Ad Nauseam

by C. W. LaSart

  Reluctantly opening her eyes, bewildered by the power of her arousal, Stella glanced down at her body where it floated in the water, and a scream bubbled out of her throat. Something small and strange had attached itself to her tattoo, a jelly-fish like creature with short tentacles and a translucent body. She flicked at it with her hand, but it clung to the flesh, unwilling to be dislodged.

  With a cry that was part terror and part revulsion, she squeezed its soft body, gagging as it let go with the sound of a suction cup peeled off glass. She threw it over the edge of the pool, her eyes wide in shock as she looked at what the awful parasite had done to her body. Her legs numb as orgasms continued to rip through her, she crawled up the steps and got to her feet, making her way unsteadily into the house and to the bedroom. Standing before the mirror, hands braced against the wall, her legs threatened to give out as yet another climax rocked her body. Her breasts still throbbed with sensation, though it now bordered on pain.

  Stella began to cry as she gazed at her reflection in disbelief. She took one hand off the wall and ran it over her flesh, sobbing as she traced the lines of the tattoo.

  Thorny vines that had once encircled the small rose bud on her hip, now streaked up her torso, encircling both her breasts and darkening her nipples. Her torso resembled a demented puzzle, thorny lines covering it in crazy jags. The vines also trailed over hip and across the shaven mound of her sex, disappearing in the cleft.

  She bent her knees slightly and spread the fleshy lips apart, crying out when she saw the tattooed vines disappearing into her vagina. Her slick flesh visibly rippled with the force of the pleasure/pain that gripped her pelvis. No, no, no. It can’t be! What the hell is going on? This can’t be happening to me!

  Movement on her chest caught Stella’s attention, and she looked up at her reflection, her eyes wide in her pale face as she watched the vines grow, dark ink sliding under the skin, across her chest and up to her neck. Crazy. I’m going crazy! Large buds began to form on either side of her throat. Her legs gave out as orgasms continued to shake her, now more painful than pleasant. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, watching as the buds continued to grow, starting to bloom on her skin.

  An unwanted vision rose in her head. Andrea finds her dead on the bathroom floor and shakes her head, a voodoo priest replete with painted skull face and feather bedecked staff stands beside her and points at Stella’s lifeless form accusingly.

  The buds bloomed fully, revealing a pair of hands that wrapped around Stella’s throat, the ink moving fluidly as it spread under her skin. Her face turned red, then purple as she began to cough, no longer able to draw breath as she felt pressure on her windpipe. She could see small blood vessels rupture in her face, dark blotches appearing in spider web patterns. Sliding down the glass, she fell to the floor, her face pressed against her own reflection.

  Her own face faded from view, replaced by a ghostly reflection of Michael in the mirror, his face purple with death, but his eyes boring into her own, accusing, knowing.

  Though there was no way he could’ve seen into the living room from where he had collapsed onto the floor that night, Stella knew that he knew exactly what happened. And he knew why. Looking into those hate-filled orbs, she saw herself rushing from the kitchen and finding his coat slung over the chair. Grabbing the Epi-pen from the pocket, she watched herself freeze, a look of panicked consideration on her face. She knows what was going through her own mind at the moment. He’s going to divorce me. He will leave me with nothing.

  Stella stands for a moment with the rescue syringe gripped in her hand, then she throws it under the couch, tears streaming down her face as she walks back to the kitchen. Michael reaches a clawed hand toward her, his mouth moving, but no sound emerges. She can read his lips. He says, ‘Please.’ Grabbing the phone off the cradle, she waits another five minutes after Michael has ceased moving to dial 911. She sobs into the phone asking for help and really wanting it, wanting someone to undo what she has allowed to happen, but it’s too late. The events can’t be undone.

  Stella lay on the floor, unable to breathe as the blood pounded in her head and her chest burned with the effort to draw in air. Her face was pressed against the mirror, but she could no longer see herself or Michael as bright flashes of light overtook her vision. She heard a roar in her ears and a cracking sound as the cartilage of her windpipe gave way. I take it back. I didn’t mean it. I was afraid. I’m so sorry! I take it back! Darkness took her sight as she drifted into unconsciousness, a searing pain in her chest as her heart sputtered and stilled.

  I’m sorry.

  BONE PHONE

  “Goddamnit!” Emily tripped over the box on her way out the front door of her duplex. Hot coffee sloshed over her hand, causing her to drop the mug. It didn’t shatter, but the remaining liquid spilled out, soaking the package that had caused all the trouble.

  Picking up the coffee mug and placing it on the glass-topped patio table alongside her cigarettes and ashtray, Emily turned back and got the box from where it sat. She carried it over to the table and set it down. She shook a menthol out of the pack and lit it. Taking a deep drag and holding it, she closed her eyes to relish the first cigarette of the morning. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the package.

  The bottom wasn’t too wet from the coffee, and it didn’t really seem to matter all that much, since the box wasn’t in the best shape to begin with. Stained and torn, its construction appeared to be more masking tape than actual cardboard. Nearly illegible, a name and address was scrawled in the lower right hand corner in black marker, but nothing else. No return address. No post marks.

  Emily pulled her reading glasses off the top of her head where they were perched more often than not, and squinted to make out the writing.

  Dominik Bettancourt. The address was in the city, somewhere downtown.

  So how the hell did it wind up out here in the ‘burbs? she wondered. Her house was at least an hour and a half drive from downtown, and that was if the traffic was light. Emily shook her head and took another drag of her cigarette.

  Lifting the box again, she tested its weight in her hands. Slightly larger than a shoebox, it was fairly heavy, and something inside rattled when she shook it. A frown creased her brow.

  Can’t exactly open it. It’s not mine.

  “Good morning.”

  Emily nearly dropped the box as she spun around to find the postman standing at the bottom of the steps. He smiled and held out a wad of letters for her.

  “Um, yeah. Thanks. Say, maybe you could help me with something.” She held out the box to him, tipping it forward so he could read the top. “I found this on my porch this morning. I don’t know what to do with it.”

  The mailman looked at the writing and scratched his chin for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Not ours. No postmark. Doesn’t look like UPS or FedEx, either. No marks at all.”

  “Well, could you take it with you? Maybe drop it off at the post office?”

  “Nope. Sorry, Ma’am. If it’s not ours, I can’t do anything with it. Maybe you could run over to the address and leave it there. Be quite a drive, though.” He shrugged his apology, already turning to walk away.

  “Yeah. Well thanks anyway.” Emily tucked the package under her arm and grabbed her coffee, heading back into the house where she dropped the box on her kitchen table. Refilling her mug, she perched on the edge of a chair and stared at the box for a long time, wondering just what she should do.

  I’m sure as hell not driving all the way into the city for this shit. I have work to do, she thought. Then she smiled as an idea occurred to her.

  Emily wandered down the hall to the spare room she’d converted into an office several years ago upon moving in. She sipped her coffee as her computer booted, then typed the name and address into a search engine. There were hundreds of hits, but she found a link halfway down the first page that looked promising. Crossing her fingers
, she clicked it and watched as a website opened. It looked like some sort of voodoo or witchcraft store called Dominik’s Dark Arts, and the address matched. There was a phone number listed just below the hours of operation.

  She jotted the number down on a post-it note and carried it back to the dining room, retrieving her cell phone from the counter.

  The phone rang four times before a machine answered, playing a pleasant male voice with soft wind chimes in the background.

  “You have reached Dominik’s Dark Arts. I’m sorry, but I will be out of town for the weekend. Normal store hours will resume on Monday. Have a Dark Day.”

  Emily waited for the beep before leaving her message.

  “Hi Dominik, this is Emily Haven. There seems to have been a mix up and a package meant for you was left on my doorstep. I will keep hold of it for the weekend so nothing happens to it. Please call me at your earliest convenience and we will figure out how to rectify the situation.” She left her cell number, said goodbye to the machine, and hung up.

  At least that was over. It was Friday, so she would have the whole weekend to work on her projects before possibly having to make the long trek into the city. Heading back to the office, she thought about the name Dominik Bettancourt, wondering where she had heard it before. Shrugging it off, Emily started her work for the day.

  She soon forgot all about the box on her table.

  ***

  Emily Haven was the founder and executive editor of Night Haven Books, a small publishing house she had built from the ground up, spending the majority of her thirties making it a success. Now in its tenth year of publishing, the company had earned a respected recognition in the field and won some awards for superior achievement by a small publishing house. Employing thirty part-time editors from all over the country, she used email and the internet to put together books and a print-on-demand press to put those books into online bookstores. Two of her contracted authors had recently made the bestseller list and business couldn’t be better. Her list of projects was long and always kept her awake late into the night.

  Shortly after midnight, Emily sat at her desk, putting the finishing touches on an anthology she was formatting. The duplex was silent, the family next door asleep. Though it was a nice neighborhood and an expensive house, she could still hear the goings on next door when the kids were particularly rambunctious or their television was turned up too loud. She had even been embarrassed to hear them fight on a couple of occasions.

  The sound of telephone startled her. Emily looked at her cell phone even though it was a regular ring she heard, not the jazzy ringer her cell was set to. She hadn’t owned a landline in years.

  It’s too loud to be coming from next door, she thought.

  Emily stood up and walked down the hall, the ringing growing louder as she went. Turning on the dining room light, she looked at the battered box on her table. The ringing seemed to be coming from within. Loathe to open someone else’s mail, but also afraid the noise might wake the children next door, Emily was unsure of how to proceed.

  There must be a cell phone in there. Maybe I could just slit the tape and shut the thing off. Then tape it back up again with no one the wiser.

  Grabbing a steak knife out of the block on the counter, she sat down at the table and stared at the box for a moment, willing it to be silent. It continued to ring, the shrill noise loud in the calm night. She was going to have to open it. Emily sighed and went to work, using the tip of the blade to carefully puncture the tape and slice it away. Just as she opened the flaps, the box gave a final ring and fell silent. She considered just closing it back up.

  What if it starts ringing again? Well, it’s already open.

  Emily reached gingerly into the box, encountering not a cell phone as she had expected, but something much larger. She grabbed it and pulled it out carefully, setting it on the counter. She was half right, it was indeed a phone, but one like she had never seen before. Roughly the size of an old rotary phone, the squat base appeared to be fashioned from a human skull, two milky grey stones glued into the eye sockets, and a realistic set of teeth grinned at her.

  Resting on two brackets which were screwed into the top of the skull was the handset, half of a thigh bone with two disks affixed to the ends as a mouth and earpiece. The handset was attached to the body by what looked like a heavy braid of dark hair. She lifted it up and traced her fingers across the smooth surfaces. Obviously it couldn’t be real bone, that wouldn’t be legal, but the artist had done a great job of making the resin look authentic, down to the pale yellow hue and small pits across the surface. There were a couple of teeth missing, the eye sockets deep and dark behind the semi-transparent stones.

  There was no way the thing could’ve really worked, with no jack to plug a phone line into, and no numbers or dial on the face, but it would certainly be a cool conversation piece for whoever owned it.

  Emily wished for a second that it was hers; it would make a fine addition to her collection of strange artifacts in her office. It would look right at home with the hideous dolls, monster busts, and replicas of wooden stakes and silver bullets. She lifted the phone to put it back in the box, then nearly dropped it as it let out a shrill ring.

  “What the fuck?” Setting the phone gently on the counter, Emily stared in disbelief as the gray stones in the eye sockets glowed an eerie red, fading and sparking in time with the shrill sound of the ringing phone.

  No way. She thought, wondering for a moment if she had fallen asleep while editing and was still slumped over her keyboard, having a strange dream. It’s not even plugged in.

  Emily cautiously picked up the handset, holding it up to her ear in a way that it didn’t actually touch her face.

  “Hello?”

  There was a heavy hiss of static on the line before a gravelly male voice responded.

  “Emily? Is that you, baby?”

  A sob lodged in her throat. It was impossible.

  “Daddy?”

  “Oh baby! I miss you. It’s been so long and I’m so lonely.”

  Hot tears gathered in her eyes, her knuckles white where she gripped the handset. She knew without a doubt it was her father’s voice. It had been a quick and terrible death eight years ago when they found the lung cancer. Four months from diagnosis to burial, and she missed and grieved for him every day since.

  “Oh Daddy. I miss you, too. I think about you every day. I wonder if you can see me, if you’re proud of me. I love you so much.”

  “Proud of you? Are you kidding, girl? How could I possibly be proud of you?” His voice changed, darker, harsher.

  Emily froze, her mouth moving but no sounds emerging as she struggled to make sense of the heartless words coming from her kind and loving and dead father.

  “Just what the hell have you done to be proud of, you worthless bitch? Look at you. No man, no family. What good is a woman with no babies? Does your success keep you warm at night? Did you want to grow up to be a lonely old woman with no one to fuck? You sit alone all night, typing away at your damned computer, your cold, hateful womb empty and worthless. I bet your fucking ovaries are shriveled black grapes.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Don’t worry, Emily. There’s a place in hell for you. For all you worthless, career-minded bitches who think you’re too good for a man. To goddamned high-class to squeeze a baby out of your rotten crotches. You’ll love it here. You’re gonna learn what a woman is really good for. They’re gonna fuck you in ways you never knew they could. Maybe I’ll take my turn and give those dried up ovaries a stir!”

  The skull phone made a loud crash as it hit the wall, knocking a decent hole in the plaster, but Emily no longer cared if she woke the neighbors.

  ***

  “Calm down, Em. There’s got to be some logical explanation. Someone’s just fucking with you is all.”

  “I don’t know how.” Emily drew a steadying breath, trying hard not to cry anymore. She had done plenty of that already as she relayed the horrify
ing details of the night before to Layla, her only sister. Her cell phone felt hot against her face.

  “I know you said you looked, but it was late. There had to be some hidden battery compartment or something. Some remote microphone in the thing.”

  “So how did they know what Dad’s voice sounded like, Layla?”

  “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe you were just thinking about Dad. We all miss him, honey. Maybe you were just missing him extra bad and your mind made you hear what you wanted to hear.”

  “Well I sure as shit didn’t want to hear that.” Emily snapped.

  “I know. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s a sick prank. You must’ve pissed someone off. Where’s the phone now? Maybe you should take it to the police.” Layla was always a calming influence, had a way of making those around her feel at ease regardless of the situation.

  “I threw it in the box and drove into the city. Took me two hours to find the place in the middle of the night, but I did. Left it right on the sidewalk in front of the guy’s store. I don’t care if it gets stolen. Whoever takes it will probably bring it back, anyway. I should’ve never called that guy and left the message. Now he’s gonna get pissed at me for not keeping it. Fucking store looked creepy too, all kinds of voodoo and witchcraft shit in the windows.”

  “Hey now. You’re into that shit.” Layla laughed and soon Emily found herself chuckling as well.

  “I don’t believe in it. I just like scary movies and horror novels. It’s not the same as living it.”

  “Well, Big Sis, maybe you need a vacation. Robby and the kids and I would love to have you.”

  With the subject changed, they talked for a few minutes about how long it had been since they’d seen one another and the cost of plane tickets from New York City to L.A. Layla refused to let Emily go until she had extracted a tentative promise that when things slowed down, Emily would visit them in California. Though she tried to remain upbeat after the conversation, Emily couldn’t help but feel awful for the rest of the day. The echo of her father’s words seemed louder when she compared her sister’s family to her own solitary life. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had questioned the decisions she’d made, but this time they seemed to have more of a dire relevance.