Flesh

by Laura Bickle

  I creep up on him, slam the wood into his face. It connects with a thick, wet sound. The flames waver. I squinch my eyes shut and hit him again.

  And again.

  Each time, a feral little squeak escapes my lips. I must have hit him a dozen times, squeaking, before Amanda takes the wood from me.

  “I think he’s dead,” she says.

  I open my eyes, panting. The body is charred black. There is no face to speak of. Judging by the dents on the ground, I was just hitting clods of dirt most of the time. The body’s shoes have been blown off its feet, and the hands are splatters of ink-like goo on the ground.

  “Really dead this time,” I gasp.

  “Yeah. Really, really dead. For real.” Amanda presses her palm to her mouth. Water drips from her chin. “What do we do now?” She sounds younger than me in this moment.

  “If we call the Sheriff, I’ll have to explain. We’ll have to explain,” I say.

  Amanda’s fingers tighten over her mouth.

  “But if we leave him here, someone will find him,” I add.

  She shakes her head. “We can’t let anyone find him.”

  I reach for his ankles, wincing as the hot metal eyelets from his boots sizzle into my palms. “Let’s get him to the crematorium.”

  *

  “Do you think we’ll get caught?” Amanda asks.

  We stand before the oven, watching light seep out from the seams. Sweat and rain have stuck my clothes to my body, and the heat causes them to steam. I feel like some hellish otherworldly creature, having shoveled the hunter into the oven, right on top of poor Mrs. Gatsky. There are two sets of feet entangled in there, looking sort of obscene before we close the door.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “I think he’ll cook down.”

  “Yeah?” Amanda’s eyes reflect the red light.

  “Oh, in a day or two, sure. There will just be some extra ash. He’ll get shoveled into a box to spend eternity with Mrs. Gatsky in Florida.”

  I feel sort of giddy. Powerful and hopeless at once, as if I’ve gone down some irrevocable path. I poke the coals in the cavity of the furnace below the bodies, add some more. It dimly occurs to me that if there are other ghouls wandering about, they might be tempted to creep to the oven for a snack. I don’t mention this to Amanda.

  “What do we do now?” She’s chewing on the remains of the nail polish on her thumb. “There are more of them out there.”

  “It’s not safe here,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

  I take her sleeve, and Amanda obediently follows me to the house. ‘The rain pelts us as we walk, rinsing away the stink of the crematorium and the ozone smell of lightning. The house ahead is dark, the power gone. The generator hums in back, but it only services the cooler right now. It’ll probably be tomorrow before anyone comes to even begin work on getting the power back. I know that we’re on the priority list with the electric company, but nobody’s coming out in this weather.

  I let us in the back door, through the Body Shop. Our soaked shoes leave footprints on the floor. Beyond, in the house, I can hear voices.

  Opening the door to the cooler, I whisper, “Stay here. I’ll come back for you later tonight.”

  Amanda nods wordlessly. She slips behind the door into darkness.

  “And, uh, if you’re going to snack,” I add, “please pick some unobvious stuff.”

  “Like what?” her disembodied voice hisses.

  “The ones that are already dressed, someplace covered by clothes. Or anything in a plastic bag is probably safe.”

  “Okay.” There’s a pause. “Thanks.”

  I shut the door, square my shoulders, and walk out of the Body Shop to the main floor of the house.

  Garth is standing in the foyer, arms crossed over his chest. He’s holding a flashlight that sets his face in ghostly shadows.

  “Hey,” I say, startled.

  He stares at me. “Hey.”

  I try to slide past him, to go upstairs. But his arm shoots out and he rests his palm against the wall, blocking my path. “So, where were you?”

  “I…uh…” I look down at my muddy clothes.

  “You told Dad that you were going next door to see Renee. And I was apparently supposed to take you. I called over there, and Renee said you weren’t there.”

  I take a deep breath. “Look, I just needed some time by myself. I went for a walk.”

  “You know that’s dangerous, with all the stuff that’s been happening out here.”

  “I just needed to be by myself. To process. And then lightning struck the telephone pole, and I tried to run away from the falling wires, and I slipped in the mud.” It comes out in a rush.

  “You could have gotten hurt.”

  “Everyone in this family is trying to keep me from getting hurt. All the time. Like I’m some porcelain doll that needs to be encased in Bubble Wrap.” Rage burns my tongue. I duck under his arm to head up the stairs. “I’m not.”

  “I know you’re not. Which is why I covered for you with Mom and Dad.” Garth gazes up at me on the stairs, and I freeze on the third step, surprised.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I just…just keep me in the loop, okay? I feel like you’re off in your own world, apart from the rest of us. And I know that you have to find your world, and that’s healthy and all, but…” The flashlight lowers. “Just please don’t lie to me, okay?”

  I nod, but no sound comes out of my throat. That’s not something I can promise.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I SHOWER, STUFF MY DIRTY clothes into the hamper, and wrap the cloak of darkness around me as I wander through the house. Though the shadows spinning away from my flashlight make me jump, I’m relieved to have somewhere to hide. I can’t help shaking, trembling with the memory of putting the hunter in the oven. I don’t want anyone to see that.

  My dad spends most of the evening on the phone with the electric company. My mom’s bitching about the status of the cooler and is trying to make arrangements to transfer the bodies to a local deli that was closed down, if worse comes to worst and the hiccup in the generator starts getting louder. They’re cycling the generator on and off, ten minutes an hour.

  “It’s already been shut down by the health department!” she growls into her cell phone. “How much more trouble can they get in for refrigerating a few bodies?”

  She goes down the steps a few times to check on the temperature. I shadow her, trying to make plenty of noise to warn Amanda, but I don’t know what she can really hear behind that dinged stainless steel door. Mom shines her light on the thermometer embedded in the door, but doesn’t open it. She doesn’t want to let out the cold air. Good for Amanda.

  Upstairs, Gramma is doing the same, except she’s fretting over our refrigerator. She makes dinner from cold leftovers: a roast cut into slices, bread, cheese, and salad.

  “Gotta eat this up before it goes bad,” she grumbles, tucking into a pint of ice cream.

  That’s Gramma. A pragmatist. While Mom and Dad are running the batteries down on their cell phones, checking the wires on the lightning rods, and fussing over blown light bulbs, the three of us sit at the kitchen table, illuminated by a clutch of Christmas candles. They’re familiar wax figures of Santa, Frosty, and Christmas trees. Santa is starting to lean backward, and Frosty the Snowman is beginning to melt, his face warping under the light.

  Lothar sits under the table, his tail thumping on the floor. Rain patters against the windows, and thunder rolls over us.

  Garth kicks back from the table, balancing his chair on the back legs. “What now? I’m bored. I don’t wanna go to bed early.”

  I don’t like that idea, either. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts and my trembling. I carefully gather my dishes to clear the table, mindful not to drop my glass.

  “We could play a game,” Gramma says.

  Garth rolls his eyes. “Not Monopoly. You always win.”

  “I have something else in mind. A game that my
grandma used to play.”

  “Oh, yeah? Your Goth Grandma?” my brother asks.

  “Yes. Grandma Anna. And she wasn’t Goth,” Gramma corrects. “She was Victorian. Everyone was like that back then.”

  I think back to the wall of photos. There’s only one picture of Grandma Anna in the foyer, a small tintype. She’s wearing all black in that picture, and her face is pale as a ghost’s. “Everyone dressed in black all the time? Imagine that.”

  Garth snorts.

  Gramma kicks him, and Garth howls in protest. “She’s the source of a great many recipes in this kitchen. She was also a spirit photographer. She used to hold séances in the house. She was a spiritualist, quite fascinated by some of the workings of the hidden world.”

  I shudder a bit. Maybe I don’t want to play any of Grandma Anna’s games. But I don’t want to be alone in the dark up in my room, either.

  “So what are we gonna do? A séance?” Garth asks. I’m sure that he can’t wait to debunk anything that would happen.

  “Uh…how about Monopoly?” I squeak.

  Gramma’s fingers are tight on my sleeve, and she fixes me with a careful look. “I think it might be useful to teach you kids how to do this. You never know when it might come in handy.” She glances over her shoulder, at the open doorway. “But don’t tell your parents.”

  “Yeah, Mom would have a shit fit if she thought we were traumatizing Charlie any further.”

  I shove the salt shaker across the table at him. He catches it, but some salt spills on the metal surface. “Hey.”

  “That’s a good start,” Gramma says. “Put salt in the four corners of the room.” She takes the shaker from Garth’s hand and scatters a pinch in each corner.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “To keep you safe.” She throws a bit over her shoulder before placing the shaker on the counter. She sits back down at the head of the table. Garth and I are across from each other. I fix my gaze on Frosty, whose face is beginning to drip down his stomach.

  “Put your hands on the table,” Gramma says. She places hers before her. Garth and I follow suit. I stare down at my hands. The metal is cold, and my hands fog the surface. I can see the vague suggestion of my silhouette behind my hands, made fuzzy in the half-light and brushed metal.

  “What are we doing?” I squeak.

  “Table-tipping. The spiritualists were big on using whatever tools they had at hand to communicate with the dead.”

  “Didn’t Harry Houdini debunk the hell out of this?” Garth asks, rolling his eyes.

  “He tried,” Gramma says. “Take a deep breath.”

  My breath shakes a bit. I hope no one notices.

  “This is Gillian Sulliven, owner of this house. I call forth the protection of God. Under His wing, I call forth any earthbound spirits who may be here who can shed light on the mysteries besetting this house.” Gramma’s voice is low, as if she doesn’t want it to travel downstairs, but it still rings with quiet authority.

  We wait for a few heartbeats. Nothing happens.

  “What’s supposed to happen next?” Garth mumbles. I can tell he’s already getting bored.

  “Shut up,” Gramma snaps. Her eyes are closed.

  I can’t bring myself to close my eyes. I stare at Garth. He crosses his eyes at me and I try not to giggle.

  Then a knock sounds from the underside of the table. It’s a sharp, clear rap that sends the dog scuttling out from below the table and toward the refrigerator. His ears are back, and his lips are twisted in a snarl.

  I nearly snatch my hands from the table. I peer under it, seeing only shadows.

  “Cool,” Garth says, sounding unimpressed. “Which one of you did it?”

  “Is someone here with us?” Gramma whispers.

  Another rap. This one is close to the center of the table.

  “Then one knock for yes, and two for no,” Gramma instructs.

  A knock echoes between my right thumb and forefinger. My fingers twitch. I’m not sure that this is such a good idea. I look to Gramma. She’s pale and serene, eyes still closed

  “Is this a spirit of the house?” she asks. “One of the Sullivens?”

  A single tap.

  “Grandma Anna?”

  One tap. Yes.

  “How many people are around this table?”

  Three knocks echo. One at Garth’s place, one at Gramma’s, and one I can feel underneath my hands.

  “Slick trick, Gramma,” Garth mutters. He ducks his head to look under the table.

  “Are there other spirits in this house?” she asks.

  One knock, sharp enough that the flame on the snowman before me twitches. From the floor below, I can hear my Mom and Dad muttering.

  Gramma leans close, whispering to the table. “Were the corpses from the morgue stolen?”

  Two hard raps. No.

  “What happened to the bodies, oh Smart-Ass from the Great Beyond?” Garth growls.

  There’s a staccato series of taps from below, like rain on a tin roof.

  “You have to ask yes or no questions,” Gramma hisses.

  “That’s not much friggin’ help.”

  “Language, young man.”

  “We aren’t going to find anything.” He snorts. “Are we supposed to read through the list of names in the phone book to see who took them? It’s not like the bodies walked off by themselves.”

  One crashing thud comes from the bottom of the table. I yelp, jumping into the air.

  Garth’s brow furrows. “The bodies walked off by themselves?”

  Another sharp crack, this one so hard that an indentation is left in the table, like a knuckle.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” I breathe. I’m freaked out enough about the visible dead. To know that there’s invisible dead that can put dents in metal…it’s almost too much. Almost. I shiver. It’s suddenly cold as hell here, and I want the damn lights to come back on.

  There’s a creak on the steps below us. My parents are coming up.

  “Are we in danger?” Gramma asks softly.

  Taps begin pattering on the bottom of the table, slowly at first, then quickly. It would be impossible for one set of hands to make all these sounds. It’s as if there are hundreds of fingers clambering on the underside of the metal, like hail on the dark side of a mirror. “Jesus,” Garth whispers. I think it’s beginning to dawn on him.

  Something tears out of my pocket. I feel it ripping out and slamming on the table. The catfish charm. It spins crazily around, dodging around our fingers and the dent in a widening spiral.

  I pull my hands away from the table and try to catch it by clapping my hands over it, like one would catch a firefly in grass. When my palms slap down on top of it, there’s a deafening crash as one of the table legs collapses. The plate of candles spills from the table onto the floor in a cometlike streak of hot wax. Garth swears, and we are plunged in darkness.

  “What the heck is going on up there?” Mom’s shrill voice calls and Lothar is barking now, too. I wrap my fingers around the catfish charm, clutching it in my fist. It’s still and inert now, the spell broken.

  Flashlights sweep into the room. I see Garth rescuing the remains of Frosty the Snowman, now shattered in pieces around a burning wick.

  “What happened?” Mom holds the flashlight, and my dad has his gun.

  Gramma stands at the doorway, pale and rigid. One hand goes to her hip. “I fell.”

  “Are you all right? Your heart…” Mom rushes to her.

  “My heart is fine. I just need a couple of ibuprofen, dammit.”

  The flashlight beam swings to me and Garth. My brother blinks, saying nothing. And I don’t say anything, either.

  *

  I sink to my bed, pulling my arms around my knees. I feel like I’m in way over my head. Way over. I hate feeling weak, feeling like I can’t handle what’s happening. My first instinct is to tell Garth and Gramma what’s going on and let them take care of it for me. To let anyone else hand
le the undead girl in the cooler, the ashes of the undead guy in the crematorium, and even the charm I’ve stolen.

  But I don’t want to be weak, anymore. I want to be strong. I want to handle my life on my own. Not to run away or crumple in on myself in fear. I light as many Christmas candles as I can, as if I can chase away the darkness. I park them on my dresser, the nightstand, even the windowsill.

  I reach into my pocket for the catfish charm. It’s still, heavy and inert against my palm, feeling cool and leaden as a piece of coal. I don’t know what energy animated it, but I’m afraid.

  I listen for activity downstairs. I hear my father and mother eventually go to bed, snippets of their voices in their bedroom. I wait until their voices fall silent and Gramma starts to snore. I have no idea how she’s able to snore after all that, but maybe she has better sleeping pills than I do. I hear nothing from Garth’s room. I’m pretty sure that he’s not sleeping, either, so I know I have to be quiet.

  In sock feet, I creep down the steps. I avoid the squeaky spots, moving soundlessly in the dark. Lothar is standing guard at the bottom of the steps. He knows that there are things roaming around in the dark.

  Things that I’ve brought into the house.

  I put a finger to my lips, and to my relief, he doesn’t bark. His toenails click against the floor as he follows me into the Body Shop. I open the cooler door. Cold air seeps out and freezes the sweat on my skin.

  “Amanda?” I whisper into the dark.

  A pale figure moves to the door. Amanda’s hands are wrapped around her elbows. “Tell me that I don’t have to sleep here.”

  “No. Come with me.”

  I gesture for her to follow me back the way I’ve come, back up the steps. Amanda doesn’t know the stairs as well as I do, making two sharp creaks on the way up that cause my breath to catch in my throat. But my parents’ door remains closed. We continue up to my room, and I shut the door.