Bleed

by Ed Kurtz

  Her mind felt sticky and sluggish. No decisions were going to be made until after the first cup of coffee, and maybe not until the second. She bobbed and weaved into the kitchen, like a punch-drunk zombie boxer, and set to getting the life-sustaining liquid brewing.

  Walt, her sleep addled mind kept repeating. Walt. Walt’s worms. My apology.

  She only hoped it was going to be good enough.

  ***

  The hammer didn’t feel particularly heavy in Walt’s hand. It was the very same hammer he’d used for the various repairs the old cottage required, and it was perfectly adequate for those needs. But now that he demanded a different job of the instrument—the job of bludgeoning a living being to death—it somehow felt slight, almost airy. As though he meant to kill a man with a feather.

  But this was no man he aimed to kill. And, despite his apprehensions regarding the tool in his hand, it was most certainly no feather. He certainly wouldn’t like to get smacked in the head with it. Which was just going to have to do.

  For his own good. For Amanda. For them both.

  Tightening his grip on the hammer’s black rubber handle, he went to the hallway.

  ***

  Her third cup of the morning—or, her first of the afternoon—went into her steel travel mug. With any luck, things would go well enough at Walt’s that her fourth would be poured from his own stash of coffee. His tended to be a little fancier, anyway. Whole bean, dark roast. Stout stuff, but she liked it. Amanda swallowed a mouthful of her tepid store-brand brew and turned the key in the ignition. Then, with an anxious sigh, she began her journey to the boonies, to Walt’s house.

  14

  The creature’s face twisted up, its mouth curled into a savage sneer. Walt was not pleased to realize it was sort of nodding, a new development. It didn’t matter, not really. Not in the long run.

  The top of the stepstool was slick and shiny from the blood and slobber that rained down from the thing’s snarling face and creepy little hands. Walt climbed up and raised the hammer, blunt end facing out. The creature growled, baring its dull, white teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” Walt said softly.

  He reared back and swung the hammer. Its head crashed into the thing’s brow, just above the left eye. Bone splintered, caved in. Blood sprayed Walt’s face. It felt hot on his skin and tasted coppery on his lips.

  The creature squealed, its eye sinking and drooping down. Walt yanked the hammer out of its head and sent it crashing back down, this time nailing the right temple.

  “Aaaauuuugggghhh,” the creature bellowed.

  So much for more, more, more. Its speech center was probably obliterated. A few more whacks ought to do it.

  Walt ground his teeth together and slammed the hammer into the shiny red face again and again and again. With each impact, he groaned and the creature hollered and blood spurted all over the walls and ceiling and Walt himself. When he was done, there was nothing about the mass above that might remind an observer of anything even vaguely human. All that remained was a pulpy red mess, dripping with gory strings and jutting chunks of pink bone.

  The creature, the parasite, was dead; Walt was certain of that. But his work was not yet done. There was still the matter of cleaning it all out, the ceiling and the attic, and then pulling up the paneling and knocking out the ruined plaster. He was going to rebuild it, paint it, make it good as new. And then try to forget all about the nightmare monster he had lived with the first few weeks in his new house.

  After he climbed back down the stepstool, Walt examined his front. He was splattered red from his chest and shoulders all the way down to his stomach. His arms were slick with the blood, and he knew his face had to be a sight as well. But there was no sense in cleaning up now, not before the grisly job of scraping the carcass off the ceiling and digging out the rest from the attic. That awful pod.

  He frowned deeply. It would never have gotten this bad if he hadn’t facilitated the process, exacerbated the problem. Unconsciously, he mopped his forehead with the back of his hand, effectively smearing blood with blood. He imagined he must look like Jack the Ripper, dripping with gore like he was. He gave a short laugh and resolved to at least wash his face before he progressed any further.

  He had only just turned on the water in the bathroom sink when there came a pounding on the front door.

  He jumped.

  “No,” he whispered. “Not now.”

  The knocking went on. His hands were shaking, the rest of him trembling almost as badly. Steam rose in white pillars from the sink; he tested the temperature with one finger and quickly withdrew it. The water was scalding. He turned down the hot knob and turned the cold knob up. Quickly he rinsed his face, checked it in the fogged mirror, and rinsed again. Leaving it to drip dry, he went out to the hall and paused.

  There were only so many people among the list of possible visitors. For Walt, it broke down to Amanda, or not Amanda. If it was Amanda, then the blood that covered him was not necessarily the worst possible thing. She would be shocked, revolted even, but in the end he knew that she would be relieved. After all, it was the parasite that had been the problem all along.

  On the other hand, it might be not Amanda. Someone else. In which case he could not possibly have cared less. Let them be offended, sickened, afraid. He couldn’t please everybody all the time.

  He steeled himself and strode toward the door. The pounding continued unabated.

  “I’m coming!”

  He drew the guard chain, unlatched it, and twisted the deadbolt before opening the door.

  It was not Amanda.

  ***

  Jarred from the bumpy drive down Highway 5, Amanda was relieved when Walt’s nice, flat driveway came into view.

  Her relief rapidly dissolved when the strange green SUV also floated into her field of vision. It was parked beside Walt’s hatchback, its windows rolled halfway down, as if whoever was driving it did not expect to stay long enough to worry about it. Or, she considered, perhaps it meant that they did intend to spend a spell with Walt, and they were protecting their big green gas-guzzler from the stifling heat.

  She pulled in behind the SUV, threw the stick into park, and then reconsidered. She had no idea what she was about to walk into, but the driver of the mystery car might require a quick escape. So she pulled back out, turned the wheel, and pulled in behind Walt’s car. From that position, she had a direct line of sight to his front door. It was standing wide open.

  She narrowed her eyes, cut the engine. And she waited.

  15

  Tall and reedy, she looked like she might have been a rather pretty girl before a superfluous growth spurt stretched her past beauty and straight into awkwardness. Her straight brown hair probably went to her ass when she let it down, but she wore it in a conservative Protestant bun instead. Complementing that were her enormous eyeglasses and drab brown attire: a long-sleeved blouse buttoned to the neck and an ankle-length skirt. She was the picture of Victorian temperance.

  She was also offended, sickened and afraid, just as Walt predicted.

  “Muh—Mister, uh…” she stammered, her eyes wide and staring from behind the thick lenses.

  “Ah,” Walt said with a forced smile. “Miss Stuben, right?”

  She nodded, very slightly, in agreement that she was. Margaret Stuben, as she was originally introduced to him, the vice-principal under Principal Byrne, the reigning honcho at Bowman High School and Walt’s new boss. Whether or not Miss Stuben was his superior too, he wasn’t entirely sure. But in any event, his blood-spattered state was unlikely to do well toward a good impression on the established higher-ups. As Miss Stuben’s mouth gradually closed into a disapproving grimace, Walt’s smile melted away. He recalled his first tour of the administrative offices at the school, Byrne guiding him past Stuben’s office, where a simple brass crucifix was affixed to the wall above her desk. Hardly the norm for public schools, but he asked no questions and offered no remarks. He had the distinct impression that w
here Margaret Stuben was considered, ignorance was bliss.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  She now wore an expression of bemusement. But the fear had not dissolved, not completely. By way of explanation, Walt lifted his right hand, using the hammer to point behind him. It came up so fast that Miss Stuben let out a frightened squeal and jumped back from what she momentarily thought might be an attack.

  Walt gave a nervous chuckle.

  “I had…a little problem. Please,” he said gently, stepping aside. “Come in. I’ll just change my shirt.”

  She cocked her head to one side, a quizzical look on her face not unlike that of a puzzled dog. But when he disappeared beyond the kitchen, she resumed her harsh look and went into the house, leaving the door open behind her. She was halfway across the kitchen when a car rumbled onto the concrete driveway outside, too far away for her to hear it.

  “We’ve…uh…been trying to reach you by phone, Mister…uh…”

  Stuben stepped cautiously over the linoleum tiles, her flats making quiet scratching sounds.

  “Mister, uh… Walter?”

  At the end of the kitchen where the white linoleum shared a border with the dark hardwood that floored most of the house, Stuben stopped and wrinkled her nose. There was a sickly-sweet metallic odor in the air. It was not pleasant. Prepared to investigate further, she took a few steps into the dark hall beyond when Walt popped out of the shadows, naked to the waist.

  Miss Stuben yelped.

  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I was just, you know.”

  He held up a clean white T-shirt, smiled, and then put it on.

  “I wasn’t exactly expecting company,” he said. “Come on, let’s go in the kitchen. I’ve got iced tea, coffee. I can Irish it up for you if you like. It is summer, after all; no school tomorrow.”

  He placed his hands on Miss Stuben’s shoulders to guide her back into the kitchen. She wriggled away from him, her mouth a straight line of stern censure.

  “I can find the kitchen, thank you.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “And a glass of water will be just fine.”

  “Okay,” Walt said. “Water, then.”

  He gestured toward the stool that was upended on the floor. With an arched eyebrow, Stuben bent over and righted it before sitting down. Walt poured two glasses from the tap >and handed one to her.

  “Nothing’s gone wrong, I hope.” Walt said.

  “Wrong? Why, no. What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Like I didn’t get the position after all, or something like that.”

  “Certainly not. It’s only that we’ve called—well, I’ve called—for days. It just rings, so naturally…”

  “You thought you’d drop by to make sure I still wanted the position.”

  Miss Stuben dropped her head a little, looking very much the child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Walt laughed.

  “No need to worry about anything like that,” he assured her. “I’ve bought an old house is all. Wonky wiring. Nothing seems to work quite right, but rest assured—the phone company has been notified.”

  “Wiring,” Miss Stuben dumbly repeated. “Well, of course.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then you can still be expected to attend the parent-teacher night? It’s a week from Thursday, you know.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he lied. He had forgotten entirely. But watching the long-faced almost-beauty taking tiny sips from the edge of the water glass made him likely to say anything. She may have been a throwback prude and religious zealot, but he didn’t think she was too terrible to look at.

  “You’ll be in attendance, then? It isn’t exactly compulsory, but I should think being a new teacher and all…”

  “Yes, of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  His thick attempt at charm did anything but disarm Miss Stuben. Instead, she seemed to retreat even further into herself, setting the glass on the counter and tightly crossing her arms over her small bosom.

  “Fine,” she said sharply. “In that case, would you please call the school the moment your phone line is working again? Mr. Byrne would like to know.”

  “As would you, I’m sure.”

  Miss Stuben rose and revolved her shoulders, as though sitting on the stool had wreaked havoc on them.

  “Thank you for the water, Mister Blackwell.”

  “Blackmore. Walter Blackmore. Call me Walt, though.”

  “Walt,” she said with some unease.

  With that, she turned toward the open door. Walt watched her as she strode toward it, forced to imagine the moving curves hidden beneath the awkward, draping folds of her conservative skirt. When the anguished moaning erupted behind him, his mind managed to ignore it completely, if only for a second. Miss Stuben, contrarily, spun around and stared.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Hmm?”

  “I, well…you—”

  The moan went on, and despite her furrowed brow and glassy eyes, Stuben was gradually putting the pieces together. It was not Walt who had moaned.

  “Who’s back there? What’s wrong with them?”

  Walt’s dreamy look sank into an aggravated frown. His right cheek twitched. He wasn’t sure if he was terrified or enraged. He was both.

  The thing, the monster in his house, was still alive. Worse, it proved to have tentacles of another kind; an invisible variety that wound their way into all other aspects of his life.

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “No,” Miss Stuben insisted, striding back toward him.

  “There’s somebody back there. I thought I smelled something. What’s going on? What have you got going here, Mr. Blackmore?”

  “Walt,” he corrected her.

  “I think I’d better have a look,” she said plainly as she whisked right by him.

  He stretched at her, seizing her by one arm and yanking her back like an impetuous child.

  “Don’t!” he shouted.

  “Let go of me!”

  Miss Stuben snapped her arm free of his grip and marched quickly into the hallway. Then she screamed.

  16

  Amanda stabbed a spent butt into the ashtray with one hand while she reached for the pack with the other. It would have been the third cigarette she smoked while waiting in Walt’s driveway, but the scream that sliced through the house put a stop to that.

  She jerked, dropping the unlit cigarette on the rubber mat under her feet. For a moment she couldn’t remember if she had lit it or not; she folded over, fumbling for the smoke, only to find it cold. By then the scream had died out, but it still echoed in her head. Shrill noises like that always did when they stopped as abruptly as they began.

  Yanking the door handle, Amanda threw her shoulder into the padded door, pushed it open and hurried to the front porch. Her feet clomped up the three wide steps, over the brief length of the porch and across the threshold. Now she heard panting—hard, strained breaths coming short and quick. And a sort of gurgling that reminded her of trying to talk to her sister underwater when they were kids.

  She paused, her own breath hot and sharp in her chest. Her mind was spinning out, orbiting around what seemed like a hundred conflicting thoughts and feelings. She felt stupid for the pang of jealously she felt upon first seeing the strange SUV in the driveway. Even when the scream validated her fear that Walt had a woman inside—a woman Amanda did not know—she recognized that there was something altogether different from a dalliance going on inside. Something she supposed had to do with the house.

  That, and the worms.

  If indeed there were any worms. Because Nora was only speculating, after all. She had never even been in the house; she had never seen the grotesque thing.

  She might not have any idea what she was talking about.

  And, when the second scream erupted and was instantly cut short by a dull thump and a quick, sucking gasp, Amanda decided that Nora was full of shit.

/>   ***

  She tried to convince herself that it was merely psychosomatic, or at the very least the result of shock. As far as Margaret knew, she suffered from no respiratory abnormalities, and so there was no practical reason she should not be able to breathe. Still, no matter how much she defied her present circumstances in a concentrated effort to remain calm, her lungs just wouldn’t work. The air was stuck.

  Her eyes bulged and she clawed at her throat in a desperate and pointless attempt to jumpstart her airway. Her head felt like it was contracting around her brain. The edges of her vision were starting to blur. And looming above her, his face as still and inexpressive as a corpse, was Mr. Blackmore, the new ninth grade English teacher. Dangling at his side from a half-clenched fist was that hammer, dripping red. For the time being, the horror and agony of the young man gone mad was all that existed in the entire world. Not even the pulsing, babbling nightmare on the ceiling could register in her fear-addled mind.

  Now, while she tried like hell to remember if Mr. Blackmore had actually struck her or not, Margaret Stuben recalled the last cryptic thing he said to her.

  “Don’t you touch her,” he’d snarled.

  Her? Her who?

  The one who was moaning, that was who. Someone in pain. Someone he wants so badly to keep secret he would…what? Kill her?

  The blurry periphery closed in, and all around it the world darkened to an impenetrable black. Another voice, another woman, somewhere else in the house. The suffering woman? Somebody else? Another lunatic?

  “Hello?”

  Margaret’s eyes rolled back into her skull as the shadows washed over her.

  ***

  Walt’s head snapped to the left and he felt a strange jangle, like his brain followed the turn a little late. He tossed the hammer to the right without hesitation. It landed on the springy mattress in his bedroom without a sound. Dumb luck.“Amanda?”

  “Walt!” she cried. Her footsteps pounded across the foyer, through the living room and into the kitchen.

  No time to panic. Got to think.

  “Give me a hand!”