by C. W. LaSart
It’s her constant nagging that’s driven me crazy. The stress of putting up with her harping all those years had caused a nervous breakdown of some sort. I’m not demented, just plain fed-up! She has even turned my son against me. William thought about the way Max had spoken to him. His harsh, accusatory tone. He thought about his job. Never gone a single day due to illness, and they pushed him out the second something started to go wrong with his mind. But not Kristi, her mind was just fine.
Something tugged at the hem of his robe and he looked down, watching as the squirrel bit the terry cloth.
The stubborn little bastard made it. He felt an overwhelming sympathy for the beast roll through his chest, constricting his lungs so he couldn’t draw a breath. The anger flared anew, almost crippling in its intensity. In that moment he knew what he should do. His head was fuzzy again and he was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight as memories and emotions warred with darker images he didn’t want to see. He knew what he could do to make it all better for him and the squirrel.
Rising to a painful crouch, William cupped his hands around the squirrel, wincing only slightly when the rodent sunk its large, yellow teeth into the pad of flesh at the base of the thumb. He cradled it to his body and slowly climbed the porch steps, each step making his head and ribs sing out a duet of agony. At the back door he stopped and turned towards Devon.
“You coming, old dog?”
The hound looked at his owner, then at the half-dead creature still cradled in his hands. He whined and sat down.
“Suit yourself. I’m going in.”
Devon whined again in indecision, then bolted up the steps and slunk through the door before it closed.
***
“Oh Damnit, William.” Kristi walked across the lawn to where the ladder still leaned against the back of the house for the second day in a row. “I guess I will have to put it away myself. And what’s this?”
The shattered remains of her favorite lawn ornament lay in the grass and she felt her irritation ramp up another notch, until she noticed the pool of sticky blood. A crimson- smeared rock lay close by, as well.
Oh no! William.
She had feared this day would come. For months Kristi had left for work every morning wondering if it was safe to leave William alone. She had fought with her oldest son for months about whether they should tell him what was going on, but William had some pride and she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. Now she may be too late.
Her high heels caught on the steps and she fell forward in her haste to get into the house, tearing her panty hose and skinning one knee. Climbing back to her feet, she flung open the door, calling out to her husband in a panic-stricken voice.
“William!” The lights were off and all the blinds closed, casting the interior of the kitchen in gloomy shadow. Kristi smelled the dogshit a second before she stepped in it and slid, her hand grabbing the counter to keep from falling.
“Ouch!” Something jabbed her palm. A sewing needle had pierced the flesh of her palm and she could see her sewing kit open on the counter. A small cry escaped her as she pulled it out with her teeth. The cry was echoed by a whine from across the room.
“Devon?”
The dog whined again but didn’t approach. Kristi reached for the light switch, freezing when William’s voice broke the silence.
“Don’t. The light hurts his eyes.” His voice sounded strange, groggy.
“William? Are you okay? What’s wrong with Devon?” She reached for the switch again.
“I said don’t!”
Kristi recoiled as if struck. She could see William’s silhouette in the doorway but little else. Something cold and wet touched her hand and she screamed, realizing belatedly that it was just Devon. He sat in front of her, whining and growling low in his throat, though William ignored him.
“I always wondered why you had so many spools of goddamned thread in your sewing kit. Who the hell needs all that thread?”
Kristi flicked the light switch, bathing the kitchen in a glow from the chandelier. She winced when she saw her husband, his hair matted with gore and the side of his blue robe dark with blood.
“Oh William. What happened to you?” She took one step toward him, then stopped when his lip turned up in a sneer, his eyes wild and darting.
“You wanted that goddamned squirrel gone.”
“William, you’re hurt. Let me call someone. Your head wound looks really bad.”
“Great idea. Why don’t you call that doctor that you’re probably fucking. Or better yet, call my son so you two can talk about how crazy I am.”
As he took slow steps towards her, his robe fell open and Kristi saw something on his side wiggle. Her mouth opened for a scream that wouldn’t come when she saw the atrocity sticking out from his side. Mangled and burned, its eyes scorched blind and milky, a squirrel jutted from his ribs. The thing squealed at her and she felt her bladder let loose, warm urine running down her legs. Thick, dark stitches held the creature to William’s skin, haphazard sutures still weeping blood. The thing struggled to be free, its teeth clicking shut as it cried out, straining the thread and tearing its own flesh in the process.
“Oh Jesus, William! What have you done?”
“Oh dear. Did you just piss yourself? Who’s old now? It’s okay, Kristi.” He took another step towards her and she realized he held something dark and sharp in his other hand. The poker from the fireplace. “I almost killed him because of you. You animal-hating bitch. But’s it’s okay. I fixed him. My body is still strong. It will heal him.”
William raised the poker over his head, his eyes bright with insanity as the dog growled and his wife shrieked.
“Shhhhhh, it’s okay, babe. I know there’s something wrong with my head. But it’s going to be all right. I mean, you have enough brains for both of us. And we have plenty of thread . . . “
MICAH’S MUSE
Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer on the day that he met Muse. When he graduated from school with his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing, he’d been filled with fantasies of becoming a best-selling horror author. Despite his professor’s constant harping that he should not write genre fiction, he still loved horror and planned to make his writing career with scary novels. He knew he’d have to start somewhere else first, so he took a position at the newspaper as a copy editor, telling himself it was just until he landed his first contract with a major publisher. Five years later, long years filled with writer’s block, interrupted by inconsistent streaks of stories that led to stacks of rejection letters so tall they fell to the floor every time he sat at his desk, Micah still worked at the paper, editing articles written by other people.
Micah learned all of the skills he needed to be a professional writer; but with perfect grammar, stellar clarity, and top notch mechanical skills, he still lacked the one thing he needed most: a story to tell.
No matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to come up with a tale worth telling. Even his most exciting ideas fizzled out as soon as he moved from planning and note-taking to writing. The few projects he’d finished came back rejected every time he submitted to a new market. The rejections, generic form letters that did nothing to help him hone his craft, usually just said his story wasn’t a good fit for them. Even his mother quit supporting his dream a couple years ago. She changed the subject whenever he brought it up now, no longer offering words of encouragement.
With his head full of thoughts of giving up and resigning himself to the life of a newspaper editor, Micah didn’t notice the old woman until she spoke his name.
“Micah.”
Halting mid-step, he looked around, startled out of his reverie by the eerie voice. The sun shone brightly that day, but he felt cold as he glanced down at the woman squatting on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. A dense clump of trees at the building’s corner obscured most of her in shadow.
“Do I know you?”
“No, but I know all about you, M
icah.”
The woman leaned forward from her crouch and became visible in the bright sunlight. Micah almost recoiled at the sight of her. As if she could sense his discomfort, the crone smiled, her few remaining teeth black with rot and her hair a snarled nest of greasy gray. Her clothing was filthy and repaired so many times that it seemed there was more patch to the dress than original material. On her feet was a pair of scuffed men’s loafers.
“Who are you?” Micah tried to look beyond the grime in an attempt to recognize her, but he felt certain he had never seen the old gal in his life. I’d remember someone this hideous.
“How about you just call me Muse.”
“Muse?”
“Yeah. That’ll do.”
Dark eyes of indeterminate color glittered from within the folds of a face so deeply lined and dirty that Micah thought a month of baths wouldn’t get it clean. The intensity of her gaze coupled with her repulsive smile made him uneasy. She doesn’t look like much of a threat, but street people can be crazy and unpredictable, he thought.
Time to move along. He started to step away.
“Now hold up, Micah.” Muse rose to her feet, moving more gracefully than he would’ve expected, though her joints popped as she stood. She hovered in the shadow cast by Micah’s towering frame. “I’ve got something for you, boy. Something you need mighty bad right now.”
Rummaging in a bag hanging over one hunched shoulder, she eventually pulled out a piece of paper to give him. When he didn’t take it, she thrust it at his hand, impatience darkening her creased face.
“Take it!” she snapped, and he reluctantly took the note and read it, barely able to discern what the spiky writing said. It looked like a website.
“What’s this?”
“What does it look like? Go type that in on the fancy computer you got in your office, and it’ll show you a contest for an anthology that’s taking submissions right now.”
“So what am I supposed to do about that?” Micah thought this whole episode with the strange woman seemed surreal.
“You’re gonna submit a story, stupid! And you’re gonna win.” Muse grinned again and let out a cackle.
“Listen lady. No disrespect, and I don’t know where you’re getting your information about me, but I’m not a writer. I don’t have anything to submit.” Micah tried to hand the paper back, but she held up one claw-like hand in refusal. He noticed her fingernails, long and twisted things, thickened and rimmed with black grime.
“Sure you do! You just don’t know it yet.” The blackened nubs of Muse’s teeth protruded haphazardly from diseased gums. Her horrible laughter turned into a wretched cough that folded her in half and made Micah fear she’d choke. He instinctively reached a steadying hand toward her, grimacing at the liquid hacking noises she made.
Without hesitation, Muse’s hands shot out with unnatural speed and clamped on either side of Micah’s face, fingers hooking behind his ears. He didn’t have time to react as she spoke a few words in a language he didn’t recognize and pressed hard with her thumbs into the center of his forehead before shoving him away and spitting an enormous wad of green phlegm at his feet.
“You crazy bitch!” Micah nearly fell on his ass as he stumbled back from the crone, rubbing his forehead. He could still feel the heat of her disgusting hands on his face. All traces of mirth left her face and when she spoke her voice carried a hint of menace, making goose bumps stand up along his arms despite the heat of the afternoon.
“The first one is free, Micah. Now go write your story.”
Micah hurried away, looking back only once to see that she had blended back into the shadows once again. It wasn’t until he made it up the three flights of stairs and locked the door of his apartment behind him, that he realized he still had the paper clenched in his fist. Shuddering at the memory of her touch, he tossed the scrap of paper into the garbage and went directly to the bathroom, taking a long, hot shower.
Nasty bitch probably gave me herpes! Not bothering to dress after his shower, Micah crawled into bed for a nap. The encounter had left him exhausted and he soon succumbed to a fitful slumber.
***
Micah woke that night disoriented and confused. He’d intended to only sleep for an hour, but the clock on the night table said it was past midnight and the harsh glow of the streetlights flooded the room through the open blinds.
Oh, shit! He had a project due in the morning and had intended to finish it after dinner. Micah crawled out of bed and pulled on a pair of clean boxers before padding barefoot into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It looked like he was going to have to pull an all-nighter if he held any hope of meeting the deadline. While the coffee brewed, he walked into his office (originally a second bedroom, but he put a desk and some filing cabinets in there) to turn on his computer.
After retrieving a cup of coffee, Micah returned to his desk with the intention of opening his files and working on the edit that was due in a few short hours, but found himself opening a new document instead. After a few moments of staring at the blank screen, he began to type.
Starting out slow, but gradually increasing in speed, his fingers flew across the keyboard as if on autopilot; and as the story took shape, it seemed to flow straight from his hands rather than his mind. A feeling of excitement like he had never known gripped him as the tale unfolded. Each new word he typed was as completely foreign to him as if he were reading them in someone else’s story for the first time.
He sat forward, intently reading to see how the story would end. After typing the last word, he wept, secure in the knowledge that the story wasn’t just good, but great. Now he just had to submit it, but what did he do with the paper?
Panic bloomed in his gut and he raced into the kitchen, digging through the garbage frantically, trying to find the slip of paper that he wadded up hours before. It sat at the very bottom of the can, as if the importance of it had added actual weight. Micah took the note into the office and typed in the website, gasping at what came up on the screen. It wasn’t just any publisher and it wasn’t just any anthology. He immediately recognized the name as being one of the biggest horror publishers in the industry.
My story in this book would be my ticket to the fast lane! After checking the guidelines for formatting preferences, he held his breath and clicked submit.
***
Micah spent the next few weeks writing in an attempt to take his mind off waiting for a response to his submission, but it didn’t help much. He knew that most places required at least thirty days and sometimes up to six months before they responded, but still felt himself slipping into a dark depression. He tried to tell himself it was waiting that was doing it, but knew it was the writing that caused his despair. No matter what he did to try and replicate the experience of that night, he just couldn’t do it. He had some ideas during that time, even some decent ones, but as before, they turned cold as soon as he tried to put them on paper. He was close to giving up again, when he finally got an email from the editor of the anthology.
Nothing could have prepared him for what it would say.
Not only did they like his story, they loved it! The email went on to say that it was the best story they had received in years and they would love to see more of his work. Maybe he had a novel length piece they could review? Micah’s heart nearly stopped when reading the editor’s opinion that he could be the fresh voice in horror they had been seeking for a long time. This response was an answer to his most deeply held prayers. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Micah wrote back promising the editor he would provide the synopsis for a full length novel within the next few weeks.
Then anxiety began to set in. He doubled his efforts to come up with something decent, spending all of his free time and even some afternoons at work trying to come up with an idea that would knock them out. As always, it was fruitless. All of his ideas hit a brick wall almost as soon as they popped into his head. Micah felt the pressure to come up with something great
destroying him. The only thing worse than never making it at all, was the thought of making it once and never being able to do it again. He would rather die than become a one hit wonder.
He found himself checking the shadows by his apartment whenever he left, hoping to catch a glimpse of a nasty old woman in men’s loafers, but she never showed. Then, one afternoon, once his three weeks had almost lapsed and he had given up hope, Muse appeared at the deli.
She looked the same as that day on the sidewalk, maybe a little dirtier, when she sat down in the empty seat across from Micah. Being a creature of habit, he ate lunch at the same deli almost every day and was well known by the workers. The manager raised his eyebrows at Micah from behind the counter before shooting a pointed glance at the old woman. Shaking his head and winking at the man, Micah focused his attention on the hag, who smiled at him with a grotesque gleefulness.
“So you won, eh?” She reached across the table and took what was left of Micah’s sandwich, taking a noisy bite of the ham and cheese.
“Yes,” he said, glancing at the sandwich in her filthy hand and losing his appetite. “He wants a novel from me.”
Muse nodded her head and chewed, not responding. Micah waited, but still she said nothing, obviously enjoying his lunch. Micah looked at her, feeling disgusted and more than a little afraid.
“Well?” he asked, tired of waiting for her to respond. “Can you do it again?”
“Uh huh.” Muse caught his eyes with a level stare, popping the remainder of the sandwich in her mouth and swallowing before she continued. “But this time it’s gonna cost you.”
Micah had suspected as much, considering her parting words to him the last time they met.
“How much?” he asked, his tone business-like, as if they were discussing a housekeeping job rather than magic. The whole thing was crazy, but he knew that in some insane way, she had caused him to write the last story.
Muse waved her hand dismissively in his face. “I don’t want your money.”