Something Wicked SF and Horror Magazine #5

by Something Wicked Authors

  * * * *

  They come in a white van, men in gasmasks and HAZMAT suits. They put him in a black body bag and put a tag on his toe. They spray down her apartment and clean her rugs. She watches herself shivering, wrapped in a grey blanket they have given her. “Doctor Shelley, your boyfriend is a victim of a pandemic sweeping the country. We are struggling to contain this virus. First reports came in at three this morning, already there are seventy-two deaths.” The bald liver-spotted man reminds her bizarrely of her grandfather. She watches his wrinkly lips stretch dryly as he speaks and remembers doing the same as a little girl while her grandfather read her Charlotte's Web for the ninety-millionth time. The old man's name is Doctor Hermann Zeigler from the Centre for Disease Control. “We will need to have you quarantined.” They are ruining her couches. She laughs out loud at this random thought. Doctor Zeigler looks at her with understanding. Textbook shock symptoms, disassociation, irrationality. She laughs harder. And then she cries. And then she is fine again. They walk her through a plastic tunnel, into a van. She hopes she will be able to save her curtains.

  * * * *

  She stood leaning against her reflection, heaving and choking back tears. She had intended to scour the labs for a way out. But her code was not accepted. She retyped it repeatedly, each time the mocking message ‘ACCESS DENIED’ appeared. Out of frustration she punched the keypad. It fizzled static and died. The air vents, she discovered, were sealed shut. Complete lockdown. She hammered the mirror. Exasperated she wept. Hours blurred. Her hands bruised and dry blood crusted her knuckles. Finally with no more energy and no more will to escape she collapsed to the floor in despair, her head resting on her arm.

  "Benji,” she whispered, watching the spider crawling towards her. “I'm sorry it had to be this way.” The spider stopped just before her face.

  "No, Eve,” it said, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you the way I did. We could still be together if I hadn't got sick.” The jumping spider spoke with the voice of her dead lover. “We could've healed them, all of them.” The spider made a sweeping gesture with its front leg. “But it's okay. It's not your fault.” She closed her eyes; a tear ran silently down her sticky cheek. The small black spider climbed onto her face and drank of the salty water.

  "I wish it had been different,” she said softly.

  "I know,” said the spider.

  "I wish we could be together again.” With a gentle finger, she lifted the spider from her face and gazed at it. And for a moment she felt as though she were once again gazing into Benjamin's deep dark mesmerizing eyes. The spider acknowledged this with a sombre nod. It moved like a finger tracing the palm of her hand to the soft flesh of her wrist. Without saying another word it kissed the delicate skin, sinking its bared fangs directly into the artery. She closed her eyes as a sensuous sigh escaped her. It was a beautiful act of mercy.

  * * * *

  She looks at her dead body curiously. The white silk night-slip clings softly to the curves of her pale, limp body. She is so beautiful, so serene beneath the white fluorescent lights. Perhaps I will return as a spider, she thinks.

  * * * *

  E-mail From: Doctor Hermann Dietrich Zeigler Sent: Mon 2014/10/ 27 07:03AM

  To: Professor Caleb Harris

  CC: Backup@research.projectPsychron.org

  Subject: Eve

  To Professor Harris

  It is an honour to report that invaluable progress has been made in the areas of modern psychology and the effects of isolation. At 04:51 GMT 2014/10/27, subject Eve Shelley passed away, of an as-yet unknown cause after a relatively lengthy stay of fifty-seven (57) days at our facility. Eve was chosen because of her involvement in psychology, allowing us to record whether her knowledge would shield her from our artificial and psychologically barren environment.

  Eve's recruitment involved an elaborate hoax and Eve joined us under the false pretence of being a research subject for the CDC. She was thoroughly convinced that a plague of flesh-eating virus was destroying all human life on earth. This belief was induced by the staged death of her lover and patient (which if I might say was excellently planned and executed by our field team.) The scenario of an apocalyptic plague provided Eve with the perfect justification for the meaningless tests we had her carry out.

  While her body remained relatively healthy, the heartbreak and loneliness inflicted on her psyche by the death of her patient/lover caused severe psychological trauma. This emotional pain strengthened her will to accomplish the meaningless tasks setby our researcher and was ultimately, we believe, the cause of her death.

  As expected, in isolation and starved of human contact, she developed a bond with the harmless jumping spider (Arachne Salticidae) that was introduced (by suggestion of one of our observers) to note her reaction. The spider became a companion to her; she even went so far as to name it after her male companion and affectionately referred to it as “Ben."

  The final stage of the experiment was a success. By playing on her paranoia, it was easy to convince her that she was the sole survivor of this supposed apocalypse. This was the proverbial final straw; I have attached preliminary footage of her final hours that I'm sure you will find most fascinating. I do apologize for the lack of audio in parts; we shall install floor microphones before research continues.

  A full report will be compiled and sent to you via secure link as soon the autopsy results arrive.

  Yours faithfully,

  Dr. H. D. Zeigler

  Michael Taljaard is a 20 year-old East-Londoner who once told his Grade 1 classmates and teacher; “I'm going to be a writer when I'm big,” (having just proudly finished his first school essay.) Writing was his third career choice. Being an astronaut seemed rather risky and he was told being a dinosaur was out of the question. Michael is now slightly bigger and writes slightly longer essays. He avidly follows the career of Stephen King and critically reads anything from Eastern Philosophy to shampoo labels. He is a third year BA student majoring in English and Psychology and continues to write in order tocurtailhis rampant prehistoric inclinations.

  This is Michael's first story for Something Wicked.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  HUNGRY WHISPERS by David De Beer

  illustrated by Kobus Faber

  * * * *

  * * * *

  * * * *

  FEED US.

  Mia crumpled the note in her hand and managed a weak smile for her daughter.

  "Morning, baby, you sleep okay?” Mia turned around, taking care to hide the note beneath a magazine and busied herself with Stacy's toast.

  Stacy yawned, rubbing her eyes and taking a seat at the small kitchen table. “Morning, mama. I couldn't sleep last night."

  "Oh?” Mia only half-listened, spreading butter and jam on the toast. “Too excited about going back to school?"

  Stacy scrunched her nose, bringing a smile to Mia's face.

  "Eat up now,” she said, putting her daughter's breakfast down in front of her and getting herself a coffee. Stacy didn't wait for a second invite.

  "Is daddy coming back today?” Stacy asked, around a mouthful of toast and a slurp of orange juice. Mia took a slow sip from her mug, using that as an excuse not to reply instantly.

  She wished she could just blurt out the truth. Your daddy is in New York, getting a blowjob from the guy who was best man at our wedding.

  It struck her as being an unethical thing to do, so instead she said: “No, sweetheart, he's very busy with his new job.” She nearly giggled at the unintended meaning of her words. “He'll come by next week."

  Stacy nodded, too distracted by her breakfast. From up in the ceiling, Mia heard a rustling sound.

  "Damn rats,” she muttered. She would really have to get somebody in. She wished she had some money. She wished she had a job.

  They were almost at the school when Mia saw Stacy stifling a yawn and remembered her earlier comment.

  "Did you have a bad dream last night? That why you couldn't sle
ep?"

  "No."

  Mia waited, but Stacy stayed quiet.

  "Well? What was it then?” Mia asked.

  "The whispers,” Stacy said.

  Mia frowned. “What whispers?"

  "The ones from the ceiling."

  Mia laughed and signalled a left turn.

  "Oh, baby, that's just the rats. Don't worry about it, mommy will get somebody to come and clean them out."

  Stacy shook her head in denial, a stubborn set to her seven-year old jaw. “These weren't no rats, they were whispers, whispers with teeth in them."

  Mia parked the car in front of the school, gave her daughter a kiss and watched her until she was safely inside the old double-story brick building.

  She drove home, parked the car and walked all the way into the kitchen before she allowed the shivers to take over her body. From the ceiling, she heard the soft, quick scrabbling that had become a part of her life in the last few weeks. Trembling, she reached beneath the magazine and pulled out the neat, pencil-scribbled note. She read the two words again:

  FEED US.

  She tossed the note in the waste bin, fighting down her anger. “It's just a sick joke of Jeremy's,” she muttered.

  * * * *

  She hadn't told him she had a new cellphone, so Mia wasn't surprised when he picked up on the third ring.

  "Jeremy Burns."

  His familiar, clear baritone invited confidence and assurance. A lie.

  "Jeremy?"

  She could almost feel the phone turning to frost in her hand.

  "Oh. Mia. It's you."

  She swallowed, hesitating. A familiar voice piped up in the background. She couldn't hear what he said, but the sound of Mark's voice was enough to fuel her anger.

  "Jeremy, the last three cheques never came."

  If she hadn't been able to hear his breathing, Mia might have thought the line had gone dead.

  "Yeah, listen Mia, things are a bit tight around here.” She had to stifle an irresistible urge to giggle.

  "Give me a few months,” he said. “I've got a really big project in the works and the payoff is going to be huge. But I just can't afford anything beyond the bare necessities right now. Why are you laughing?"

  She bit down on her lip. “I wasn't."

  "You were."

  "I wasn't. Oh, it doesn't matter, Jeremy! I need that money, we have rats in the ceiling and my spare fund is nearly exhausted. The water and lights bill came too."

  "So? Didn't you get a job, yet?"

  Mia closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “It's not that easy, I don't have any work experience. Remember? It was your idea, when we got married, that I stay at home and raise the kids."

  Kids. Plural. She had believed him, too. Another lie.

  Jeremy coughed, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “Uhmm, yeah, well, things didn't quite work out the way we planned, did they?"

  "No.” What else could she say?

  "Listen, Mia, I want to help. Really, I do. But I just can't right now. You understand that, don't you? This thing I'm working on, it's huge, babe. It's for all our sakes. Can you hang on just a little while longer?"

  In the end, she gave in. Like she always did.

  "Yeah, I guess. Are you coming to Stacy's birthday next week?"

  The sound of his breathing was loud next to the silence of her own held breath.

  "Damn, I forgot about that. Listen, will you apologize to her for me? I'll make it up to her, I swear, but I've got this really..."

  "Jeremy."

  He paused. Mia interrupting him was new, uncertain ground.

  "Yeah?” His voice was cautious.

  "I am glad you finally found the courage,"—now that your parents are dead—"to come out and be yourself. To live out your sexuality the way God intended.” You took nine years of my life, you son of a bitch!

  Surprise coloured Jeremy's voice. “Why, thanks Mia. Your support really means a lot..."

  She cut him off again. “But being a newly liberated bum-chum doesn't excuse you from your fatherly duties."

  She didn't need to check the Siemens’ screen to know the call was ended. Mia realized that she hadn't heard a single rustle from the roof throughout the entire conversation.

  * * * *

  The good news, she discovered, was that there were many jobs available in advertising. A few were even willing to try out someone who had no work experience. The bad news was that their enthusiasm dropped to below zero when they found out said person of no experience was a single mother just shy of her thirty-fifth birthday.

  After the fourth query, and fielding a polite reminder that her insurance premiums were due, Mia felt too depressed to do anything more than sit on the sofa and cry along with Oprah's guests.

  An hour before she had to pick up Stacy, she took a bath, washed and dried her hair, lightly put on makeup and got dressed. She chose the navy skirt and a white blouse with low heels. She decided against stockings. The day was pleasant and Mia took pride in her well-toned legs. Morning TV aerobics paid off well. Finally, she appraised herself in the mirror. Mia was a little dismayed at the bags beneath her eyes and increase in wrinkles, but overall she was satisfied that she looked the part of a working woman.

  That thought made her giggle. Her father had always been skeptical that a degree in advertising could be useful.

  The rustling started the instant Mia and Stacy walked back into the house. It stopped and Mia glanced upwards, swearing under her breath. The ceiling had been silent all day. Between that silence and her own despair, she had clean forgotten to do some inquiries for rat control.

  "You used a bad word,” Stacy said, eyes wide.

  Mia grinned, feeling sheepish. “Yes, I did. If you don't tell anyone, then neither will I."

  Stacy's laugh was the pure joy of innocence. Mia felt the heaviness lifting from her.

  "Tell you what, why don't we get some movies and pizza tonight?"

  Stacy looked uncertain. “It's a school night."

  Mia winked, flipping open her phone and punching the delivery number. “I'm your mother. You wouldn't disagree with your mother, would you?"

  Stacy grinned back. “No, ma'am!"

  * * * *

  Her daughter's scream had Mia out of bed and running before she was fully awake. She charged into Stacy's room, slamming her palm down on the light switch.

  "Stacy? Stacy! What is it?” She scrambled for the bed, where a white-faced Stacy sat cradling her hand close to her chest. She lifted her tear-streaked face to her mother.

  "They took it! They said they were hungry and they took it!"

  "What...” She had to swallow, get moisture into her throat. “Who took what, baby?"

  Stacy held up her right hand. Her index and middle fingers bled freely, the first joints on both gone.

  "The whispers! The whispers with teeth came and took my fingers!"

  She tried to get hold of Jeremy. Even dialling from Stacy's phone only got her straight to voicemail.

  Employing rusted knowledge from high school crash courses in first aid, she bandaged Stacey's fingers as well as she could before bundling her in the car and racing for the hospital.

  Worried, Mia darted looks at her daughter's pale face and shallow, hoarse breathing while she ran red lights and stop streets and winged around corners at reckless speeds. It was a small mercy traffic was light. She bit her lip; Stacy needed a doctor. But how do you explain your daughter losing the joints on her fingers?

  She could just imagine that—sitting outside the surgeon's room and a woman with a false smile walks up to her, saying: “Mrs. Burns? I'm from social welfare and would like to take a little moment of your time to discuss exactly how you could be so negligent regarding your only child."

  Her husband had walked out on her; she was unable to get a job. Stacy was all she had, and no one was going to take her away.

  She was so tired of always being helpless; she needed to find a way to take control of their lives.


  The nurse gave her a disapproving scowl and “harrumphed” a few times, but Mia and Stacy had been over the story a dozen times en route to hospital. Stacy was a child, who would doubt her?

  "I tried to feed a stray dog on the street and he bit me."

  Mercifully, they let her through without insisting that the admission forms be filled in first. “You can fill them in while the doctor is busy with your daughter. Do you have medical aid?” the nurse asked.

  "I don't,” Mia admitted.

  "Then payment must be made in full, in cash. You can do that afterwards."

  The old surgeon, though clearly unhappy, accepted their story. “Hmm, unusual bite marks, less ragged than most animal bites I've seen,” he said while giving Stacy her tetanus shot and stitching the cuts afterwards.

  A harried-looking nurse stuck her head through the door. “Doctor, multiple gunshot victims just came in. We need you."

  The old doctor sighed. “Be right there.” He gave Mia a tired smile. “She'll be okay now, but watch her carefully in the next few days and don't hesitate to bring her the instant it looks like she's taking a turn for the worse. In a few weeks or so, bring her in or take her to your local GP to have the stitches removed and to take a look to see whether the bites are healing properly."

  Mia swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Thank you."

  "You're welcome.” He nodded and walked off.

  When the nurse asked for the forms, Mia stuttered, admitting she hadn't even looked at them yet. She could feel the emptiness in her wallet like a brick weight dragging on her purse.

  "Stay here, I'll come collect them when you're done,” the nurse said. Mia waited a few minutes, and then picked Stacy up and sneaked out.

  "They're just rats,” she muttered, driving home. “Mean rats, but they're just rats."

  Stacy's breathing had calmed, although her face was still sweaty and pale. Carrying Stacy through the kitchen, she spotted a roll of money on the table, on top of a scrap of paper.