Respect For The Dead

by Lindsey Goddard

  Mrs. Jennings had offered Cassie the spare bedroom upstairs, rubbing her back and assuring her that the nightmares would pass. But they weren’t nightmares. Someone was trying to tell her something; she could feel it. Yet Cassie would gladly occupy the extra bedroom… for as long as Mrs. Jennings would allow.

  She pulled the covers over her face, careful not to shroud Caleb’s head in the process. The soft fabric of the quilt felt good against her skin as she listened to the AC whirring through the vents. She could feel the steady thump of Caleb’s heart against her arm as her thoughts began to drift. She thought of Nathan. How his dark brown eyes glistened like black coffee, how his lips went crooked when he smiled.

  And then the buzzing started…

  Her ears began to ring—a high-pitched droning that echoed through her skull. It started off as a low buzz, increasing in pitch until it felt like someone was blowing a whistle in her brain, drowning out Caleb’s snoring and the whine of the AC. She jammed her fingers into her ears: a feeble attempt to counter the assault on her senses.

  Reluctantly, she pulled the covers from her face. Cassie sat straight up, sweat forming on her forehead. The room was dark, save for the dull glow of a digital clock on the night stand. A muted green light washed over the room, cast by the LED numbers. The hard wood floor glistened in the light—except for one thin section. Something dark stretched across the narrow patch of floor. It led from the bed to the door, like a trail. She poked it with the tip of her toe. It was mushy, and wet, and fuzzy.

  Mold.

  Cassie carefully sidestepped the mold as she slipped out of the covers. She wasn’t sure what compelled her to follow the trail, but a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins, screaming for her to protect her child. These horrors wouldn’t stop until she understood the message. And what message could be clearer than a trail?

  The bedroom door creaked faintly as she pulled it open. To her left, the hardwood shined, still freshly mopped. To her right, it was a different story.

  The mold was everywhere. It stained the walls and ceiling, consuming every inch of the floor. The hall that led into the kitchen resembled an underground cave; nothing more than a narrow strip of shadow, lush with fungus and smelling of must and decay. There was nowhere she could step to avoid getting her feet dirty, so Cassie sighed and took a step onto the path.

  Her bare feet slid on a slimy patch of mold, and she lost her footing for a moment.. Cringing, she took another step forward, then another, chills running through her spine to prickle the hairs on her neck. Black mildew covered her feet, sloshing around her toes and caking her heels in filth.

  The door to the basement stood open. She fumbled for the light switch, giving it a flick. Nothing happened. Of course, she thought. Perfect.

  She held the banister tightly as she eased her way down the soggy stairs. The squealing inside her brain reached an unbearable peak as the carpet squished between her toes.

  She followed the trail from the bottom of the stairs—past the living room, down the hall… to the bathroom. It was so dark in the basement she felt her way with her hands, sliding them over the wall. She paused in the bathroom doorway, once again feeling for a light switch. She flicked it on, and this time light poured over the room.

  “Love me. Kill Caleb,” a tiny voice screamed. She stood in the doorway at what seemed to be the end of the trail, watching as the mold stretched outward across the floor and began to climb up the far wall. It spread over the tiles like a time lapse video, growing before her eyes.

  Sickly green and black lines inched up the wall and gathered around the frame of the tiny window. It covered the pink floral drapes and plastered the sill, until nothing could be seen through the mold. The window pane shattered, glass splinters raining over the scene, peppering the ghastly trail. The curtains blew open, a constant gust of wind ripping them apart.

  The mold was thick now, covering the shards of broken glass jutting from the filthy window frame. The trail led to the abandoned flower bed outside, mixing with the weeds and the soil.

  “Love me. Love me. Love me,” the voice chanted.

  **

  Cassie rose from the bath tub, reaching for her robe. The terry cloth felt good as she slid her arms through the holes, wrapping herself in the fabric. She tied it at the waist, examining herself in the mirror. She looked gaunt. Dark circles rimmed her eyes; her lip was swollen where she’d bitten it in fear.

  But it was over now. Everything would be okay.

  A knock on the door caused Cassie to jump. Who could it be? Mrs. Jennings could barely walk the length of a hallway without becoming winded, and she never bothered with the stairs.

  “Cassie?” called a man’s voice. It was muffled by the wooden door, but Cassie would recognize that voice anywhere.

  “Nathan?”

  “Cassie, it’s me.”

  She spun the doorknob in a daze, not believing her ears. His dark chocolate eyes greeted her as the door swung open, melting her heart on the spot. A bouquet of pink carnations and baby’s breath was gathered at his chest. She threw her arms around his neck, smashing into the flowers and crushing the petals. She breathed him in—his familiar after shave, the musk of his deodorant. “I missed you, too,” he whispered in her ear, half-laughing.

  She squeezed his torso until her arms felt sore, running her hands over his back. “Are you home?” she said—hopeful—gazing into his eyes.

  “A visit,” he corrected. “Your letter… it worried me.”

  Cassie gulped, remembering the letter she had sent. She pushed away from him, digging her nails into her palms. “Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming?”

  “Because I know how much you hate surprises,” he grinned. “And I love it.”

  She looked away, nervously playing with her fingers, and bit her bottom lip, flinching as fresh pain exploded in her mouth.

  “So where’s the little guy?” Nathan asked, looking around the darkened basement. “Sleeping?”

  “Yes, but—” Cassie tried to explain, but Nathan was already off. He reached the end of the hallway in four long strides, filled with an energy Cassie barely remembered possessing.

  “Wait,” she yelped, stumbling after him. “Just wait!” She caught up with him as he reached the bedroom door.

  He looked puzzled. “Why? I won’t wake him. I just want to see him, Cass.” Nathan turned the knob without waiting for approval. He peeked his head through the door, and Cassie watched as the color drained from his face.

  His nostrils flared as the stench filled his nose. The room smelled dirty and wet, like the depths a swamp. Mold plastered the walls. It pulsed and glowed with a sinister shade of green as he inched past the threshold. The carpet was damp, making slurping noises as it squished underneath his heavy boots. He peered over the side of the crib and bellowed out a scream. The corpse of a baby stared back with empty eye sockets, dirt clinging to its fungus-covered skin.

  “What have you done to him?” he shrieked, turning to face the doorway.

  Cassie braced the door jamb, white-knuckled. The shrieking filled her head again, shrill and constant. She forced her eyes shut as a headache squeezed her brain like a vice. The squealing in her skull roared out of control. “It’s the only way to keep it quiet,” she said, too loudly. “To take care of it…”

  “Is this Caleb?!” Nathan screamed. “Where is Caleb?!”

  Cassie pointed to the shadowy depths of the living room. “He is safe,” she screamed above the ringing in her skull. “I dug it up. To make it happy, to keep its voice out of my head.”

  Nathan kicked the crib, breaking a slat of wood with his steel-toed boots. “You’ve gone crazy,” he spat, turning in the direction Cassie pointed, eager to find his son.

  Nathan hurried to the couch, where Caleb’s sleeping form was lit by the glow of the TV set. He fell to one knee in front of the child, and placed a hand on his cheek. Sobs of relief rattled his shoulders as he buried his face in Caleb’s pillow.
>
  The TV flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room as she yanked the belt from her robe. She slid the fabric around his neck, pulling hard. How dare he kick the baby’s crib? Who did he think he was?

  He clawed frantically at the rope as it crushed his wind pipe. His eyes pleaded with hers, face swelling with blood.

  “Kill Nathan. Love me,” the voice whispered in her head.

  Someone To Talk To

  Carly slumped over the candle-lit table, absently sipping her wine. Good posture was never her strong point, but David didn’t seem to take notice. He was too busy prattling on about his success in the world of marketing, little bits of dinner roll falling from his mouth, his voice drilling into her mind.

  An uneaten mound of food decorated the fine China between her elbows. Manners weren’t her strong point, either, but that didn’t seem to matter this evening. David didn’t concern himself with her behavior. Why should Carly bother to be polite?

  She’d taken the time to cut her steak into tiny bite-sized pieces, feigning interest in the brown-gray lump of meat. It somehow escaped David’s attention that she was thoroughly uninterested in the dish. She choked down a few bites, swallowing more than once to force the dry lumps of cow meat down her throat. She nibbled for an eternity on the same leaf of lettuce.

  A part of Carly was relieved that David didn’t catch on and offer to order her something else. The other half was angry that he wasn’t concerned with how she picked at the large plate of food. Didn’t he care if she enjoyed her meal?

  “So we’ve got this new guy, this intern, right? He reminds me of myself at that age. Such ambition, a real go-getter…”

  Carly resisted the urge to roll her eyes; it took a lot of will power. All she wanted was someone to talk to, someone who might unlock her tortured thoughts. Yet here she was forced into silence by the human encyclopedia for all-things-boring. Disappointment seized her heart. She took another drink of wine.

  Across the restaurant a violin began to play. She let the high-pitched notes wash over her brain, drowning her thoughts in the melody. She looked at David, but no longer heard his words.

  This was their second date, their third encounter… if you count the first night at the bar. David’s interest in her beauty was clear from the start. He couldn’t stop staring into her cerulean eyes and watching her slick, curvy lips. She wanted to get to know him better, but not at a late-night dive. So they set a date, and Carly’s hopes were high.

  She’d been so lonely since the accident, afraid to open up to anyone, afraid her morbid memories would scare them away. Visions of mangled skin, of looking down at her chest and seeing nothing but bloody muscle tissue, they haunted every minute of her day. She saw exposed fat cells, yellow and sleek with gore, whenever she closed her burning eyes. She was forced to relive the coppery scent of blood with every single breath that she took.

  But Carly cherished that breath, because it meant she was alive. She had died once, and saw no bright light. Thank god she was brought back to life.

  David touched her hand. Carly almost jerked away, startled by the sudden human contact. She was pulled from her memories, from her nightmarish past, as David looked into her eyes. His eyes were dark, swirling pools of chocolate that made her crave his attention. “Carly?” he asked softly.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  She nodded. “Once.” Her palms began to sweat as she remembered her first love. She was glad to have her palm against the table, instead of sweating all over David’s hand.

  “Then how could she do this to me?” he pleaded. “How could she leave? Is there something wrong with me? Tell me. Why did she leave me, Carly?”

  Just as quickly as the conversation turned in her direction, David turned it right back on himself. She felt like waving a white flag in surrender. There was no point in trying to talk. “I don’t know, David. What do you think?”

  “Well, I’m a complicated person―” he began.

  Carly sighed.

  That first night at the bar, the way he looked into her eyes, she thought David might be the right one. The one to which she could open her heart, the right shoulder to catch her falling tears. Apparently, she’d been horribly wrong.

  The restaurant was nice enough, she’d give him that. Old Dave really knew how to pick ‘em. The overhead chandelier sparkled with mock diamonds and gold, little speckles of light dancing on the crimson walls. The smell of food, she could tell, would have been wonderful once—grilled meats and broccoli soup, puff pastries and frying fish. All these scents mixed together with the burning candle wax. She would have breathed it in deep a few months ago. But since the accident, her appetite was gone.

  She looked at David. Despite his selfish blathering, Carly still wanted to let him in. She wanted to express her pain, and for him to understand. She wanted to spill her guts.

  Earlier this night she had unbuttoned her sweater, revealing a spaghetti-strap dress. The neck line was cut low, showing off a little cleavage. Thick, raised scars ran across her upper chest. She ran a painted fingernail across the rough pink lines, hoping to peek his interest.

  Surely he’d notice the scars, causing his vision to linger. Sooner or later he’d notice the marks that spoiled her otherwise flawless skin. Wouldn’t he?

  No. Other than changing the subject and interrupting his entire life story, there was no subtle way to get David to ask, What happened? Would you like to talk about it?

  Carly couldn’t talk about the accident in a restaurant, anyway. The atmosphere was too public, too cold. If he was going to understand, to really listen, she had to get him alone.

  **

  Carly patted the couch cushion, inches from her thigh, circling a suggestive finger over the fabric when she finished. She batted her ocean-blue eyes, and David was suddenly quiet. He licked his lips with nervous anticipation.

  He walked over to the couch, carefully lowering himself onto the cushion next to her. “So… uh… I had a good time tonight.”

  Carly, once again, fought the urge to roll her eyes. There’s one thing on this earth capable of turning almost any man into a stuttering fool. The prospect of sex, a woman’s promising glance, a sensual gesture that makes his lower parts scream, Play your cards right, old boy. You might get laid.

  David’s hands were on his knees, but they twitched with curiosity, wondering where else they might venture. She answered his question by gingerly placing his hand on her inner-thigh. She nuzzled his neck; her hair tickled his chin. She kissed him softly up and down his neck and face. Hot breath made his ear canal moist.

  In a matter of seconds, his hands were at her sweater, quickly unfastening the buttons. He undressed her with the hunger of a teenage boy. The sweater fell from her shoulders. He ran his palms over the straps, sliding them further down her arms.

  That’s when he noticed the scars.

  The color drained from his face, a paleness forming in his forehead and quickly shooting down his neck. She felt his hands tighten on her upper arms, his eyes never leaving the scars. She reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. The sound of the metal slowly ripping apart was excruciating for him, she could tell. She lowered the top of her dress, and he gasped.

  He didn’t even glance at her breasts.

  “W-what is this? It looks just like… Oh god, it looks just like an—”

  “Autopsy scar.”

  He scrambled backward. Why would a living human being ever have an autopsy scar? His heart clenched at the sight of the intersecting pink lines, a perfect Y incision. The lower half of the scar was still hidden beneath her dress. He could imagine the line running all the way down the place he had craved moments earlier.

  “I was in love once, David,” she whispered, shakily. The blue of her eyes looked silver now, a thin layer of tears on the surface. “I was in love with a… vampire.” Her mouth contorted with disgust, spitting the word “vampire”.

  For a few quiet se
conds, she let that word sink in, not just for David… but for herself. She threw her head back suddenly and let out a wicked laugh. David wasn’t laughing at all.

  “He was always so careful when I let him feed, taking just a little at a time. But one night he got carried away. I guess men do that sometimes. It was an accident, that’s for sure, but he panicked and left me for dead.”

  David’s knees were pulled up to his chest, and he hugged them, shaking his head repeatedly. Her eyes had some sort of hold on him, a pull that he couldn’t resist. He started crying.

  “They pronounced me dead, David. You see… vampires don’t rise immediately. Some take longer than others.” She placed a finger on her chin, angling her eyes in a thinking position. “I guess I’m a slow bloomer. It took me a while to transform. I woke up with a slit down my torso, and some asshole peeling the skin off my chest!”

  He began to stammer, trying to form the right words with his trembling lips. It came out in fragments, indecipherable gibberish. “Don―I―pl―ease…”

  She crawled closer to David, on all four limbs, slinking across the couch. She unlocked his fingers and pulled his knees apart, so that his legs were in a “V” position. Forcing her way through his parted legs, she straddled his chest with her arms… and placed a slender finger on his lips.

  “Shhhhh. David, now don’t say a word. I know how you love to talk… but just listen. Shut your fucking mouth and just listen.” She straightened her back, pulling the dress further down, revealing the lower half of the ‘Y’.

  “I don’t know why it didn’t heal completely. I mean, vampires aren’t supposed to have scars like this! Any theories? Oh wait… I told you to be quiet… that’s tight.” She tapped her chin. “Perhaps because I didn’t rise as an immortal until after the blade sliced my flesh. Perhaps it was the silver in the scalpel. I hear some vampires are allergic to silver.”

  She looked down at his sweaty face.

  “Either way… I did the stitching myself. The doctor had a little accident, so he wasn’t able to help.” She looked down at the jagged lines where her former wounds had closed together. Her brow furrowed, and she bit her bottom lip. “If only I knew how to sew, maybe it would’ve healed a little better.”