The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  George pulled the blanket around himself tight and turned on his side, keeping his eyes focused on the photo until he couldn’t keep them open anymore. There was nothing else to think about, not even the weird sounds of the imp running around what was now his house.

  The morning sun woke him as it always did, having slept little. Nowhere to go, except the corner deli for his morning coffee and the newspaper as any good out-of-work eligible bachelor would, his mind was still trained on the image of the imp with Ma. “How could she? What does this mean?” His sleep-deprived trance was disrupted. George rubbed the blur from his eyes and studied the floor around him – scraps of garden mulch and small muddy footprints of the cloven variety led in several directions across the TV room toward the kitchen and stairs.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” he growled feeling around the recliner for his baseball bat – it was missing. “I’ve had it,” he said after a long sigh.

  George followed the footprints to the front door and up the stairs, finding a green heirloom tomato along the way. He grunted and sighed. “Little bastard picked it too early, what a waste.” He pocketed the fruit. At the top of the stairs he found a trail of peppers leading toward his bedroom. He shook his head. “Why me? Why the garden?”

  The bedroom door flung open in immediate response to his voice to reveal a circle of tomatoes and peppers in the middle of the hardwood floor surrounding a small oil lamp from the shelf in the garage.

  “What the hell is this? Where are you?” he shouted. George approached the room and poked his head through the door. A high-pitched throaty sound cackled. He turned his head toward the sound – THWAP!

  * * *

  Sometime later in the day George woke up with a pounding ache on the side of his head. He immediately spotted his baseball bat on the floor beside him and attempted to reach for it – his arms were bound to his sides. So were his legs. He lifted his head enough to see he was wrapped in blue and white nylon cord with several large knots. He recognized the cord from the garage. Wiggling his body he attempted to roll onto his side with no success. He couldn’t even bend his knees or elbows. Twisting his neck he could see the grinning wingless gargoyle perched on the nightstand, roughly the size of a large cat.

  “Easy target,” the imp hissed.

  “What do you want?” cried George.

  “My house.”

  “Please let me go,” George said, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m just a simple man, don’t cause trouble for no one. This was my Ma’s house, I just moved in.”

  The imp’s smile grew revealing his little fangs. “Exactly.” He jumped from the nightstand and landed on George’s chest. Leaning his wrinkled face over George’s, saliva flowed from his fangs landing in dollops on George’s cheek. The viscous liquid felt like rubbing alcohol, a cool sensation followed by a tingling burn. The imp jabbed two long fingers against his forehead. “I Beazo. You simple and stupid. You don’t stay here, this house mine.”

  “This is my Ma’s house,” George shouted as he turned his head to keep the drool from entering his mouth.

  “My Ma. My house.” Beazo lowered his face over George’s, noses barely touching. “You stay, you mine too.”

  George tried to close his eyes to shut out the imp’s gaze, but he felt compelled to lose himself in those large black voids. Images of someone digging took over his brain. Ma’s priest again, but why him? George’s final thought lingered on the digging priest as he lost control of his consciousness. The room grew darker as the imp’s eyes glowed brighter. George felt the pain in the side of his head pulse as it spread forward and back continuing down his spine to his extremities. Lightheaded and nauseous, feeling like the general anesthesia he received just before knee surgery last October, a gray-black fog of spots obscured the sight of the imp’s face as George succumbed to sleep.

  * * *

  George woke the next morning in bed. The rope that had bound him was gone. So was the imp. He spotted the bat still in the same place on the floor and sat up. No memory of how he made it to bed, or the bathroom considering his lack of a full bladder. “What a mess,” he said looking around the room. Muddy footprints, large and small, covered the floor, some cloven prints on the top of his bedspread. Hands felt blistered, dry mud smeared under fingernails. Biceps and lower back ached. He noticed the mess out the window overlooking the backyard and worked his way toward it on wobbly legs.

  Plants and mulch were strewn about the backyard, a large pile of dirt sat in the garden. The old tool shed lay on its side decorated in splattered tomatoes and dirt with the door open spilling out the garden and yard tools. The lawnmower lay upside-down, presumably leaking gas. A freshly dug hole appeared near the rose bushes and the garden, one of the bushes perched over the edge with roots exposed, ready to fall in. George closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. “Ma,” he whispered, “what’d you do with this imp to cause this?”

  Confident in his assumption he knew what he had to do – call Father Joe, he must have known something about all this. He seemed to be key somehow. One problem though, he remembered, Father Joe was locked up in the loony bin after some scandal that was all over the local papers a few months ago. He recalled the front-page headline for its wonderful absurdity: Crazy Priest Digs Up Church Yard Bodies, Suspected Necrophilia. “Never mind, damn creep,” he told himself to dampen his own excitement.

  George contemplated the situation for a few more seconds and noticed Ma’s hydrangeas at the foot of the house were uprooted. “That’s it! No exterminator’s gonna believe me, cops will laugh at me. No point in calling anyone. It’s time for a fight.”

  He needed to prepare. After a hurried version of his morning routine straight from the bathroom to a brief breakfast in the kitchen he was ready. He noticed a trail of dirt leading from the kitchen back door to the living room but gave it no mind. He had to deal with the yard before the neighbors took notice.

  Dressed in denim overalls and work boots and armed with the baseball bat in one hand and a metal trash can lid in the other – in case there were more flying tomatoes – he crossed the backyard studying the surroundings. Other than the disarray the day seemed fairly normal. “But not normal enough,” he whispered as he approached the hole. “It’s gotta be six feet wide.” Studying the rose bush clinging to the earth for its life, he announced, “A damn shame Ma’s roses are a wreck.”

  “Excuse me, George?” called a familiar woman’s voice. George twisted around to see Joan from down the street standing halfway up the driveway. He could just make out her head over the top of the gate that led to the driveway.

  “You gotta be kidding me, now?” he muttered. George dropped the bat and trash can lid and walked over the greet Joan deterring her from entering the backyard. “How ya doin’, Joan?”

  “Fine thanks, just wanted to see how you’re doing, today being the anniversary of your sweet mother.”

  “Anniversary? Oh right, of course, I’m doing okay.”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “Barely slept. You know, grief.”

  “Ahh, of course.” She placed a slender hand on his shoulder. “I thought you might want to go for dinner this evening, get out of the house and enjoy yourself.”

  “Uh yeah, of course, love to. Gotta finish working on the yard first.”

  “I love the work you’ve done since moving in, this house has such curb appeal – it’s impeccable!”

  “Thanks, you’re sweet. How about you come by at six and I’ll drive us. I know a good seafood place by the shore.”

  “Wonderful, see you then.” Joan smiled. She turned to walk toward the street.

  “Beautiful sight,” said George as he studied her form-fitting yellow sundress swaying with each elegant step along the sidewalk until she reached the end of the block.

  The morning doves cooed and the robins chirped as they went about their business in the canopy above the property. A squirrel running across a power line leading to the house grabbed his attention. He w
atched a jet cleave the sky with its contrail until he realized he had a goddamn imp to deal with.

  George returned to the backyard, thankfully Joan couldn’t see much from the driveway over the fence and hedges from her point-of-view, he determined. He resume his offensive position, bat and trash can lid in hand and called out: “I said it’s a damn shame someone’s been messing with Ma’s garden.”

  He waited for a response. Still nothing. He walked briskly to the edge of the hole and looked into it – the blue and white nylon rope from the garage. Same stuff he was bound in the previous day. He surmised the hole was large enough to be a shallow grave, but saw no evidence of his notion.

  “Alright imp, Beazo,” he announced, “whatever your name is, I’ve had it with you.” He turned around looking for the imp or anything else that was not right. “You wanna fight? I’ll give ya a fight!”

  No response from the imp. A black squirrel ran across the yard toward the fire wood stack. George watched as the squirrel disappeared into the tree line appreciating the rare sight. A crow landed on a tree branch above his head and cawed. He settled into watching nature do its thing around him determining where to begin the cleanup. Disappointed by the lack of confrontation, George proceeded to stand the tool shed upright and fishing the rope out of the hole.

  As George finished refilling what he dubbed the grave by mid-afternoon, he heard the backdoor leading to the kitchen slam. He reached for the nearby bat leaning against a small tree and spun around. Keeping his focus on the door, he knelt down to pick up a shovel. He spotted the imp peering at him from the kitchen window and then disappear. “That’s it!” George charged toward the door, ready to beat down the little bastard.

  He entered the kitchen to a feint scent of decay and freshly turned soil. Looking around he spotted the trail of dirt he noticed earlier leading from the door toward his TV room. George followed, keeping his police knowledge from watching too many cop dramas at the forefront of his brain.

  He turned the corner to the TV room to see a figure – human size – occupying his overstuffed recliner. “Who’s there?” George dropped the shovel and gripped the bat with both hands and approached the recliner from behind. “Who’s there!”

  The body was stiff and unrecognizable, covered in dirt and debris and heavily decayed, the size of a smaller frail woman. Arms were folded over the chest, legs extended. George nudged an upper-arm with the tip of his bat. “Great, a dead body in the TV room, just great.”

  He focused on the face, trying to make sense of it. What skin was visible was darkened and dried, the eye sockets were filled with dry stuff like a mummy he saw on exhibit once. The remains of a blue tattered dress stuck to the skin. Blue dress? Something was oddly familiar; he felt the rising anxiety in his gut. He scanned the body for something he could pick out, and then there it was, Ma’s wedding ring. Barely recognizable encrusted with clumps of dried dirt.

  “Oh Ma…what the hell is going on here?” he cried, “What the hell were you doing in the backyard – we buried you at Saint John’s!”

  Beazo leapt onto the corpse and grinned. “Told you,” he cackled, “you mine. I control you.”

  George’s eyes were soaked. Beazo’s gaze transcended the tears stirring flashes of memories of digging his mother from the grave in the backyard the night before. “This can’t be real,” he cried. He threw his arms across the corpse’s bony shoulders and buried his face in her sunken chest. “This can’t be,” his sobbing continued. His mind raced to the night after the funeral, images of Father Joe with Beazo perched on his left shoulder clearing the freshly tamped soil from the burial plot.

  George let out a guttural shriek as Beazo leaned into George’s face gently pressing a sharp nail against his forehead. “You know what you did,” Beazo hissed.

  The cemetery scene returned to his mind, this time, with Father Joe’s help, they pried open the coffin and moved his mother’s body to the backseat of George’s minivan. He threw his face into the dry rotted flesh again and shrieked, the blue fabric sucking into his mouth as he hyperventilated.

  “You…” George raised his head and grabbed the imp around his small neck. “You evil bastard…you made me do this!” As he hardened his grip he felt his own neck tighten.

  Beazo threw his head back and cackled. “You make me, I make you, stupid.”

  George stood up and raised Beazo above his head. “You’re done.” He quickly grabbed the bat with his free hand and struck the imp in its side. George screamed and doubled over, dropping the imp and gripped his own side. It felt like a car had just hit him in the ribs.

  Beazo laughed and jumped back onto the corpse. “Come get me,” he taunted.

  He swung again, missing the imp instead striking Ma’s body. A cloud of dust and debris puffed outward. “No Ma! I didn’t mean it,” George cried as he drew the bat back again. “This is for Ma!”

  George swung the bat with all his might and smashed the imp’s head. As the imp flew across the room, smacked into the flat screen TV and dropped to the floor with a dull thud, George’s heavy body toppled over his mother’s corpse, dislodging her left arm. The hand with the wedding ring dangled from the side of the recliner, held in place only by George’s weight. Blood poured from his cracked head, soaking into her stiff body. He couldn’t see or move. The scent of dirt, decay and roses overwhelmed his nose as the world faded.

  The last sound George heard was the doorbell, Joan was outside the front door ready for dinner.

  J Is For Jack In Irons

  Mark West

  They were on the A169, heading to York from Whitby. Alex was driving, sunglasses on and window down, enjoying the view. Jules, his wife, was in the passenger seat, sunglasses pushed up onto her head as she read a guidebook, her bare feet on the dashboard.

  “We should come back to Whitby more often,” she said, “it’s a lovely place.”

  He smiled, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time. “If we do those steps again though, I’m going to need to hit the gym more. They were a lot easier twenty five years ago.”

  Jules leaned over and touched his belly through his t-shirt. “You do alright for an old man.” She sat back, laughing.

  “Cheeky bugger,” muttered Alex.

  The decision, to have a second honeymoon in the north, had been an easy one to make, especially since the kids were now away at Uni and having fun with their mates.

  Alex looked at Jules and, again, thought she looked more beautiful now in her forties than she ever had. Yes, her hair might be a lighter brunette and her face might show a few more laughter lines but they attested to her good humour and smiles which hadn’t worn down through the ups-and-downs of life and raising two children. He wasn’t sure she’d got such a great deal - he’d begun losing his hair before he was in his mid-twenties, his weight fluctuated dependant on how often he got to the gym and the lines he kept discovering were much deeper than he thought they should be.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered, “nothing.”

  “How about we go into Goathland?” she asked, looking up. “It’s the village where they filmed Heartbeat.”

  “Oh.”

  “Then we could go onto the moors and find a nice little pub somewhere.”

  Alex checked the clock on the dash, it was a little after four. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “I thought so. You need to take the next right, which should put us on ‘Cow With Bank’.”

  Jules spotted the turn a couple of miles further on and Alex turned into it. ‘Cow With Bank’ was a minor road, wide and well-kept and deserted. The moor was close to the edge of the road, almost forming the verge at times and wooded areas - thick enough to not be able to see into in places - sprang up. They crossed a railway bridge and ran into the town, though since neither of them had watched the TV show for so long, none of it looked familiar to them.

  They were through Goathland in a matte
r of minutes. At a crossroads, Alex looked at Jules and she deliberately closed the book on her lap. “Go right,” she said and he did as he was told.

  They drove further onto the moors, taking turns by guessing left or right. Alex had enough faith in his ability to read a map that he knew they couldn’t properly get lost, they had most of a tank of diesel left and they’d enjoyed a hearty fish and chips meal in Whitby. Life was good, he was with the woman he loved and the countryside was glorious.

  The moors swept away from them in all directions, bursting with colour under the almost cloudless sky. Peaks formed, valleys dropped and forest areas punctuated the landscape.

  “There’s a deer,” said Jules, “no, more, it’s a herd of them.”

  One ridge gave way to another, then another, offering more fantastic views of the countryside. Clumps of cotton grass collected in hollows whilst great swathes of purple heather spread out and clung to the hillsides like a perfumed blanket.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jules stated, “simply beautiful.”

  They hadn’t seen another other cars and there were only a few tractors in fields. A squad of Lycra-clad cyclists went by at speed, a few of them acknowledging that Alex had pulled over to give them access. Otherwise they were alone and the sensation of that, of being out-of-sight of anyone else, made him feel lonely for a moment. He reached for Jules’ hand and squeezed it.

  They drove for a while before coming to a T-junction. To the left, which Alex guessed was the direction they needed to get back to York, was a town called Jakisenhelm. The sign for the right had been snapped off at the post.

  “Left then,” he said.

  ***

  The road narrowed, following twists and turns as it dipped into the valley. High up the hill on the right was a small farm and beyond that a line of trees. A flock of sheep wandered and Alex could just make out the small dark shape of a sheepdog doing its work but couldn’t see the farmer.