by Shane Staley
Gavin recoiled, his spine pressing into the cushion. On each section of sofa and couch slumped more frail men, and on each antimacassar rested a head, balding or gray or both. Upholstery buttons showed through their sunken chests and their drowsy faces.
She coughed and repeated, “Mr.…”
“Coborn,” Gavin said by reflex as he slid away from the apparition that dozed beside him on the couch. Translucent drool dripped from a translucent lip onto a translucent lapel.
The woman flicked her kerchief at each man as she spoke. “Mr. Coborn, this is Mr. Blaine, who was the first to join me. Mr. Blaine works in accounting and is also a gourmet chef.”
The man sitting beside Gavin stirred and shook his head, his drool snaking in the air.
“Don’t be modest Mr. Blaine. As I recall, you needed to borrow a cup of milk for a crepe recipe you were perfecting. You must prepare that for us someday. And this is Mr. Pitts.”
The gaunt figure in the chair uncrossed and re-crossed his knees, his arms knotted tight over a sport coat, his jaw working back and forth. Gavin could see his teeth grinding through the flesh of his cheek.
She ran her kerchief along the upholstered arm. “Mr. Pitts is an encyclopedia salesman. Imagine toting heavy books door to door every day. Isn’t it nice to sit and rest after all that walking?”
Mr. Pitts gazed back at Gavin. It may have been a mirage caused by the limpid state of his tissue, but the man’s eyes seemed to well, his lips quiver.
The old woman circled the table. “And of course Mr. Chesterfield is here on the sofa. Mr. Chesterfield was once…”
Gavin ignored her as he looked through his own hand, past sheer skin and lacy webs of veins and nerves, at the cup resting on the floor. With his chin on his chest he could just see his heart suspended within a cage of ribs, pulsing frantically. He stood and wobbled and said, “I don’t feel well. I only came here to check on the phone.”
“We’ve no need for a phone.” The old woman pshawed. “We’re all together in this room.”
Gavin stumbled forward, his shin slogging through the corner of the table as if walnut burl had become syrup. “I need to go back to my apartment.”
She withdrew down the hallway as he plodded over spongy floorboards toward the door.
Her voice came thin and deadened from the kitchen. “Mr. Coborn, you’re a man very much like my Gerald so I’ll forgive your proclivity to take flight. Men are like children. You can’t let them decide what to do or they’ll run off never to be seen again. You have to take measures to enforce rules. I expect men stay in my parlor and keep me company. They will not leave cruel notes. They will not leave.”
The brass knob eluded his fingers but the heels of his fists rebounded off oak panels and faded wallpaper as solid as concrete.
Her voice grew louder. “Oh my, this isn’t very tasty, is it? My apologies to all of you gentlemen. It’s a necessary evil if we’re all to stay together, I’m afraid.”
Gavin turned back toward the old woman and whimpered.
She perched on the edge of the Persian rug, tipping the last drops from a teacup down her throat. Contours of the china cabinet and wainscoting on the far wall began to show through her body, past layers of knit wool and withered skin. Shadowy outlines of her skull painted a ghastly mask around her smile. The cup fell and shattered on the wood floor at her feet without a sound.
“I need to get home,” Gavin said.
“You are home. Come along now.” She beckoned him with a finger at once wrinkled flesh and bony claw.
His panic gave way to a numb, floating sensation, as if his mind could no longer take part in this social nightmare and had abandoned his body. He drifted across the room, a jellyfish at the mercy of tides flowing with her voice…
“Why don’t you sit down and have nice long rest. That’s it. Yes, the same spot as before. Scooch over please, Mr. Blaine. There’s plenty of room for everyone. Now that we’ve all had our tea and all the seats are filled, we can get to know one another. Tell us about yourself, Mr. Coborn. What do you do for a living?”
The Grylocks
Jon Gauthier
Mary leaned against the wall with her arms crossed and a sleepy smile on her face. Through the closed bathroom door, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of teeth being brushed, spitting, running water, gargling, more spitting, and a toothbrush clinking into a glass. Then she heard tiny feet hit the floor and a small plastic stool get dragged back into the corner. Mary watched as the door opened and a six-year-old boy appeared from behind it. The boy noticed her and immediately rolled his eyes.
“Mo-om,” he huffed, splitting the word into two elongated syllables.
Mary ruffled her son’s hair and started guiding him down the hallway toward his bedroom.
“I was just waiting to tuck you in,” she said. Ethan didn’t answer. He just let out an exaggerated huff and let Mary pilot him through the bedroom door. As he climbed into bed, Mary started picking clothes up off the floor.
“Sweetie,” she sighed. “Where do dirty clothes go?”
With a faint look of puppy-dog guilt on his face, Ethan pointed to the hamper.
“Well, can you please try and remember that?” Mary asked. “Big boys don’t throw their clothes on the floor.”
“Daddy does,” Ethan said matter-of-factly. Mary let a small laugh escape, then quickly covered her mouth and repositioned her face into stern-mother mode. She tossed the clothes into the hamper and sat on the bed.
“All right, smart guy,” she said. “What’s it gonna be tonight? Robo-Gorilla again?”
Ethan gave an enthusiastic smile and nod. Mary ran a finger down the column of book spines that sat on the night table, and pulled a volume from the pile. The cover featured a young boy in a baseball cap leaning against a half-machine, half-gorilla that was wearing sunglasses. Both of them had their arms crossed and they looked like the very best of pals.
“Scootch over,” Mary said as she positioned herself next to Ethan. Then, for what was probably the millionth time, she recounted the tale of Joey, a boy genius who builds a mechanical gorilla to do his chores for him. Many misadventures later, and the pair ends up saving the whole town from an evil real estate developer. Ethan gazed at the pictures and listened along in awe as Mary read.
When she was finished, Mary set the book back on the night table and switched off the lamp. “Ok, buckaboo,” she said as she rose from the bed—though she would have gladly fallen asleep right then and there—“It’s time for you to go to sleep now.” She bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Ethan immediately scowled and wiped the kiss away. “Eww, Mom!”
“Well, pardon me,” she said with a playfully snooty tone. “A good evening to you, sir.”
Ethan just stared at her with annoyance, the sarcasm completely lost on him. “Good night, Mom.”
Grinning to herself, Mary headed towards the door. “Love you, buckaboo,” she said softly.
“Mom,” Ethan said. His voice was quiet now. “Why aren’t you scared of the grylocks?”
Mary stopped and looked back at her son. He had his Spider-man comforter pulled up to his chin, and his brown eyes fixed on her. His face was expressionless—the face of a child with something very serious on his mind.
“The what?”
“The grylocks, Mom. The people who live in the walls.”
Mary sighed and walked back to Ethan’s bed. “Sweety, what are you talking about? No one lives in the walls.”
Ethan’s eyes went wide and he started shaking his head. It was as if Mary had uttered a blasphemy in front of the pope. “Yes they do, Mom. You shouldn’t say that.”
Mary massaged her left temple with her thumb. As beautiful as a child’s imagination often was, it could also be very exhausting. “Ethan, listen to me. There’s no one living in the walls. There’s no such thing as grymocks.”
“No, Mommy. Gry-locks.” He heavily emphasized the back-end of the word, correcting her mistake
. “They do live in the walls. Sometimes they even talk to me. They have long fingernails and big teeth and they sound like this.” He said the last part in a sharp, grating voice that Mary didn’t even know he was capable of producing. Then his face went very serious. “They hate you and Daddy and Sophie.”
“Well, you tell them that they stink,” Mary said. “And that they have silly heads and big feet.” She was doing her best to sound playful, despite the deep, primal unease that had suddenly come over her.
Ethan shook his head very slowly. “You’ll be sorry, Mommy,” he whispered.
Mary felt a chill crawl up the back of her neck. “Ethan, why would you say that?”
He didn’t respond. He just shrugged his shoulders and lay onto his back. Mary swallowed the lump that sat in her throat.
“Well, goodnight,” she muttered as she turned and walked towards the door. She switched off the light and slipped into the hallway. What the fuck? was the only thing she could think.
Ethan had always been different. Mary had always known that. Some would probably even categorize him as weird. She knew he didn’t have an easy time making friends, or fitting in with any of the kids at school. It made Mary sad to think of her son as an outcast, but, in some ways, it also made her feel proud. She knew there was something special about him, and that the things that made him weird were also the things that would make him do amazing things later in life. He just needed the proper outlets to express himself.
Mary made her way towards the kitchen, where she found Ray, her husband, pulling a tray of deep fried somethings out of the oven. As he set the tray on the stovetop, he noticed Mary and flashed her a grin.
“These girls sure can eat,” he said.
“They’re teenagers,” Mary responded. “They never stop eating.”
Ray nodded and started placing the golden, grease-streaked whatever-they-weres onto a plastic serving plate. He held the last one up to her.
“Cheesy Taco Pop?” he offered.
Mary sneered and shook her head. “I don’t even want to imagine what’s in those things,” she said. Ray shrugged, as if he disagreed, then popped the snack into his mouth. As he chewed, he grabbed the tray and headed towards the basement door. Mary stopped him when he was halfway there.
“Let me take it,” she said, grabbing the tray. “No twelve-year-old girl wants her dad crashing a sleepover.”
Ray raised his hands, surrendering. “Be my guest,” he said. “I went down there earlier to grab my phone charger and they were talking about bras. I don’t want to go through that kind of trauma again.”
Mary laughed, opened the basement door, and headed down the stairs.
Her daughter Sophie’s sleepover consisted of three girls from her school and two from her ballet class. Even though they’d all been quarantined in the basement, the night had been hectic. The make-your-own-pizza dinner had resulted in an unfathomable mess in the kitchen, and psychosis-inducing pop music had blasted non-stop for a good hour before Ray finally stomped on the floor hard enough for them to take notice and turn it down.
As she opened the door to the family room, Mary saw that the floor had been turned into a giant sleeping area, covered in air mattresses, unrolled sleeping bags, and pillows. Empty soda cans and chip bags littered the rest of the floor, and DVD cases were scattered on the TV stand. The TV itself was playing what Mary recognized as some kind of post-apocalyptic teen romance movie. The kind that girls Sophie’s age just devoured. One of the characters was currently fighting a group of zombies while her hunky and shirtless co-star was strapped to what looked like an operating table.
Two girls were on the couch, splitting their attention between the movie and their phones. The rest were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Two were looking at magazines and chattering about the contents, and Sophie and another girl were laughing maniacally at something on the laptop. None of them noticed Mary until she announced she had Taco Pops. At that point, they flocked to her like seagulls to a dropped box of French fries. Among the “Oh my Gods” and “I’m starvings,” Mary was pleased to hear at least three “thank yous.”
After she handed off the tray and said her goodnights, Mary trudged back up the stairs with the hope that she and Ray would be able to stay awake for at least one episode of the TV series they had DVR’d. Not likely, she thought. She’d already forgotten about the grylocks.
* * *
A screaming bladder woke her. In a fuzzy haze of sleep, she grabbed her phone off the night stand. The screen lit up like a nuclear blast and she had to squint to see the time. It was almost 3AM. She sighed and got out of bed, knowing the urge to pee wasn’t going to subside any time soon. She stalked towards the bathroom, calculating how much more sleep she had ahead of her. With any luck, she’d get another four or five hours. Ethan probably wouldn’t be up before then, and the girls would sleep until at least 10 o’clock.
She finished her business, and, as she washed her hands, decided that she’d better check on the girls. There was a chance they’d still be awake and she didn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of grumpy, un-rested pre-teens in the morning.
Mary walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. The tile floor was like ice on her bare feet. She crossed to the basement door, opened it, and was immediately struck by the silence below. Fast asleep, she thought. She flicked on the staircase light, knowing that it wouldn’t be bright enough to wake the girls, but would allow her to see just enough to be able to confirm they were asleep. She walked down the stairs and opened the door to the family room.
What she saw was nearly impossible to comprehend. It was like something out of a nightmare. Something that barely belonged in reality let alone the basement of a cookie-cutter bungalow in suburban America.
The girls were in pieces.
Arms, feet, and heads were strewn about the basement floor like mannequin parts. The sleeping bags, blankets and pillows were torn open and mixed among them, intestines and other innards woven into the carnage like wet snakes.
And there was so much blood.
Puddles of it had gathered in various spots on the floor, and the walls and ceiling were painted with crimson streaks. Even the TV was covered with a smear of gore that seemed to be glowing from the display of static behind it. The metallic smell completely overpowered the stench of death and guts and chopped meat.
Mary felt her heart drop into her stomach and her insides liquefy. In a shock-induced stupor, she turned and started to fumble back up the stairs. Halfway to the top, she stopped and felt herself gag. Then a hot wet mess exploded from her mouth and down her chin. She ignored it and kept moving, the sour, acidic taste burning in her throat.
Ethan, was the only thing she could think. Where’s Ethan?
She finally made it up the stairs and into the kitchen. As she shambled towards the hallway, she noticed something she hadn’t when she first walked through.
Ray’s head was in the sink, eyes open and milky white, and mouth agape in a permanent scream. Unable to process this new horror, Mary continued through the kitchen. Ethan, she thought. Get Ethan.
She turned into the hallway and he was standing outside his bedroom door, greeting her with a haunted blank stare. His face, hands and pajamas were spattered with blood. In his left hand was the axe that Ray would bring on camping trips. Mary’s only coherent thought was how ridiculously large the thing looked in her son’s grip—like it was part of a clumsily constructed Halloween costume.
Mary was completely frozen. The only sound she was able to make was a soft, horrified moan. She tried to move. Tried to speak. Tried to do anything to replace what was happening with something normal. But she couldn’t. She could only stare at her son as he moved towards her with a vast black emptiness in his eyes, the axe head dragging along the hardwood floor with a sickening scrape.
Then he spoke. His voice was flat and lifeless; like he was speaking through a burlap sack. “The grylocks came out of the walls, Mommy. They aren’
t mad anymore.”
Mary tried to take a step backward, but couldn’t. Her mind was entirely fixated on the thing that used to be her son shambling towards her. There was no ability for it to make her move her legs. Finally, as if someone had sheared a bundle of wires inside her, Mary dropped to her knees and screamed.
Inflatable War
Robert Essig
Trey had never been frightened of his inflatables until the day Ally Gator snapped at him.
“Ally! How dare you?” He spoke to Ally in a mixture of shocked pain and gooey baby talk, much like scolding a toddler.
Ally had been his first inflatable and he considered her his true love, though he loved all of them in their own right. There was Necky Giraffe, always great to cuddle with (Trey liked to get wrapped up in the long neck); Killa, an inflatable killer whale that was meant for a pool but lived happily in Trey’s house; Ducky, which had been manufactured as a floatie for small children (but fit nicely around Trey’s head), and many more.
Twenty-four in all, they lounged around the house and on the couches, lingering in bed and propped in the picture window for the children in the neighborhood to see, and even they didn’t understand why a grown man had so many inflatable animals. Neighborhood parents were ultra cautious, always telling their young never to talk to Mr. Trey Keach, which eventually caused the children to pick up their pace while passing the house with the ballooned animals staring out of the picture window.
Trey was oblivious to the way in which his neighbors regarded him. The longing sneers they gave him when he would arrive home from work and wave to Ally or Killa or whichever of his precious friends happened to have been placed in the window that morning were lost on him. He was so isolated and absorbed with his animal buddies that he neglected just about everything else he came into contact with.
Ally Gator was promptly put into the coat closet next to the front door as punishment for snapping at Trey.