HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  A good portion of the crowd returned to their seats while others worked their way to the restrooms. The few that continued toward the exits were met by ushers who whispered something which convinced every person to remain for the upcoming event. In all, Jonah guessed there to be well over fifteen hundred attendees swirling around the chapel’s floor.

  “Bigger,” he mumbled and exited the sound booth, stomping down the back stairs. “I told her we needed to build it bigger.”

  Jonah navigated the myriad of parishioners and through the “Staff Only” door which led below the floor and stage. The tunnel stood in direct contrast to the eggshell white walls and crystal chandeliers seen by the public. Here, not even whitewash splashed the concrete walls—only a rough gray cinder block and concrete maze of corridors wound their way under the Sonrise and Be Saved chapel. After two lefts and jogging along the fifty yard shaft leading stage left, he emerged through a tight opening only an anorexic could call an access point. A boom operator, nursing a cup of coffee before the next show, grasped an arm and helped extricate him from the makeshift stairway.

  “Helena,” he managed to blurt.

  The operator finished another swallow of liquid caffeine and motioned with the half-empty cup to the layers of white curtains.

  “Sister Helena?” Jonah shouted louder than intended, winning curious looks from the stage crew. Embarrassment flushed as he walked into the curtains. Slit after slit was found and stepped through, sending him closer to center stage. Thoughts of childhood, playing in his grandmother’s laundry as it line-dried, flooded forth and brought a rare honest smile.

  “Jonah…here.”

  Jonah turned left and made his way through three more gossamer layers and arrived center stage. With the main curtain down and no less than a dozen layers on either side and behind them, the draped fabric created a semblance of structure as he entered the stage proper. Two giant spots glowed on the front curtain and filled their space with a softer, but still pronounced, light. That’s where he found her.

  Helena stood behind a white glass-topped desk. She took off her earpiece and left the wire dangling along the V of her blouse. The plastic wire danced against the lace collar before its ear-hook snagged.

  “We’ve got twenty minutes until you’re back on-air. Shouldn’t you be in makeup?”

  Helena smiled. “Are you saying you think I need makeup?” With a gentle pull, she drew the leather chair, also dyed white, out and leaned forward, resting both arms on the seat’s back. The mane of hair fell forward and framed not only her face, but a generous amount of cleavage visible from where he now stood.

  “No…no.” Jonah shifted his gaze, albeit reluctantly, away from his benefactor and squinted against the spotlight’s illumination. “I mean that you’re back on-air in just a few and everyone,” he looked at her, straining to keep eye contact, “and I do mean everyone, needs a little help when on camera.”

  “Not after tonight.” Helena said. The corners of her mouth broadened as she played with the coiled earpiece.

  “There no time for this. Let’s get you ready.” Jonah walked over and started guiding her to one of the side curtains. She stopped short of stepping through and placed both hands on his chest.

  “Do you remember when we first met?”

  “Helena,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “leave that for the P.R. to iron out.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, Helena. I remember.”

  “Me barely out of my teens and doing whatever I could after that horrible marriage.” She pushed against him, closing the foot of distance between them. “You taking me in, teaching me about everything from psychic cold readings to what most orbs actually are in spirit photography.” Fingers massaged his chest, splaying then raking nails across his nipples. “Out of focus dust particles caught by the flash. Isn’t that right?”

  Jonah backed up another step, glancing at the front curtain, concerned about the congregation massing just a few yards beyond.

  “You remember, right?” Taking another step forward, she pushed him back. Jonah first stumbled, then managed to maintain his footing by balancing against the edge of the desk. “You remember about the half a million in donations that disappeared two years ago?”

  “A quarter million,” he stammered.

  “Oh no. It was a cool half million.” She placed the hand on his chest again. “I know you took it.”

  Her smile appeared, to Jonah at least, more painted on at this close distance rather than actually there. “I…didn’t…”

  Helena caressed the side of this cheek. “Oh, but you did. I know because I took the other quarter million.” An unexpected shove forced Jonah off balance and onto the desk. In pursuit, she opened the skirt’s fold and straddled him. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “You swore you were with me in this ‘til the end.” Manicured hands fumbled with his trousers, fanning the belt and reaching into his now exposed green boxers.

  “I…” Jonah looked around in a panic, grabbing at her only to have his half-hearted efforts slapped away. “No! We can’t. Not with…”

  “Just be quiet and hurry.” Helena bent and delivered a kiss, her tongue snaking between Jonah’s lips. She reached down and gripped hard, squeezing his member to arousal.

  Jonah watched dumbfounded as the woman he’d known for years jerked the pants open and pulled his manhood free. She scooted forward to guide the rigid piece of flesh under the skirt and into her. Silky wetness enveloped him, and Helena took her time to draw out the moment. His hands found a life of their own and went to her thighs, fingertips stroking from stocking to bare skin. Her hips rolled and instinct took over where decorum left off. He thrust against the rocking, breathing in time with her and feeling the healer’s own passion draw him closer to climax.

  “Matheson,” she purred.

  He faltered, stopping mid-thrust.

  Helena ground down hard, eliciting an uncontrolled buck from Jonah. “I didn’t say stop.” She went on, picking up speed. “I know you put the travel notes in his locker.” Another pubic thrust returned him to sex’s fluid motion.

  “The police were getting too…ohhh.” He forgot what he was saying.

  “…too close. I know. That was number nine.”

  Jonah grabbed onto her hips, animal tension overtaking him. “I…wha…?”

  “Number nine.” She grinned and matched his rhythm. “Thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor.”

  He stopped again only to have Helena’s motions continue him along. “Stop.” The grinding continued, pressing his butt cheeks down on what felt like the rings of her day planner.

  “Oh, no. Not until we’re done.” She flexed, and Jonah clenched his teeth. “You know he was stomped to death while in lockup that first night. That was my doing.” The muscles surrounding him fluttered. “I have…oh God damn it, that feels good.” A chuckle escaped the healer. “There’s number three.”

  “Helen,” he switched to using her actual name, something he hadn’t done in years. “Talking about that while we’re…”

  “Say it,” Helena cooed,” say it.”

  “Having sex.”

  “Fucking.”

  Jonah ignored the vulgarity of the word, though not the action. He found her rhythm, moving in time with her, and felt the telltale clenching of a forthcoming climax.

  “Number three,” she panted. “You know…about not taking God’s name in vain.”

  Realization of the statement about orchestrating Greg Matheson’s death struck home just as Helena’s orgasm ripped through her. Short barks of passion loudly escaped and he tensed, imagining the hundreds of people, just a stone’s throw away, stopping their conversations and preparations in recognition of their act.

  “Five minutes!” echoed throughout the building as one of the producers called out for the final countdown to air.

  “Five minutes and you…” she convulsed again, impaling herself against him, “you’re making this possible.”

>   Fear of being caught overcame passion. Jonah tried rolling onto his side to dislodge her, but she was firmly mounted and drawing him toward climax. Resigning to the inevitable, he gripped her waist and held tight as he spilled into her. Helena continued to move, though slowly now, draining everything he had to offer.

  “Thank you,” Helena whispered as she laid down on his chest. “Those were the final three.”

  “Huh?” He pushed her to the side, taking the time to make sure that no evidence of their act was visible on the front of her skirt. Jonah stood, tucked himself away, and began to straighten his clothes.

  Helena lay on her back, legs open in an obscene mockery of the persona they’d worked for over fifteen years to perfect. “Four, obviously, seven and ten.”

  He ignored the statement and went about rearranging the desk while tapping his own headset. “Geri, Helena’s at her stage desk. Get makeup here right away and touch her up. Micah, switch to camera three and tell the choir that there’s a change, we want to start the show with ‘Love’s a River.’”

  “Four’s an easy one,” Helena said.

  He glared at her. “Helena, get your head in the game. We’re on camera in just a few minutes. This…” he stumbled for an explanation and motioned at the desk, “was just too many years of working together. Nothing more than stress and nerves.” Jonah grimaced while struggling not to catch himself in the zipper. “We’ll…we’ll get past this.”

  “Four’s Keep the Sabbath Holy.” She rolled onto her side and brought a knee forward, exposing the leg to the hip. “And you know today’s Sunday.”

  “Damn it, Helena.”

  One of the six makeup artists stumbled through the same opening Jonah found, catching a low heel on the curtain’s hem. The artist blushed when she saw Helena’s disheveled appearance, certain of the cause. To her credit, she shook off the initial surprise, knelt and opened the modified tackle box, pulling a towel, brush, and base from the container. Only a single disapproving corner-of-the-eye glance came from the worker, darting from the healer to Jonah as she stood.

  Without warning, Helena reached up, grabbed her blouse and ripped it open, exposing a lacy white bra tinged with red where the under-wire met ribcage. A little scream escaped as her stomach distended, grossly mimicking a hand pressed against a garbage bag. The internal thumb teased her belly button as one would a nipple. Helena rolled off the table, leaning against the desktop for balance as she stood. Her own hand reached up and caressed the depressions between the raised fingers. “I’ve waited years to know number seven…to know you.” The statement came out in wet, ragged breaths. Bloody spittle fell, spattered the glass desk, and added a bruised shade of crimson to the peach lipstick she wore.

  Jonah grabbed at the makeup artist’s arm, fearful of being left alone in the waking nightmare.

  “If Tom were dead tonight wouldn’t be worth any—” Helena doubled over, breasts swung as the bra took on a decidedly redder tinge than seconds earlier. “Oh…I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.” She looked up at her audience of two. “You remember Tom…my husband. The bastard’s in California under a bridge somewhere and stoned out of his ever-loving mind.” Her body rocked back and forth, a marionette sans strings. “He has six months left at best. I just got…lucky.” With the last word, she stared at Jonah’s groin, fresh beads of sweat peppering her brow.

  “Helena, what in hell—”

  “Hell? You have no idea about Hell.” The healer forced herself to stand upright, hand impressions doubled in number, one stretched itself between skin and ribs, pushing under the bra to cup her left breast in a fashion nature never intended. Skin darkened as it separated from the fascia and lifted. Helena’s eyes rolled back into her head, though through ecstasy or agony was left to each of the onlookers to decide for themselves.

  “AIDS,” she spat between huffing gasps for air. “A stupid needle prick nearly ruined everything.” More gasps followed as one of the impressions moved downward, disappearing under the skirt’s waistline and doubling her over again a second later. “H…hard to believe it was a different needle prick that saved the day.” She moaned, feet spreading to allow the hand its passage. “Number…seven… adultery.” Helena moaned louder, letting out a long nasal tone. Blood trickled out and wept down the corner of her mouth. “The bastard actually wanted a divorce.”

  “You,” Helena turned a now ashen face to her partner, “you were the key.” Blood welled on her lips and she licked it away. “You watched me for years…played with that noodle while watching the security cams in my dressing room. I knew you could help me speed things up. You…” Her words choked off and she convulsed, hips rocking in an exaggerated mimic of what Jonah took part in only moments ago. A gush of blood dropped from under her skirt, chunks of organ matter splattered against white satin heels.

  Jonah muttered, “Dear God.”

  “God, yes. But not…not…” Helena looked up, eyes bulging and bloodshot. One of the sub-dermal hands forced its way up from under the collarbone, across her throat, and came to rest along the side of her jaw, cutting off any further words or air. More hands pushed to the surface, stretching the skin everywhere visible, leaving the surface appearing bloated and writhing. A silent scream formed on an open mouth, denied the air needed for tone. One eye slipped free of the socket and a single red-slicked fingertip slid out, exploring the lashes in an obscene fashion.

  All the hands spasmed within Helena. Every visible inch contracted. The action repeated and the internal structure vanished from her front, leaving an upright sack of flesh bearing little resemblance to the faith healer but still managing to stand. Her torso concaved, drawing in where bones should be, but allowing the outer edges to remain. Impressions of hands gripped ribs, breaking them free. Skin stretched, then darkened beyond that of any surfacing bruise already welling. Dermal layers split, cracks opening further along the remains of breastbone, working down to the pubic bone. A crevice formed, starting at her belly button and slicing up to the neck. Flesh separated and opened with a sucking hiss. The effect appeared like dry leaves caught in an autumn breeze.

  Helena’s seized body shaking with epileptic fury, her one remaining eye looked over at them, weeping a viscous fluid while her mouth remained locked in an over-exaggerated O. Skin flapped along with hair against a breeze drawn into her from the room. Papers fluttered and two flew free, dancing briefly before they disappeared into the hole which had once been her chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, the healer turned, giving Jonah and the makeup artist a more direct view into her depths.

  Light shone into the tunnel that was once Helena Crane. A well of bone and flesh bored deep, miles deep, then fell lost in a Stygian blackness beyond reason. The contrasting physical impossibility hurt Jonah’s head.

  Something in the void moved and the makeup artist blubbered, “Nuhnuhnuh…nuh nuh nuh …nuhnuhnuh nuhnuhnuh.”

  Jonah glanced over and saw the aid shaking her head, though her eyes never left the abomination before them.

  A hissing sound came from the darkness within Helena. Inside, things moved just beyond the light’s reach. Shadows shifted, creating shapes almost human, but not quite. More forms clustered at the edge of illumination, bordering on the choke point of the healer’s body.

  “God,” he managed.

  Helena blinked, and Jonah felt the artist flinch at the sight. Both arms opened wide and stuck straight out from her sides.

  The first pulled itself from the darkness. No bigger than a child, it stared at them with three pairs of blue eyes, each blinking a different speed than the rest from atop the hairless, domed head. The jagged edges of a hole where its nose should be, flexed like that of a rabbit, testing the air. Pasty white skin covered the creature, showing every piece of filth clinging to it. Hands reached out of the healer and pushed against her hips in an attempt to free itself. Brown ichor stained the skirt and the creature fell to the floor. Bone spurs protruded in multiple directions, leaving angles and implied joints where no h
uman had them. Flopping on the floor, it unsuccessfully tried to right itself as another followed through.

  Appendages proved the best descriptive word as Jonah struggled to comprehend the second beast. The ropy mandibles went from cheekbone to underneath its chin, twitching with agitation. Its head pushed through Helena, tearing the opening wider and allowing a watermelon-sized pink cranium through. Though the basic features of a skull shone clear, the thing lacked actual eyes and nose, only the mouth appeared recognizable. A knot of tentacles roughly resembling an arm reached in their direction.

  Survival instinct kicked in and he shoved the makeup artist at the groping monstrosity. The knot separated, slithering into her hair and entwining around the amber locks. A single pull launched the woman into the chasm, left leg snapping with a muffled crunch as she disappeared inside.

  He waited for the scream and was rewarded, though the muffled voice sounded so distant he doubted anyone in the audience caught the shriek.

  With the larger beast gone for the moment, Jonah saw a dull glow deep inside the rift. The void filled with things crawling toward them, things with segmented eyes and mandibles, legs bearing jutting signs of excited humanity, and hands, hands on arms, on legs, one even covering itself as a makeshift codpiece.

  An army of insanity.

  Madness.

  Legion.

  “…and we’re on!”

  The curtain rose to the audience’s screams. White fabric turned red throughout the chapel and a new chorus, one of tortured pain, broke into a song as old as time itself.

  Jonah was beyond screaming.

  He bore witness, along with ten million viewers, to what The Vessel offered.

  Henry Snider is a founding member of the award-winning Colorado Springs Fiction Writer’s Group (http://www.csfwg.org). During the last two decades he’s dedicated his time to helping others tighten their writing through critique groups, classes, lectures, prison prose programs, and high school fiction contests. He retired from the CSFWG presidency in December 2008. After a much needed vacation he returned to writing, this time for publication in mid-2010.