Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror

by et al. Ramsey Campbell

  “Petey?” The low tone of his mother’s voice stabbed into his ears like a baby’s cry in a theater, an unanswered phone ringing, and a dentist’s drill, all combined into one. It took all his willpower not to yell, “What?!”

  Instead he turned his gaze to her, eyebrows raised. From the look of things, she was at least five sheets to the wind, and from the way she gripped the handrail, she was ready for seven to ten more.

  “I know you’re busy,” she said, her face scrunched up. She wasn’t even looking at him. “I was wondering …”

  “Yes?” His voice was sharp, and he didn’t feel bad about it.

  “Do you have anything? I’ll pay for it.”

  He thought about the bottle of Ten High he’d hidden in a trashcan between his bookcase and a bunch of filing cabinets, where he knew she couldn’t reach. He used to keep his whiskey under the bed, but he noticed some of it would occasionally go missing, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist—or even a math teacher—to figure out what was happening.

  “I don’t have anything.” Pete turned back to the contract.

  “I’ll give you ten bucks, just please give me something.”

  Pete could feel his jaw groan, and he tried to unclench his teeth. “I told you, I have nothing.” He read the same sentence for a third time and hoped desperately that he could make it through the rest of the paragraph.

  He did, but he didn’t need ESP to sense his mother’s unmoving presence at the foot of the stairs. Maybe she’s so drunk it’s taking a moment for my words to sink in, he thought.

  New paragraph. Halfway through the first sentence, she said, “Could you go out and get me something. Please?”

  Pete sighed through his nose. “Look, I have a lot of work in front of me. If I’m ever going to move out of this place again, I need to work, okay?”

  Her nose started turning red, and she was squinting, sure signs that she was about to cry. When she inhaled, it sounded like she was snorting the dregs of a milkshake up through her nose. “I’d go myself, but I’m not well right now. I need something! Please! I’ll give you money. You can keep the change. I just … I’m not okay right now.”

  There once was a time when he would have refused her request. Back then he’d been a much more optimistic man, but recent events had crushed his faith in the world. Back then he’d thought he could cure his mother, but now he knew better.

  Now he knew that all he could do was get her off his back.

  Pete held out his hand. “Fine. What do you want?”

  She gave him a twenty. “Tequila. I need something that will put me down quick. And get the kind with the worm in it. I like the worm.”

  Pete grimaced. It was actually a butterfly larva, and the beverage was technically called mescal, but he couldn’t understand how anyone could drink anything with an insect in it. A turd by any other name …

  He pocketed the money. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  As it turned out, his gas tank was nearly empty, and he only had five bucks, which was only good for about one gallon in these godforsaken times. So his mother’s change would probably help out, at least until the next unemployment check showed up.

  It rankled him to live with his mom at the age of thirty-seven, especially since he’d been worth several million dollars only a few years ago. Like many businessmen, Pete had been swept up in the dot-com craze, but like many less-than-shrewd businessmen, he was too busy flashing green and getting laid to notice that the bottom was about to drop out. He’d lost everything, and now he spent his days writing business proposals and sending them out to any venture financer who would talk to him. It was a shame most of the contracts turned out to be stupid. The few he’d managed to get signed either went bust or he barely managed to break even.

  The one that held promise was practical, but he needed to kick in fifty thousand dollars, of which he only had half. He could probably hunt and scavenge for the rest of it, pull in every favor he was owed, but if the venture failed, he’d be back to square one, and probably working at a McDonald’s to make ends meet.

  He pulled into the lot and parked near the door. The sign above said WILLIAMS LIQUORS, but only the latter part was lit up. The rest was dirty, gray, and cracked. A bullet hole in the window was taped over, and a dark stain by the door reeked of puke and piss. At least it was fall; the stink was worse in the summer.

  Pete walked in and was greeted by the clerk. They didn’t know each other’s names, but they were familiar enough for the usual how’s-it-going-nice-day-isn’tit-getting-lucky?-etc. He went to the tequila section. Most was of the usual non-worm variety, but on the bottom shelf he found a bottle of mescal. The worm looked different, however. Usually it was red, or on occasion white (much to the purists’ dismay), but this one was flesh colored. If not for the segments, he would have thought it was a pinkie finger.

  It twitched.

  If he hadn’t been holding the bottle with both hands, he would have dropped it, and his mom would never let him hear the end of it. When he peered in the bottle again, the worm was still, and he decided the movement had been a hallucination. Too many hours writing too many contracts.

  He considered getting a different bottle, but then he realized it didn’t matter. His mother was only going to swill it down; she probably wouldn’t even taste the booze, much less the worm. He rubbed the bags under his eyes and went to the counter.

  After dumping eight-fifty-six into his gas tank, he went home and surrendered the bottle to his mother. She didn’t thank him, she just shuffled off to her room like an old Eskimo wandering into the wilderness to die.

  Pete retreated to his basement bedroom, to the contracts. He considered taking a snort of his Ten High, but he knew it would lead to nothing good at this late hour.

  While her son went back to work below her, Mindy Jervis settled into her couch and began flipping through TV stations. Absently, her fingers wrapped around the cap and tugged until the neck ring broke away. She placed the cold circle of glass to her lips and drank from the bottle. When she was younger, she used to pour it into a cup, but she was a much different person now.

  Now she realized the futility of extra receptacles. Besides, she’d only have to wash a cup later. With a bottle, all you had to do was throw it away.

  She didn’t grimace as the gasoline-like fluid went down her throat; she barely felt the burn. Though many images flew past her blank eyes, she stared through the TV screen as if it was a Mind’s Eye puzzle.

  The secrets of the universe were not divulged to her.

  All she had were her thoughts and memories, no matter how hard she tried to smother them with drink.

  It was on this very couch that Petey had been conceived. In those days, it had been in her parents’ house, but when she married Phil, she took it with her. When her mom and dad were out at a party, Mindy had invited Phil over. One thing had led to another, which had in turn led to Petey.

  She was really grateful for her son’s existence. After him there had been two pregnancies, and both had been stillborn. They had also ruined her body inside and out. There would be no more children for her, and even if she weren’t barren, her saggy frame would repel any suitors. If they could get past her flabby breasts and floppy folds of loose flesh, they would probably not get by the ring of stretch marks around her torso. If all else failed, she was certain no one would get past the c-section scar. Hell, she couldn’t get past it. She couldn’t stand the sight of her own body.

  Neither could Phil. He cheated on her for a while, and then he divorced her. The alimony was nice, but Mindy would trade it all in an instant for the loving touch of a man, which she had not felt for about twenty years.

  The bottle was already three-quarters empty. How long had it been since Petey had given it to her? Just a couple of hours?

  She tried to slow down, but her need wouldn’t let her. A half an hour later— not that she was aware of the passage of time—she was down to the last inch … and the worm.

 
Mindy had drunk her share of tequila in life, and she’d never seen a worm like this one. They were usually red or white, but this one looked flesh-colored.

  In fact, it looked kind of like a withered penis.

  She laughed, but it sounded like a gagging noise to her own ears. Wishful thinking, she thought, and she sucked down the rest of the bottle’s contents.

  The agave worm seemed thicker in her mouth than it had appeared in the bottle. It felt as stout as her tongue when she swallowed it. For a moment, she thought it had lodged itself in her throat, and she would start choking at any moment, but then it eased down into her. All was good.

  You did it the wrong way.

  She started. Had Petey entered her room? She looked around to find that she was alone.

  Besides, she thought, it sounded more like Phil. And he’d had a heart attack last year, which he hadn’t survived. She shivered.

  Get me out. You put me in wrong.

  She felt the urge to stick a finger down her throat. There was no reason, she just wanted to do it.

  No, she couldn’t. The tequila would come up, and that would be a shameful waste.

  As it turned out, she needn’t have concerned herself with this inner struggle; her head went down, and her throat closed, clogged with rushing vomit. Though she hadn’t felt sick, it came spewing out of her like water from a faucet. It stank of pure alcohol, and there were no chunks.

  Except one: the worm.

  And it was spasming.

  Pick me up and put me in right.

  Her hand moved toward it, and there was nothing she could do to stop, even if she wanted to. Once it was in her grasp, it calmed down, and when she lifted the bottom of her nightgown, it went rigid and began to hum.

  She stepped so softly he didn’t hear her until her hands were on his shoulders.

  Pete had been pouring over the specifics of the most promising contract, trying to write in loopholes where he might escape financial culpability. His lawyer could probably come up with something, but Pete was an old hand at this, so he hoped to work a bit of fine print in on his own.

  His eyelids were starting to droop. The hour was late, and he figured it was time for bed. He was naked to his boxers and very comfortable, so he knew that if he didn’t get under the covers now, he’d pass out at his desk.

  When her pale hands slipped over the bronze mountains of his shoulders, he thought he’d fallen off the fence between reality and dream. When she squeezed and began to massage, he looked up to see his mother’s face hovering over him, her long hair nearly tickling the top of his head.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “It’s two in the morning,” she said. “You work too hard. You should get in bed.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

  He stood, letting her hands fall away, and went to his bed, where he sat on the edge. Only then did he notice how red her eyes were, as if she’d been crying for hours. “You okay?”

  His mom bit her lower lip. “Not really. I’ve been thinking about your … your brothers, but mostly about your dad. And how empty I feel without him.”

  Pete sighed. This was the last thing he needed right now. Drama before bed was never good. Still, his mother allowed him to live here, so … “Aw, Mom. You should go out and date, like I always tell you. You wouldn’t be so lonely.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice cracked on the second word, making it almost unintelligible, but she didn’t bother to try again. “I’m ugly. No one would want me.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re fine, Mom. You’ll do okay.”

  She looked down at herself. “Do you think I’m ugly?”

  Pete didn’t think she was pretty. Good-looking, maybe, but definitely not ugly. “Trust me, Mom, you’d do fine.”

  Tears sprouted from the corners of her eyes, and she sat next to him on his bed, pressing her hot, wet face into his shoulder. Pete put his arm around her and whispered, “Shh. It’s okay. You’ll be all right. Do you want me to carry you upstairs?”

  She sniffed. “You couldn’t lift me. I’m too fat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I can pick you up.”

  She laughed through a throat full of snot. “Just sit here for a moment. I just want to spend a minute with my son.”

  He rubbed her shoulder and clasped her tighter. “Take your time.” It’s not like I’m going to miss work tomorrow, or anything.

  She kissed his cheek. “You’re a good son.”

  He closed his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t take much longer. His pillow cried out to him.

  Suddenly, there was a soft pressure on his lips, and his mouth was filled with tequila fumes. His eyes popped open, and he was looking at his mother’s face, which was too close to his own.

  “Whoa,” he said, pulling away. “I think we need to get you upstairs.”

  Her face scrunched up, and she began sobbing. “Oh God, I’m sorry Petey! It’s just that you look so much like your father, and I wish he was here. Please forgive me!” She placed both hands on his thigh and squeezed. By pure happenstance, one of her hands clasped down on the tip of his penis, pressing it against the inside of his leg. She didn’t notice, but Pete did.

  Though the horror of the situation had filled his belly with roiling, ulcerous fire, his traitorous body started reacting.

  He pried her hands away and crossed his legs. “It’s okay. We’ll just get you upstairs, right?”

  Both of her hands enveloped one of his, holding it so tightly she trembled. “I’m really sorry. Please forgive me, Petey. Please!”

  His captive hand was suddenly warm and sticky, as if he’d put it in a freshly baked cake. Looking down, he noticed his mom had shoved it under her nightgown. His knuckles were sinking into her flesh, and he gagged.

  “Mom! Stop! You need to go to bed!”

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered. Her head leaned forward for another kiss.

  Pete backed away. “Look, I’ve got to get to bed, and so do you. I’ll—“

  “No!”

  If she started struggling, and from the way her body tensed, it looked like she was getting ready to, there was no way he was going to be able to carry her up to her room. Maybe I should just leave her down here, and then go upstairs to sleep.

  “Here, lean back,” he said.

  She didn’t object as he pushed on her shoulder until she was on her back on the mattress. Then, just as he grabbed a handful of his blankets to throw over her, she opened her legs wide, showing off a pad of pale flesh with a thin scrim of dark pubic hair. A river of scar tissue, not unlike the white worm found in most tequila bottles, cut through the scant foliage between her legs. She was open and sopping wet.

  He threw the blanket over her and said, “Goodnight.”

  Much to his surprise, her eyes were already closed, and her even breath indicated that she was finally asleep. He was about to sigh, but he had to restrain himself out of fear that she’d hear and wake up.

  Sickness crawled up his guts and tickled the back of his tongue. Something burned inside of him as he looked down at her slumbering form. Could this be the same mother who had raised him? The same mother who volunteered to be a den mother for his Cub Scout pack when he was a kid? The same mother who had put Band-Aids on his skinned knees when he was trying to learn how to ride a bike?

  I want you inside me.

  The voice in his head was his mother’s, and he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

  You want me as much as I want you.

  Again, it was his mother, but when had she said that?

  You’re poking out of your shorts, Petey.

  He was. It was like the air was tugging on it, aiming it at his mother, as a dowsing rod would pull toward water. Revulsion ate its way through his stomach as he pushed himself back in and to the side. Without another glance at his mother, he headed for the stairs.

  Don’t go! Think of the things we could do!

  He ignored the voice until he threw himself down
on the living room couch. Then it grew stronger.

  Think of all the women you could have brought home, it said. You couldn’t because you didn’t want them to know you lived with your mother. No less than seven women this year alone! Isn’t that pathetic?

  It was. His erection throbbed between his thighs.

  Forget about them. They may be beautiful, but I will never stab you in the back. I will never embarrass you. I will always satisfy you.

  He thought about what was under her nightgown. She’d told him she’d needed a c-section to get him out, but he’d always envisioned a Frankensteinian nightmare whenever she mentioned it. It hadn’t looked that bad, actually.

  Come downstairs. I’m waiting.

  When was the last time he’d been laid? Back when he was rich, of course. He couldn’t bear to bring women home to his mother. He was thirty-seven, for Christ’s sake! He should have been out on his own again! What was wrong with him?

  His erection throbbed so hard it felt like the glans was going to pop off, and he was no longer thinking with his big head.

  Pete stood and allowed himself to pop out of his boxers again as he went downstairs and lifted his mother’s blanket.

  The next day, neither mother nor son could meet each other’s eyes. They pretended nothing had happened, and while both suffered from stomach flops and burning throats, neither said a word. They avoided each other, and only said hi. Their tones were terse and clipped.

  Months later, Mindy Jervis—who was once barren—was pregnant, and no matter how badly she wanted an abortion, all three million of her children did not let her get one.

  Sepsis

  Graham Masterton

  * * *

  “WHAT HAVE YOU GOT THERE?” she asked him, her eyes shining.

  “Nothing—it’s a surprise,” he said, keeping the lapels of his overcoat drawn tightly together.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “I can’t bear surprises!”