“Gimmie this patch,” he said. Without hesitation, he yanked it off, and fell back screaming. From the boy’s black socket poured forth a collection of moans and a stench so foul it rivaled the time he found the decomposed raccoon under the oil drum at the vacant lot. Accompanying the moans, gray and rotted fingers thrust out from the socket, groping and flexing like giant worms wriggling for freedom. They cracked the ocular bones as they forced their way through the hole, reaching out toward Nicky. Hands and arms followed, the boy’s skull crumbling as something hideous tore loose from inside, the moaning growing louder and louder! Something black and vaguely human tore its way out!
Nicky woke up sweating.
***
It was the kind of morning that foretold a scorcher of a day. Outside, birds were singing and the neighbor’s dog was critiquing it. Down the street a lawnmower was growling a familiar summer tune.
Nicky rolled out of bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes and made his way downstairs where he found a box of Cheerios already waiting for him on the table. The note next to it said his mother would be home early from work today to take him to the doctor.
Cheerios weren’t nearly sweet enough for his taste buds but his mother forbid all the fun cereals like Cocoa Puffs and Apple Jacks, so he added sugar from the sugar bowl. As he sat eating, he rolled up his sleeve and looked at his arm.
Black!
All Black!
The spoon hit the floor and catapulted milk toward the ceiling as Nicky jumped up from the chair. His entire bicep was covered in a large black scab. “What the hell…?” he whispered.
Brrring
He ran to the phone, picked up the receiver. “Mom, you have to come home—”
“Hey sweetie, need me to change your diaper?” There was a guffaw. It was Greg.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“Listen, Greg, something happened to me. My arm…it’s…it’s…”
“Missing? Morphed into a penis? What?”
“Where that kid pinched me, it’s all gross.”
“Gross how?”
“I dunno, just gross. Black and scabby, like sandpaper.” He traced his finger across it, felt the crispness of the skin.
“Maybe you’ve got spiders growing under your arm. My mom once said a close friend of hers—”
“Jesus, Greg, shut up! I’m serious. Look, I have to call my ma, I’ll call you back.”
Greg’s voice was cut off as Nicky pressed the button to clear the line. He called his Mother’s office. Mrs. Dewberry, the receptionist, answered in her perpetually cheery voice. “Hi, Nicky,” she said. “Your mom ran out with the boss for a quick meeting. She said if you called to tell you to stay home till she gets there. I heard you had a run in with some thug yesterday. Everything okay?”
Thug? Jeez, he thought, the kid was younger than he was. But then, he couldn’t proudly tell Mrs. Dewberry he was bested by a grade-schooler. The thought made him so angry he wished he could bike over to the boy’s house and punch him in the face. Only he didn’t know where they boy lived. All he knew was that the boy’s mother got her hair cut at… Wait a minute, he thought, the hairdresser might have the woman’s address. And if he could find out where the boy lived he could find out what had been done to him.
“Nicky? You there?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Dewberry, yeah, I’m fine. Um…I’ll just see her when she comes home. Bye.”
He hung up and dialed Greg back. “Greg’s Pizza Parlor, would you like to try our special dingleberry lover’s pie?”
“Greg, get Willy and meet me at my place in ten minutes. We’re going to Candy Mountain.”
“Again? I don’t think I can eat any more Twizzlers. My piss was purple last night.”
“I want to talk to that salon next door, see if they know anything about that kid.”
“What about your arm?”
Nicky looked at his arm, which looked like a hamburger that had been left on a grill too long, and felt his anger growing hotter. “My mom is taking me to the doctor at noon. That gives us three hours to get some answers. Hurry up.”
He hung up the phone. As he ran up the stairs to change into jeans and a T-shirt, he noticed that the black scab had moved down past his elbow.
It’s spreading, he realized. And a new sense of horror flooded him.
***
The three boys pedaled with all their might, racing against time, not even stopping to spit at Mrs. Hutchinson’s mailbox or jump the ramp at the vacant lot. None of them sat down, standing and pumping their legs furiously as they tore down to the candy store. Each bunny-hopped up onto the curb, simultaneously launching themselves off the bikes mere inches from the salon’s door. It was closed.
“Shit!” Nicky yelled, banging his fist on the door.
Greg and Willy gaped at Nicky’s arm, which they’d been doing since meeting at Nicky’s house. “I think it’s getting bigger,” Willy said. He stuck a finger out to touch it but pulled back.
“Now what?” Greg asked.
“I suppose we could ride around and check out the side streets,” Nicky said, “maybe we can find the SUV.”
“That could take days,” Willy said.
“Shit,” Greg reiterated.
All three of them banged on the door in anger.
“We’re closed already!” came a voice from inside.
“Holy crap,” Nicky said, “someone’s here.”
All three shouted. “Let us in!” “Open up!” “Now!”
A tiny woman in jeans and a yellow blouse opened the door and stood blocking the entrance. Her hair was frosted three different colors. A mug of coffee was in her hand.
“We ain’t open yet. And you rugrats can’t get a haircut without your parents anyway.”
Nicky spoke up. “Please, we just need to know about the boy with the eyepatch.”
“What the hell you talking about? I’m cleaning up. Come back later.”
“No,” Nicky said, placing his foot between the door and the jamb. “Look what he did to my arm.”
“Jesus, kid. You should go to the hospital.”
“The boy with the eyepatch did it. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s getting worse. Who is he?”
“Eyepatch?”
“Listen, lady,” Greg said, growing frustrated and unafraid to show it, “if we don’t find this kid, Nicky is gonna end up an amputee.”
Nicky’s eyes bulged; he hadn’t even though of that.
“No, you listen, kid, I don’t give out client information.”
Threats were not Nicky’s strong suit, but he decided to play the card anyway. “If you don’t tell me I’ll cut my own hair and tell my mom you did it.”
The hairdresser sipped her coffee. Age and fatigue were visible on her face, and perhaps it was sheer apathy, but she chose not to argue. “Nice try, kid. Even a bad cut by me is a good cut.”
“Please, lady. Look at my arm. Please. At least if we know what the kid was touching we can tell the doctor.”
She sighed, puckered her lips as she took in Nicky’s arm. “Sheeeit. All right, yeah, the kid with the eyepatch. I don’t know his name. His mother comes here about every six months to get a cut. You know, funny you should bring her up, she usually gets the same cut, but this time she got it cut shorter and had me dye it blonde. Not a good look for her, believe me. She don’t talk, you know. I try to ask her things, what she’s been up to, how her kid is, that kind of stuff, but she don’t talk. Keeps her kid in the car, never brings him in. He sits back there with a comic book but I figure, hell, he looks well fed, seems happy. I don’t know. I saw her grab him yesterday, so I guess he got out. I think she’s embarrassed by him, the whole missing eye thing. Strange that she went blonde, you know. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Where do they live?” Nicky asked.
“Look,” the woman said, “I give you this woman’s address and you cause her problems, and she sues me or something, I’m gonna find you
. I see you down here at the candy store so I know you’re from around here—”
“We won’t tell,” Nicky said. “Please. My arm is going numb.”
“Hang on.” She disappeared inside, returned a minute later. “Lucky for you I have a mailing list she signed up for. For coupons and stuff. She lives up on Roseland Drive. It’s by the supermarket. Name’s Tara French” She handed Nicky a Post-it with an address. “Now get out of here. And go see a doctor.”
The door slammed shut.
***
Roseland was a cul de sac two blocks away from the market, full of ranch style homes with big lawns and two car garages. On the front lawn of one house some children were kicking a soccer ball—though none of them was the boy with the eyepatch.
Winded from the ride, the three boys dropped their bikes on the sidewalk and walked up to the front door of Tara French’s house, across from where the children were playing. Nicky blew on his arm; the sun was making it itch again.
“I hope that brat answers so I can pop him,” Greg said.
Nicky rang the doorbell. No one answered. They rang again. Nothing.
“They moved,” came a voice from the street. The boys spun around and found a small girl standing at the edge of the lawn holding the soccer ball. “They moved last night,” she said. “I watched them from my window. They were making all this noise I couldn’t sleep. They had big bags and suitcases. What’s wrong with your arm? It’s all gross. Are you moving in there?”
Across the street, the girl’s mother popped her head out the front door and called her back. “Gotta go,” the girl said, and ran across the street, back to her yard where she threw the ball at one of the other small children. The little girl’s mother glared at Nicky and his buddies, waiting to see if they were up to no good.
“She’s spying on us,” Willy said, “let’s warp outta here.”
“Shut up, Willy,” Greg replied. “Look at Nicky’s arm. It’s almost down to his hand.”
The black scab was spreading down Nicky’s forearm, reaching toward his wrist, as well as spreading around the back of his bicep up toward his neck. He bent it and winced as the scab split in the crook of his elbow, releasing yellow pus and blood.
“That is fucking-A disgusting,” Greg said.
Nicky studied the window next to the door. “Maybe we can get in here.”
“What for?”
“To find out where they moved to.”
Thunk!
The sound came from inside.
Greg plastered his face to the window and peered between the gap in the curtains. “Holy shit. Something is in there.”
“Lemme see.”
All three boys squinted through the window. Inside, a fully furnished living room was bathed in shadow, and through an archway off to one side a kitchen table was just visible. A foot stuck out from under it, twitched for a moment and then went still again.
“Quick,” Nicky said, “around back. Someone’s in the kitchen.”
Willy started to debate but Greg grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him around the back of the house. Once there, Nicky tried the back door, which swung open with a fart-like creak. Willy shook his head in silent protest, his breathing heavy, but Greg glared at him and pointed at Nicky’s arm and that was that. Filled with trepidation, the boys entered.
The kitchen was dark, the shades drawn. Against one wall a green refrigerator hummed, a drawing done in crayon hanging on it with a magnet. Dishes were scattered on the floor, trash was overflowing from a large white garbage can, the scent of rotting meat hung heavy in the air, flies buzzed everywhere.
“Man, it stinks like crud in here,” Greg said, holding his nose.
Willy’s hand went to his mouth as he slowly backed up against the door. “The table. Look,” he said.
Under the table, a black mound rolled about. Like cheap balled-up saran wrap, it slowly unfolded and grew larger into something humanoid. Just like what came out of the boy’s eye in my dream, Nicky thought. As they watched in horror, it opened its eyes and reached a hand out toward them—-a black hand, crusted and covered in yellow pus and blood. It spoke: “Go ’way.”
It was a man, or man-shaped anyway, no longer doubled over but clearly in pain, propped up against the baseboard.
“Go away,” it breathed again.
The boys remained frozen, terrified and mesmerized.
“Get…out…now”
“Who are you?” Nicky asked, his legs shaking.
“Get…out…”
“Fuck this,” Willy said, “I’m outta here.” He tore through the door.
Fighting his paralysis, Nicky approached the black thing under the table. It breathed heavily, as if trying to speak, as if forming words was taking every ounce of its energy.
“Um…Nick…” Greg was backpedaling toward the door now, too.
Nicky bent down and ran a finger across the black scab that was the man’s face. In fact, the whole body was one giant black scab. Nicky held up his arm, comparing his scab to the man-thing on the floor. “He pinched me. Did he pinch you?”
The man looked at Nicky’s scab, closed his eyes and sighed.
“Nick, I don’t like this.” Greg was half out the door.
“Hang on.” Then, to the man: “He pinched me too. What is it? How do you stop it?”
The human scab slithered out toward the center of the floor, the dried skin crunching and cracking like Pop Rocks. In the shadows, the whites of his eyes were about the only things visible. Greg stepped completely out the door, his knees vibrating.
“Wife and I,” the man droned, rigid once again, sucking in labored breath, “tried for years. Drugs…herbs…whatever bullshit theories were…in news, we tried it. But couldn’t…get pregnant. Figured…what the hell, pray to God…ask him for help. But…no answer.”
Blood was running down the man’s hard, cracked skin. Greg couldn’t look at him, but Nicky bent down closer.
“Can’t blame me,” the man continued. “Can’t—too young understand anyway. God wouldn’t…give us child. Our future. So…who…what was left? Devil ain’t real. Devil…is for comic books…movies. But…I asked, and nine months later. No eye…but swore to love him. No eye…should have seen it. Just skin…smelled bad. No eye...no soul. Could tell.”
“Please,” Nicky said, “How do you fix it? Wake up.”
“Look at me! You think…I’d be like this…if I knew how stop it. He was…such good boy until…sixth birthday. Then stopped talking. Phases, they said. But no. Phase is when…wife stops fucking you…when you go to church again. He pinched…the dog. We took it to vet…couldn’t do anything. Died big black scab. Disintegrated…black ash. And even when he pinched me…I thought…dog must have got disease…because…boys can’t do such things. Look at me! I’ve been…inside house for…weeks. Doctor’s couldn’t figure out…even specialists. Left hospital…couldn’t help me. Sit here rotting. Wife left…took the boy. Doesn’t believe me…he’s evil. No eye…but always sees you. Always finds you. Wife…doesn’t…believe… Thinks I chase her…hurt boy. She…right. Evil. Devil heard me, heard my prayers. He’s real. He—”
Tears rolled down the man’s scabby cheeks as his breath gave out. And like that, he was dead. The tips of his fingers fell away into a pile of ash on the floor, scattered in the breeze coming through the doorway.
“Nicky,” Greg said, “is he…?”
“I think so.”
“We gotta go get help, it’s almost noon.”
Nicky backed up slowly through the door, stepped into the yard with Greg. He held up his hand in the sunlight. It was all black. As was the side of his neck. Lifting his shirt, he touched the black scab that was working its way down his ribs. Try as he might to speak, he couldn’t find the words. Breathing was beginning to hurt. Something inside his body felt like it was hardening. The pain was slowly taking over.
“Nick,” Greg asked, “what’s the hell’s going on? It’s all over you.”
Tears
cut from the corners of Nicky’s eyes, just like they’d done from the dead man in the kitchen.
Willy was beside Greg now, watching Nicky cry, watching as the boy stared in disbelief at his own body. They stood there for a long time as a cloud of black ash blew out from the kitchen door.
BLEEDING ON THE RUG
“He’s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”
Two days of lifting heavy boxes for the move to the new house had sucked the ever-loving life out of Dane. He should have been able to sleep through an elephant stampede. But the sound of Matti’s frantic whispering shocked him out of his dream like a hooked fish yanked from a pond. There was something about his wife’s voice that had the power to weave through his fatigues and mental blocks and grasp him.
“…bleeding on the rug on the rug…”
Sleeptalking was not uncommon for Matti; it was in fact a trait of hers Dane found endearing. On several occasions over the years he’d listened with a smile as she conversed with the denizens of her dream worlds. Sometimes a conversation with him, sometimes a chat with friends, sometimes just pure nonsense that made him giggle. But from the sound of her voice now, she was engaged in a nightmare. He decided he would give her a reassuring squeeze and tell her she was just dreaming.
“…on the rug, on the rug…”
“Roll over.” He rubbed her side
Shadows hung heavy in front of him as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. The clock beside the bed threw sanguine light onto the nightstand in the form of digital numbers. One rule Dane had while sleeping was to never look at the time; counting the hours until work always gave him anxiety.
Too late. He saw it was 3:45 and compulsively did the math until he had to get up.
“Matti,” he grumbled again.
“...bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…”
His wife lay on her back, auburn hair in waves across her face, not a typical sleeping position for her. She was a fetal sleeper, often cradling one of the many teddy bears Dane had given her on birthdays and anniversaries. This position looked too rigid, almost forced, like she’d been tied to a board. And there was something about the way she was repeating the words that didn’t feel right. Her voice was hushed, the words fast and sharp, like she was trying to say it as many times as she could in under a minute.
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