In the End, Only Darkness
Monica J. O’Rourke
In the End, Only Darkness
Eighteen horror stories (and a few poems) ranging from quietly subtle to stomach-churning disgusting, this collection features fiction that will entertain or repulse almost anyone. Featuring an Introduction by gore master Wrath James White!
Read about a gynecological visit gone very wrong … a woman’s obsession with a Georgia O’Keeffe painting … a former sheriff forced to hunt children overtaken during a zombie plague … a mohel who performs circumcisions in a most unique way … or a graphic story about three young men who conduct an experiment on a fourth boy—an experiment held in a secret room involving melted metals.
Copyright Page
In the End, Only Darkness Collection ©2002, Copyright renewed 2013 by Monica J. O’Rourke
First e-book edition February 2013
No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Introduction by Wrath James White
Poetry: Calliope
Armageddon
What She Sees
Jasmine and Garlic
Attainable Beauty
Huntin’ Season
Vade in Pacem
Five Adjectives about My Dad, by Nadine Specter
The Rest of Larry
Maternal Instinct
The Three Wishes of Henry Hoggan
Not with a Bang but a Whimper
Oral Mohel
An Experiment in Human Nature
Asha
One Breath
Someone’s Sister
Dancing into October Country
Feeding Desire (with Jack Fisher)
Nurturing Type
Cell
About the Author
Books By Monica J. O’Rouke
Copyright Page
Introduction
An Experiment in Terror
Forget all the preconceived biases and judgments you may have about how women write horror. They won’t do you any good here. If you are expecting flowery purple prose dripping with saccharin emotion and sensitivity, if you are expecting a writer who skimps on the blood and guts or hesitates to go for the jugular, then you don’t know Monica. But oh boy are you about to get to know her, with terrifying, bloodcurdling intimacy.
Monica is a spooky bitch. She writes nasty, violent, sexy, horrible, extremely well-written shit that makes you shudder and moan in fear and pleasure. She knows her place—her place is right there in the guts and gore with the hardest of the hardcore authors. Her place is writing fiction soaked with as much semen and vaginal fluids as blood and viscera.
In her first novel, Suffer the Flesh, Monica let her terrifying imagination run wild and created a world of violence, perversion, and sexual depravity so extreme that readers found themselves equal parts aroused and revolted. I know I did. The woman who would set a tale of sexual violence in a fat farm was one I just had to work with. So I contacted her and asked her to collaborate with me on a novella I was working on. I must admit that during our collaboration I discovered that I too had a few preconceived ideas that she quickly dispelled.
See, when we began work on Poisoning Eros, I assumed that since the main character was a woman, having a female collaborator would give me a realistic insight into the feminine persona. In other words, I assumed she would write all the girlie parts. Instead, Monica left all the sensitive stuff to me and proceeded to gleefully tear into the violence, sex, and gore with a passion every bit as enthusiastic as Ed Lee’s contributions to Teratologist. I was impressed. I am still impressed.
Monica J. O’Rourke is one sexy, savage, brutal, thoughtful, emotional writer. It’s been said that she writes like a man, but that statement gives men an automatic compliment that most have not earned. Most men wish they could write like Monica. This is a writer who really knows her craft.
Her words are visceral, but never heavy-handed. As disturbing as her stories can be, they are not over-the-top. They just stretch our preconceived idea of where the top is or should be. Her stories don’t just stretch the boundaries. They change the boundaries, move the goal post inch by inch with each new tale. The art is in how subtly she does it.
Monica breaks taboos with a casual, almost innocent disregard of someone who never knew those taboos existed. Like a charming young schoolgirl smiling cherubically as she stabs her classmates one at a time and finger paints with their blood, proudly displaying her gruesome art for all to see. And when you tell her she’s gone too far, done something that society might frown upon, she gives you that smile—so sweet that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth—as if to say, “You mean little ol’ me?” But there’s a wicked little grin behind that innocent façade. Trust me. I’ve seen it.
You might think that pouring molten metal into a man’s urethra would be over-the-top, and then you read “An Experiment in Human Nature” and even as you cringe and wince, you never feel too disgusted or appalled, not so much that you want to put the book down or throw it across the room. You never feel as if you are reading a tale that is all shock and awe with no substance. You want to turn the next page. You want to see what violent, disturbing thing she will come up with next. You see the craft. You admire the skill of the storytelling. You know that what you are reading is something special. Then you clutch your genitals and beg her to stop.
Even while penning a tale of a woman mutilating her labia to achieve an aesthetic ideal inspired by Georgia O’Keefe, the emotions she describes feel real, genuine. You are pulled into the story and you can’t help pleading for the main character to come to her senses before it’s too late. But this ain’t some quiet horror that’s just sort of creepy and eerie, but not really terrifying. This is Monica J. O’Rourke, so you know it won’t end well. This chick delights in literary nastiness.
Monica has as dark a sense of humor as Ed Lee at his most twisted. Read “Oral Mohel” or “Nurturing Type” and you’ll see what I’m talking about. She can write some truly uncomfortable shit and still manage to make you laugh out loud. That takes more than a little skill.
Monica writes for the same reasons I do. She likes to get a rise out of people. She is a control freak, and your thoughts and feelings are what she wants to control. She gets off on manipulating your emotions from fear to sorrow to disgust to arousal and she knows exactly how to do it. Each tug on your emotional strings is deliberate and calculated. You will cry when she wants you to cry. You will laugh when she wants you to laugh, and if she wants you to become physically ill or have to stop to stroke one off in the middle of one of her stories, then she’ll make you do that too. She is the puppeteer, and you, dear reader, are her marionette. Every time you jump or wince or squeal as you make your way through this collection, know that Monica was behind her keyboard, typing away, knowing that you would react that way and loving every minute of it. In Experiments In Human Nature, Monica shows that she still has that same literary ferocity while also unveiling the more introspective, humorous, and emotional sides of her personality. Hell, “Five Adjectives about My Dad, by Nadine Specter” almost shook a tear loose from me. Almost. I’m not one of those soft type brothas, but that shit was pretty deep.
Now, I’m sure you know Monica an
d I are friends. No secret there. So perhaps the temptation is to take all of this praise with a grain of salt. But that would be like calling me a liar. You aren’t calling me a liar, are you? The truth is I respected Monica’s work long before we were anything more than casual acquaintances. In fact, had I not been a fan of her writing, we would probably not be such close friends. Her writing is what drew me to her. Few who read her can resist her. How’s that for a compliment? It’s true. Every word of it. Just read for yourself. You can thank me later.
—Wrath James White, author of Succulent Prey and The Resurrectionist
Calliope
The calliope frolicked into town,
breathing life into an otherwise dull existence;
All whirs and clicks and haunting melody.
And the children tumbled and skipped and tagged along,
following the trail of the garishly ornate carriage that bounced
and tumbled down cobblestoned streets,
its monkey tones filling the sweet straw air
with spectral and melodious sounds.
It led the children toward the circus—
children smiling and laughing, faces stained pink with cotton
candy,
all scabrous knees and grubby fingernails.
And it paraded them past the circus and into the woods.
Deep in the woods,
happy piping organ music guiding them.
And still they danced alongside the calash
because there was nothing to fear,
even in the dark woods with scary monster shadows
and muddy grounds blanketed with mulchy dead leaves,
and the coppery scent that hung on the air
like a thick and meaty perfume.
Armageddon
He follows me home,
Somersaulting across blades of grass like tiny spears,
flesh separating from bone with each turn.
Winding across the yard like a fierce October breeze,
garishly painted face with perpetual grin
and brightly pasteled clothing, fitting poorly across slumped
shoulders.
He follows me, offers four balloons, their colors subdued with time.
Death
Famine
Pestilence
War
And these I foolishly accept,
unwittingly causing destruction.
I tried to give them back.
Too late.
What She Sees
An exhorter named Charlie coaxed her to the basement
where moldering pipes leaked ichor, rarefied fluid that coursed the veins of the gods.
But she changed her mind,
no longer wanted to play, no longer wanted the dolls and puppies,
told him she had to go home, would be late for supper.
Too old for fairytales, too young for religion.
Perfect age for absorbing blackness,
for discovering the filthy hearts of the ones you trust.
Boxes of cookies scattered on the concrete floor beside final companions:
unstuffed animals and rheumy tricycles, Flexible Flyers crucified above the dryer,
diseased remnants from a stolen childhood.
But not hers.
Her childhood was elsewhere, not stolen but lost,
unremembered, unremarkable.
They say the last thing a dead person sees is imprinted on their corneas
like a fingerprint.
And she retains her secrets, begs to be heard.
Final thoughts of
isolation
desolation
abandonment.
Of him, creating art,
loving her to death,
crushing her small frame beneath his large one.
Her secret her own.
No one left to hear.
Eventually they found the girl, entangled, an afterthought,
where nothing proved simple.
The people who eventually claimed her,
pieces of her anyway,
never even knew she was gone.
But her dead eyes,
open as if trying to explain the final obscurity,
dark petals blooming on cheeks,
ropey pearl strands blended in scarlet encircling her neck,
truth seeping from unseeing eyes.
Jasmine and Garlic
He always started with the breast exam. Eye contact. Eye to chin contact, anyway. They rarely looked directly at him; too humiliating. Her right arm at ninety degrees: stretch the breast. Circular motions, outward in, fingertips then palms. Lightly squeeze the nipple for discharge.
Never sexual, never lingered on a particular part of the breast. Even hot breath conjured a sexual connotation; dangerous. Repeated with left arm, left breast. Pulled paper gown closed, pretended to offer boundaries, privacy. The woman on the table sighed, and he felt her tension dissipate.
“This was real good of you,” she said hesitantly. “Seeing me like this. I know you’re busy.”
“Mmmmm.” He didn’t look at her but continued to fumble with instruments on the tray above her legs.
“I-I know it’s late, but I couldn’t get away before now. I missed the clinic hours,” she said anxiously.
He stopped what he was doing and looked into her eyes. “It’s fine.”
Sinking back into the padded table, her muscles unclenched, facial tension oozed and melted into her hair.
“What do you mean you couldn’t get away?” he asked, locking eyes with hers. “Are you working now? Have you found a place to live?”
“No,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “I’m still on the streets. But I’m trying real hard. I know it ain’t good for my baby.”
He looked at her stomach, which protruded with the growth of the fetus, its advanced age apparent.
“I don’t think you’re trying hard enough. Want me to abort the baby?” he asked casually, speaking to her groin.
She flinched, an invisible slap draining the blood from her cheeks. “Nuh-no,” she stammered. “I just want you to examine me. I said I was sorry.”
Smiled again. “It’s at least seven months old,” he said. “Maybe eight.”
Awkward silence for several seconds. Awkward for her. He absorbed her, inhaled the scent of her dismay and confusion, a jasmine-garlic odor emanating from her pores, sweating out her fear in perfume and remnants of lunch.
“Doctor, um, Windling? I think I should maybe make another appointment. I mean—” She cleared her throat but didn’t finish the sentence.
Lower lip contorted. “Why? We’ll do this right now, Miss—” Miss what? Forgot her name. Cassandra, maybe.
Moving to an overhead cabinet, he retrieved additional instruments, shielding them from her sight.
“I should go. This don’t feel right.” She pulled the halves of her paper gown tighter.
Like a dog picking up the scent of the kill, he stuck his nose up in the air … jasmine, garlic … wafting in and out of his nostrils … yeast, cheap after-shave from the last guy she probably blew for a few bucks. Odors from deep within her bowels, part of her inner workings. He smelled it all, sucked in its savory richness.
“Just relax,” he said, patting her thigh. “We’ll do this now. You’re already naked.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked confused. “No, I … really. I can just get dressed.” Tried to sit up but the tray was in the way, and her swollen belly prevented her from mobility. Besides, she didn’t want to be rude. These women never wanted to be rude, to make him feel uncomfortable.
How considerate they were, these women.
Pushed her back. “No trouble,” he said, not unkindly, his beautiful eyes manipulating the situation, manipulating her. How could anyone with such beautiful eyes ever cause anyone harm? Such a handsome face. Good-looking people never harmed anyone.
Almost never.
They played out the act once more: her protesti
ng, him comforting, until she finally conceded, resting against the thick padding of the table, laying her arm across her swollen breasts.
Cheeks flushed, but willing now to continue, having lost the round. “This has been an uncomfortable pregnancy,” she said. “A lot of pain, especially during the exams. Can you give me anything for pain?” Her voice was losing its strength, and her hands clenched the robe halves tightly together, fingers bleeding sweat through the tissue paper gown.
He stared out into the hall.
“Doctor?”
Listening … everyone had gone home, right? Was someone still working and—?
“Doctor?” More loudly.
He looked at her finally, and again she said, “For the pain? Can you give me anything?”
“Pain,” he mumbled, holding his hand up in a just a second gesture as he moved toward the door.
Her eyes followed, her head tilting back as she watched him leave the room.
He scanned the reception area. Dark waiting room, only the hallway lights still burned, leading the way through the darkness to the outside world. He double-locked the front door, throwing the deadbolt, the one key the cleaning woman didn’t have.
Quickly he returned to his patient, knowing she would leave given the opportunity.
She was trying to push the tray out of the way when he re-entered the exam room. Embarrassed, caught in the act of trying to escape, she lay down again.
He pulled up the metal stirrups, patted them. Smiling, he nodded his head in the universal slide down gesture.
Moved along the length of the table, planted her feet in the stirrups.
“You never answered me before,” she said meekly. “I’m sorry I’m being such a baby …”
“No, you’re fine. And I’ll give you something in a sec.” He pulled her down a bit further. “Let’s have a look first.”
Cold hands touched her inner thighs, and she flinched. Maneuvering the light above his head, he aimed it at her groin. Snapped on a pair of Latex gloves.
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