by Smith, T. W.
Well, helloooo, Grandy—looking good. Do you keep all of your vitamins and tonics alphabetized as well?
He continued down the hall and into what became an elaborate portrait gallery on the right wall. At the top of the massive cluster of framed photos were pictures of Gran and Grandy in their youth, including a wedding portrait in a tarnished, silver frame. Photos of their only daughter scattered throughout the center—breakfast table shots, embarrassing prom pictures—and eventually another face growing familiar in the late teenage years…
Future husband and son-in-law.
All of these were descending to the base of the collage—the grandchildren pictures. There was the girl he had already seen in the first room, a little older than the picture in the bedroom—teeth intact. And there was also an older boy, whose shots spanned the cherubic years to those of awkward adolescence.
Two dogs also made an appearance in this latter stage of the collage—retrievers, a Labrador and a Golden.
There was something different about these lower pictures, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Those outdoors did not suggest Georgia. Something about the foliage, the landscapes, reminded him of Maryland, or maybe Pennsylvania. And then he saw a picture of the children in front of a sign that read Billings Farm.
I’ve been there. That’s an old dairy farm in Vermont.
And then he saw one with the kids and the dogs, sitting on a rock wall beside a sign that mapped out whatever states you could see from that elevation. On the top of the sign read: Mount Washington.
Isn’t that New Hampshire? These guys live up north. Dogs too.
Standing back a little, Will took the whole collection in. Heaviness weighed on him—palpable, sad and haunting. This was a loving family—so evident in the eyes of Gran and Grandy all the way down to the beaming grandchildren. So many families like this in the world, now gone. Nothing left but dusty photos in empty houses.
Enough. Let’s keep going.
The next door was to his left. The smell was strong in here, and Will cupped his nose and mouth in his palm. It was the master bedroom, a large open space with cream-colored carpet. There was a sitting area and fireplace on the far side, a dresser and makeup table nearer, by a bay window overlooking the lake. Long taffeta drapes hung from both sides of the window, coordinating in color with the taupe bed linens and its canopy.
In the bed was a desiccated body, reclined, face hidden by a well-placed pillow. Near the body, on the nightstand closest to him, were several vials and open pill bottles. A portable IV hookup stood between, the bag depleted, its transparent tube still connected to one of the body’s withered arms. Across, he saw an EKG monitor, its screen long black and powerless—behind it an adjustable rolling table with a vase full of dead flowers on top, dry and crumbling.
The devices were familiar but unwelcome in such a beautiful room. They belonged in a hospital, not here.
One step closer and he could make out the word Morphine on the flattened IV bag’s label. He reached around it, lifting one of the bottles from the nightstand: Abstral. Another read Camptosar. The bottles were empty, but there were pills scattered on the table and floor. He replaced the amber plastic bottles, his finger brushing a glass vial that rolled with the slightest of sound, thumping to the plush carpet below.
The skeletal hand moved, it’s skin stretched tight-to-the-bone, fingernails grown long, jaundiced and hooked.
Will stepped back.
The hand was bound, a restraining strap loose around its wrist. Will circled the foot of the bed and saw that the other hand was moving too, also bound, clutching the blanket with gnarly fingers.
It’s weak. Can’t even lift itself enough to get that pillow off its face.
And what about that pillow? It wasn’t just neatly lying there; it was depressed on the thing’s face—indentations, slight but visible enough on either side to see that hands had been there, forcefully. Someone had smothered—or attempted to smother whoever was under it.
A hoarse groan began. Will’s eyes drifted from the clutching hands to the rolling bed table. There, he saw a book entitled Coping With Cancer, and next to it a homemade card reading: Grandy, please get well soon—Love, Cindy, Ben, Mom & Dad.
That’s why he’s weak. He was close to death before all of this.
The creature was growing more agitated. The idea of stabbing it through the pillow was enticing, but—no matter how much he wanted to avoid its face—there was risk involved. The screwdriver could get caught in its fibers, deflect somehow from its intended puncture. It was foolhardy to chance a blind-blow where there could be a slip. And if he went high with the machete, the pillow would absorb the impact. No question, that pillow had to go.
Like most of its body, the legs were under cover, moving now. But Will could see that the sheets were tucked, and the damned thing wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He stepped closer, reaching out until his fingers brushed the smooth cotton of the pillowcase, already feeling the vibrations from the thing’s jaws biting underneath. He established a grip, high, snatching the pillow and letting it fly over his shoulder and across the room.
It was a woman. Wisps of gray hair fell across its gaunt, shriveled face, its gaping, toothless maw, snapping at him. It pulled against the restraints with little effort, only its head and shoulders darting toward him. The skin was taught not only at its bony fingers, but also all over. The covers had slipped down some with the movement, and he could now see beyond the loose pajama top where its breasts lay, deflated sacks, pulled so tight across the sternum that pointed nipples tee-peed through the silk top. Its face was a cowl of mummified flesh, stringent and leathery, doubling the size of its crazed eyes and writhing mouth.
And as horrible as it was—a pitiful abomination of humanity—Will still recognized the face of the woman in the picture hugging the boat captain.
So you’re Grandy. I had it backwards.
The sight of him had excited it, and the rasping became louder and more persistent. He had to put her down, but her incapacitation had hypnotized him—momentarily, at least. This creature before him had been human—a grandmother, with a life and loves. How on earth had this happened? If there was a God, then… What the fuck?
He moved back to the side of the bed, rolling the IV equipment away. Her eyes followed him, futile attempts at rising as he passed. He lifted the machete but she paid it no attention. Only him—he was all she saw. Momentary sustenance? Was this what his flesh would offer her? Was he just a quick fix for the pain of being dead? He didn’t think so. They were more like rabid animals, spreading their vile disease in a violent frenzy, as indifferent as a beast in the wild, or a virus on a microscope slide.
You’re projecting again. If there are answers, you will likely never know.
Maybe so…
But he was resigned to being a cure.
He brought the blade down swift and hard in the trench between the forehead and bridge of her nose, removing the top third of Grandy’s head in a single chop. Her hands stopped clutching at the restraints and released, palms up—like Dracula in some old movie. There was little blood at all, just a slow trickle of black ooze beneath her head—all the moisture that was left in this jerky-cured stick of a monster. Grandy was gone, had been for quite some time. And now the husk she’d left behind was too, and she had Will to thank for that.
He wished that it were more like the movies, where the creature showed remorse, pleading with their eyes for release from some curse. That might make it easier. He wasn’t sure. Destroying the brain of a savage attacker was combative, often reflexive, and accompanied much less moral perplexity than killing an old woman in her bed. He feared that someday he would grow so accustomed to slaying that even that wouldn’t faze him. Eventually, it might come as naturally as yawning.
And that bothered him even more.
There was now growling in another room. He wiped the machete blade on the bedspread and left Grandy, closing the door.
The s
narls were coming from another open door, not exactly across but near. Will crept up to the frame, listening. There was no sound of movement, but something was in there… and it wasn’t happy.
Will stepped into the doorway and saw that it was an enormous study. Large, dark bookcases lined the room, spaced evenly between paneled walls with ornate brass sconces. The ceiling stretched high into ebony joists and beams. Centered between the walls, in front of a giant window and resting on a plush Persian rug, was a massive mahogany desk. In spite of the pungent odor of decay, Will imagined his favorite scent once filled this room, that of parchment, and print, and polished wood—the scent of libraries and used books stores. This was the room Will had always dreamed of having himself… and its former occupant was hanging from a noose, suspended from a beam just in front of the desk.
Gran, I presume.
The creature snarled, reaching for the man in the doorway, groping the empty space as if that would somehow bring Will closer.
Gran was dressed well—hounds tooth, Armani slacks, and a Ralph Lauren button-down—but barefoot. He was in far better shape than Grandy, not having succumbed to a terminal illness, but there were still the tell-tale signs of having been dead for several weeks—sunken eyes, shriveled skin, prominent teeth, discoloration, and patches of decay. In the picture he’d seen in Cindy’s room, it was evident that the man had taken care of himself physically, and Will could see now that he still had considerable bulk muscle to his frame. He needed to put this one down while it was still hanging. If he cut the rope and let it fall, it would charge him. They weren’t fast, but it was senseless to risk any confrontation when not necessary. The only answer was the gun.
He walked toward the desk giving the creature a wide berth. It was kicking its legs now, more aggressive as he closed in, never once groping for the noose that restrained it, arms just flailing madly. As he closed the distance, Gran’s feet mere inches away, Will saw that its neck was thick from swelling and was it—could it be—longer? Eyes bulged from deep sockets, remaining locked on him as he moved past and out of sight, behind the desk.
He pulled the chair out—heavy, solid wood, striped, linen upholstery—stepped up on the seat and then on to the desk. Gran continued writhing on the rope, his growls escalating with Will’s disappearance. Will ducked under the rope—stretched taught from the beam to one of the desk’s legs—and rose a few feet behind the twisting creature. He considered the screwdriver—even brought it out and made for Gran’s ear, but it was squirming too much and he didn’t have the leverage when leaning out past the desk to where the corpse hung. He knew the screwdriver would be bouncing off Gran’s skull several times before—if—he ever got a clean jab through the ear canal and into the brain. He could wait… but what if it never stopped moving. The sun was already well into afternoon, and he still hadn’t finished clearing the house, shed, and boathouse.
You need to get this done. Now.
He removed the pistol from his belt and pointed the barrel and its lengthy attachment at the back Gran’s head, moving closer, leaning out just until the silencer actually brushed the back of its head, hair grazing over it. The creature’s voice rose.
Will pulled the trigger.
Pffft!
Gran’s arms fell. Way across the room, a book, high on a shelf near the entrance exploded into confetti. As tiny feathers of paper fluttered down in his periphery, Will saw what was now just a body, swaying before him on a rope. He lowered the gun.
There were no closets or hiding places warranting inspection in this room. He climbed off of the desk and quickly rummaged through its drawers. Office supplies—neatly organized by Gran, of course—were in the top two, including a brass, dagger-esque letter-opener that he pocketed. In the bottom was a small file cabinet—household bills, AT&T, Atlanta Gas, Charter Cable…
Will closed the drawer. On top of the desk was a leather pad with a large paper calendar insert. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the name Rosalinda was penciled in—just the name nothing else. There was letter tray—leather as well—on the corner of the desk. It was felt-lined, and in its center was a sealed ivory envelope addressed: To Whom It May Concern.
The envelope was not sealed. Will opened it, unfolding a single page of linen stationary, and began reading.
My name is Lyle Oberon. My wife Vivian and I have lived in this house for eleven years. We have a daughter, Chelsea, a son-in-law, Matt, and two precious grandchildren, Cindy and Ben. They live in Vermont.
As I write this, it has been over a month since the trouble started. The kids insisted upon coming here and I tried to persuade them to stay home, stay safe. But Chelsea is just like her mother, stubborn. The last I heard from them was three weeks ago. They had made it to Manassas, Virginia, with the dogs. It was taking a long time because they had to travel back roads mostly.
Cindy was dead and Matt was really sick.
Rosalinda, our nurse, only came once after the news, a Tuesday. She was a little distraught, but positive, nonetheless. She said she would see us on the following Thursday. She didn’t come.
The doctor never showed again. No call. Just like a doctor.
Vivian’s cancer was in the final stages. Chelsea had planned on coming alone before the trouble started. Then after, Matt insisted that they all come, that it would be safer here on the lake—safer than the mountains in Vermont? Guess it all comes down to perspective. But I really wish they had stayed put.
We had started keeping Viv really doped up. She was in a lot of pain and the doctor said there was no sense in her suffering. She had an IV drip as well as the patches. But once the medical people stopped coming, so did the drugs.
We didn’t talk anymore. Honestly, she was pretty out of it. I would talk to her, of course, but rarely received anything in return other than occasional, heartbreaking episodes of cognizance behind moist eyes.
Today, I had a little more than two day’s worth of morphine left. I gave it all to her, but still I could feel a faint pulse beat beneath her tiny wrist. I latched her hands in the restraints—restraints never needed before—and put the pillow on her face.
She didn’t fight. I don’t think there was any strength left in her, plus all the drugs. I held that pillow tight for a good five minutes, just in case. There was no movement, no struggle.
My mistake was looking. I needed to know that she hadn’t suffered. So when I lifted the pillow, suspecting in my heart that it had been a peaceful transition, I found a horrified wraith, mouth open in a paralyzed and futile attempt at breath, eyes wide… fearful… knowing.
I laid the pillow back down on her and left the room.
Until death do us part, we promised and fulfilled—but not for long as you now see. I apologize for the mess, I had fully intended on tidying up her room—maybe even bringing in some fresh cut flowers, like the ones she used to paint—but I have a feeling that you, whoever you are, will understand.
I left the front door unlocked. No sense in someone having to break in. After all, we’re not really here, are we? I love this house too much, and it pains me to think of it being damaged by looters.
It’s fully stocked, one of the reasons Chelsea used to justify their coming here. I’m a bit particular, and I like to make sure that we always have enough on hand, just in case. There’s food and supplies in a storeroom in the basement. There’s also a boat if it can be of use to you, gas, and a generator in the shed. I give these things to you with my blessing. Use them as you see fit.
I never did see any of those things that they talked about on the news, nor do I want to. The house is a bit hidden but, I suspect, someone—or something—will find it eventually. You did.
I’m a king in an empty kingdom, mourning for my queen. I must go to her. May your story end happier. I wish you well.
Regards,
Lyle
Will folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and replaced it in the letter tray. He thought Lyle would appreciate that.
He took ten minutes
to browse the library, choosing a couple of books to take with him immediately, and beginning a stack of those he would bring with him on the boat later. When he circled back around the hanging corpse, he didn’t want to look, but found himself doing so anyway. Mercifully, Lyle’s eyes were closed. There was a large bloody crater where his nose had been.
Before Will exited the room, he knelt and lifted from the floor the remaining hard facing of the book his bullet had all but obliterated.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson.
He picked up the pace, clearing the rest of the house and grounds. Lyle’s suicide note had let him know that he and Viv had been the only ones there unless some stranger had wandered in somehow. The only good thing about the dead is that they were predictable. Actions weren’t premeditated. They didn’t hide and jump out unless someone had trapped them. They could be quiet, but silence ended with stimulation and they were easily and often stimulated. They were most dangerous when in numbers.
The one closed door was a linen closet, at the end of the hall. To the right was another guest room; to the left was Ben’s room. There was a bed, desk, and bookcase like Cindy’s, only this room was more masculine and that of a teenager. Sports banners were scattered about the walls, a few trophies, but still neat as a pin. On the bookshelves, with a picture of himself and Grandy, were the Hunger Games books, as well as titles by Robert Ludlum and Stephen King.