Eventually, they listened. Liked my attitude, I suppose. I was brought before Hell itself—the thing Catholics foolishly call the Devil, but make no mistake, he is Hell—and I was made an offer. I would be sent back to the world, at the moment of my death, to claim my kin, and be made an entry level demon. All I had to do in return was forward Hell’s agenda, until the Angels came to punish me, as they are wont to do. Then, I would be on my own. Not terrible odds, if you think about it.
I won’t tell you how Hell entered my blood, so that I could poison my family. I’ll tell you everything else, but I won’t tell you that.
Dinner was a joke, and only I knew the punchline. My family gushed about how relieved they were to hear I was alive, only an hour before my estate was distributed amongst those vultures. They all could fake a smile so well.
Let me tell you a little something about my family: they all are as evil as I am. They raised me after all. Good story? No? Let me add a little tension then. I was raised by some very wealthy people, whose greatest joy in life was amassing more wealth, by any means necessary. So guess what they wanted in the family? No, not a cigarette company CEO, we already have one of those. They wanted a lawyer, one who they could count on to cover up all their dirty little secrets. None of them, not even my own mother, knew how much like them all I really was. But I think they figured it out when I started blackmailing each of them with exactly the information they wanted me to hide. It did not take long for me to reach my untimely end after that. I thought I was ready; I had paid top dollar to the best security companies—both legal and clandestine—but I guess even protection can be bought out.
The beauty of my family is that none of them trust each other, and seldom disclose anything that will leave them vulnerable. I doubt any of them knew that everyone else was being blackmailed too. I’m certain that none of them admitted to having me killed. Of course, they will all have their suspicions. One of them had done it, and now whoever did it was enjoying a nice lobster bisque at my expense, while discussing the variety of their grief, and what a miracle it had turned out to be when my death turned out to be nothing but a clerical error.
After the appetizer dishes were cleared away, the help brought out the main course on silver platters.
“Steak Tatar,” I said, leaning back in my wheel chair at the head of the table. Beneath the blanket on my lap, my exposed bones itch. Everyone dug in, and I smiled.
The changes happened slowly, at first, as Hell’s poison moved from my blood to their bellies. Words slipped from boarding school precision to mumbles. Skin itched around the collar, and it suddenly felt much warmer in the room, for them. Teeth chopped through the raw meat with more ease every bite. When my father scratched at the back of his neck, he did not notice that his nails were longer, and sharper than they had been when he arrived for dinner. When he dug them into his itchy flesh, they drew blood. My mother was the first to lose her vocabulary entirely, raising her glass, smiling, and letting out a beastly growl rather than a “cheers.” Everyone else raised their glasses, laughing, unconcerned. Teeth peeked out from beneath bloodied lips, as they became proper fangs. My dear Aunt Maggie grabbed her chunk of my calf with both hands and began cramming it into her face. If some part of any of them realized what had happened, what was happening, they showed no sign of caring as they all became cannibals.
I felt changes occur in me, too, as the conditions of Hell’s contract were met. I did not have to suffer anything as grotesque as the rest, of course. After all, it was they who were to be my Hounds, while I was to be their Master. I was transforming into something far more appropriate. Oh, but I would hate to ruin the surprise. Let’s just say that you will find out when you meet me.
When it was finished, the beasts before me looked nothing like my kin, nothing like humans, but they were fearsome. And they had become my slaves.
I have brought Hell to my family; next, it’s Hell on Earth. And we are just the perfect bunch to see it through.
THE ITCH
By Stuart Conover
Matt couldn’t stop scratching his hands. They had been itching for days, the blistered red skin turning to scaly scabs within minutes, demanding to be scratched. He wanted to cry but had no tears left to shed. He couldn’t even keep his hands hydrated enough as is, let alone room for there to be tears.
He didn’t even want to think about how bad his feet felt or looked.
“Mathew Warner,” the receptionist finally called out.
It had felt like hours. Glancing down at his watch, there was no way that it had only been twenty minutes.
Standing, he tried to ignore the flakes which fell from his hands. He was sure everyone else in the waiting room was staring at them. Him. Freak.
What normal person would let themselves get into this kind of a position?
He slowly followed the nurse back to room 3. The only room Dr. Markow had met him in for the year he’d been going here. A new doctor for a new town seemed like a great idea but this coastal paradise had been anything but kind to him.
Sick within weeks of arriving and a skin condition shortly after. At first, he had thought it was eczema or even foot, hand, and mouth disease, but it soon proved to be neither.
“What seems to be the problem today, Matthew?” the nurse gushed through the smile that never left her perfect face. Like she wasn’t revolted by the sight of him.
The doctor had diagnosed him with a rare skin disorder after a multitude of tests. They had tried a variety of treatments so far and yet, nothing. He stressed that the latest was the key.
“It’s my hands,” he mumbled, “they’ve gotten worse. The ointment Dr. Markow prescribed isn’t helping at all.”
Maybe he should go back to Chicago. Find a real doctor. Living on the coast had always been a dream of his but this was a nightmare.
“Well let’s get your vitals and I’ll take a quick look before the good doctor is available. Can you hop on the scale for me?”
Sighing, Matt slipped out of his shoes and emptied his pockets. Every ounce counted, though he knew he couldn’t hide the fact that he was out of shape. Sliding his hands into his pockets he stepped up on the scale.
“Mmmhmm,” she said after making some adjustments. “You can step down now.”
He was off the scale before he even had a chance to look at what it read.
“What was the damage?” he said as he slid back into his loafers.
“187, you’re down 8 pounds. Good job!” she gushed.
He had mostly stopped eating since the last appointment. He couldn’t seem to make anything without shedding flakes of skin into it. Even when he wore gloves.
Who had to wear gloves just to eat?
“Now,” she was suddenly inches from him, with a look of almost hunger in her eyes, “Let’s take a look at those hands, shall we?”
He couldn’t keep her gaze and started to look down but didn’t want her to think he was staring at her cleavage and slowly started to pull his hands out of his pockets. When he had first started coming here, a quick admiring look down her blouse was a welcome distraction but these days looking at any of the women in town could only creep them out.
Before he could take them out the door opened.
“Matt. It’s good to see you. Beth, that will be all.”
“Yes but,” she clicked her tongue in frustration, “yes, sir.”
The resignation of having to leave filled not only her voice but her posture as she slowly walked out the door and closed it behind her with one last look at Matt.
Poor freak is what she had to be thinking.
“Attractive, no? Smart too, but far too ambitious and curious for her own good. It’s nice to see you again, Matt.”
Nodding but not looking up he blurted, “they aren’t getting any better, Doc.”
“Well you’ve only been on this new ointment for a week and I’ve told you it can take two before it really kicks in. Let’s get you out of those socks and shoes and let me see your
hands and feet, son.”
The shoes were kicked off and Matt slowly brought his hands down to take off his socks. Each moment flecked scales everywhere. When his socks came off it was instantly obvious how much worse his feet were. The skin was pale, cracked, and scales almost didn’t do justice to the serpentine pattern that was now etched into his skin.
The inside of his sock was full of flakes. He shuddered at the thought of putting them back on.
“They hurt. Everything hurts. Every time I move it hurts. It didn’t used to go up to my knees.”
Biting his lip to hold back tears he let the doctor examine him.
“Hmmm, yes, things are definitely coming along nicely here.”
“Nicely?” he spat out. Anger filling his voice and for the first time he looked up at Markow. “Nicely? I can’t go out in public. I can’t go to work. I hurt. All. Day. Long. What do you mean ‘nicely’?”
His toes curled and pain blossomed over his face as he couldn’t help but going back to scratching.
“Things are coming through to its natural course, Matt. You don’t have much longer to worry about this little infliction. I know it looks strange but I promise you that it will all be over soon. That scratching isn’t helping either.”
“It’s getting better? How is it getting better if it hurts even worse? If it itches all the time?”
“Sometimes the pain means healing. Sometimes it means things are changing. Right now, your skin is doing just that but it’ll all be over soon. The ointment will help this along quickly and you’ll be good as new. From what I can see here, I’ll be honest, things are coming along nicely. Just go home, have dinner, the nutrients will help too, rub in the ointment, and get a good night’s sleep. You won’t be better by morning but I promise that when you wake up you’ll have an entirely new outlook on life.”
Clenching his hands to not scratch them, Matt nodded.
“Thank you, doctor. It didn’t seem like it was getting any better.”
“I completely understand. You’ve got a condition that is rare and when it seems to be getting worse you have every right to be concerned but get on home. Tomorrow will be a whole new day. Believe me, you won’t know what hit you when you wake up!”
Walking out of the office he pulled an app up on his phone to arrange a ride. While waiting he pulled up another to order food. Specifically, a steak sandwich. He ordered extra meat and instead of fries, he side ordered a hotdog as well.
With gloves on he felt he could keep the flakes out of it. His stomach rumbled at the thought of something to eat and for the first time in days, he was hungry.
Not hungry.
Ravenous.
Protein with a side of protein seemed like just the thing too. Craving meat, he almost added a second sandwich to the meal before he realized his eyes had to be bigger than his stomach. Besides, his ride was there. Hitting order, he climbed on in and tried to keep his hands out of view of the driver.
The poor guy was going to have to vacuum before his next pickup.
Once home it wasn’t long before the grub arrived and, donning a pair of gloves, he scarfed it down. He tried not to notice that the scales were coming out over the top of the gloves.
Or that they seemed to be spreading farther up his arms.
He chased his dinner with a rum and cola, followed by three more.
The doctor’s high hopes had rubbed off on him.
The food lay heavy in his stomach. He stood and the alcohol went straight to his head, passing the buzzed feeling he was expecting, the room spun. At least he didn’t feel the pain for once. Stumbling to the bathroom he laughed.
If the doctor was right, he should wake up feeling better. He stripped out of his clothes on the way to the bathroom. Not even noticing he was leaving them strewn about his apartment. He turned the light on in the bathroom and winced.
A bit brighter than the kitchen had been. He looked in the mirror as he was unscrewing the top of the ointment bottle. Dark circles were engraved under his eyes and he almost felt like his face was breaking out.
Nope. Not going to pay attention to that. There was no need to add insult to injury at this point. He rubbed the ointment into his hands. Up to his wrists, up to near his elbows before realizing how much of his skin looked infected now.
Nothing to worry about. Things would be better in the morning. He rubbed it into his feet and the scales were up to his knees now. He added another dose for good measure. Really trying to rub it into his skin.
Laughing, he tried not to think of what he would have done with lotion just a few months back in the privacy of his bedroom but that thought quickly soured. He was far too disgusted with himself now to even think about that.
Looking in the mirror again, his eyes were slits. He needed sleep. The rum had hit him harder than he had been expecting.
Maybe that should have been his escape to sleep all of the last month.
No matter.
Things will be better in the morning.
Trying not to rub any of the lotion off his feet, he walked on the sides of each and toppled into bed.
Naked already as he knew he wouldn’t want to touch anything, he clenched his hands together and tried to keep his legs off the bed as much as possible.
Not the most comfortable way to lay down, he thought as he drifted into the darkness of his mind.
Waking up, it was still dark out and his head pounded.
He should have had water before going to bed.
All he needed was a hangover on top of everything else.
Matt’s eyes flashed open. There wasn’t anything else.
Flexing his hands and toes, there was no pain past the thundering in his skull.
Markow had been right!
He was better. Running his hands across each other, they didn’t feel sore at all. They felt dry. The feeling in his fingertips felt dulled.
Flexing his feet, they didn’t hurt either.
He reached down and the same dullness was there.
With how dry he felt it would probably be a good idea to get some moisturizer on, and a glass of water. Or five.
Grabbing his phone, it was 3AM.
He shakily stood up, head pounding the entire time, and made his way to the washroom. Filling his glass with water he wondered if he dared to turn on the light.
The pain would probably be unbearable through the hangover.
He had to see though.
Closing his eyes, he flicked on the light and winced.
With eyes closed it was too much.
Sighing, he waited for them to adjust as he had more of his water.
Finally, he cracked them open and the glass fell from his hand.
The face in the mirror. He shook his head and tried to avoid the pounding.
A trick of the light. Looking down he clenched his fists.
No longer painful. He was enraged. Angry and on the verge of crying.
This wasn’t right.
Matt looked in the mirror again and the creature that looked back at him was covered in scales.
Specs of skin were falling away, peeling, under it was. . . .
The scales were covering his body. All the way up his arms now and up through his neck. They didn’t cover his belly but a green hue was shining off them.
What had happened to him? This couldn’t be real.
He needed to call someone. 9-1-1. A doctor, something. He needed to get out of this town.
Matt’s phone started to ring.
Dr. Markow’s office.
“What have you done to me?” he hissed.
“Matt, Matt, Matt. Son, I’ve made you better. I told you that waking up today you would have a whole new outlook on life. You’ve been chosen, son. Now you need to come home.”
A flash of movement and Matt was pushed to the ground. His hands were cuffed behind him and a bag pushed down over his head.
“We’re here to take you home, son,” rustled a voice behind him. Cold and inhuman. “Welcome
to your better tomorrow.”
THE BLIND ASSASSIN
By Damien Donnelly
I don’t remember what happened before, no clue as to who I was, what I was, but afterwards, everything that happened afterwards is a completely different story, because when you open your eyes after death, you discover a whole other way of living.
Tick tock, tick tock.
There is darkness mostly; she left me no eyes to escape the blindness but I can see when I want, when the need fills me. I see shape in sound and smell. These are my senses now, she left me those. Guilt, regret, remorse, those weaknesses have no part in what I’ve become. I’m no longer accountable to the standards Men hold as law. I am beyond law and now, as I’m technically dead, I’m beyond Man.
Tick tock, tick tock.
“I remade you, better than before. You were a drunk, a drug addict with no direction. No one gave a shit about you. You would’ve died one day, I just gave that day a name. You should be grateful, I’ve given you something greater than life; indestructible, eternal death among the living,” she declared that day, the first day of my everlasting existence, as I realised the horror of what she’d done. I wasn’t human anymore, this was true. I would be unbeatable, also true. But she hadn’t given me eternal death, it was eternal damnation.
I recognised her voice from somewhere before death, a sound bite on TV, a ranting about experimentation, radiation, creation; bringing heaven to earth. “I’ll build a world that will never need creation again, all will be eternal,” she’d bragged. I remember that. I’ll always remember that. She won’t, not anymore.
Tick tock, tick tock.
When I first awoke, to her restoration, I felt no pain at all, that came later, when I came to understand what she’d made of me. She was my Frankenstein, she’d remoulded me from her miscreant mind. “Without sight you’ll see much better,” she whispered to my naked form, strapped to a gurney, as forceps wrenched my eyes from their sockets. “The tongue just teases you with taste,” she insisted, “this’ll teach you to taste from within,” and she snipped the tongue from my mouth with a blade, severing it from service with a single slice. Afterwards, she stitched it to the back of my neck, to remind me of all that was now behind me.
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 12