy. I like to do it in the bath.