by Brian Hodge
“I do believe it,” she whispered. “And I do care about you, Simon.”
“Don’t fucking say my name. I am not going to say this again.”
“Simon, you can’t scare me anymore. We both know you are never going to hurt me.”
He launched the knife forward, burying it deeply into her chest, stopping only when his knuckles sunk into her flesh. He flinched as the hot blood splattered onto his clenched teeth, filling his mouth with her bitter taste. He stared into her eyes, feeling repulsive for the first time as he watched himself in her stunned expression. Her heartbeat reverberated through the knife and into the bones of his hand.
Katherine exhaled sharply, her breath slicing through the air twice before it stopped cold. Thick veins had snaked up her neck and into her temples.
Simon did not realizing he was crying until the first warm teardrop landed on the back of his hand and mixed with her blood.
“I love you, Katherine Mayer,” he whispered.
He let go of the knife and fell to his knees, screaming loudly in the closed confines of his dark basement. He felt a warm trickling on his left knee and looked down to see her blood as it ran around him, oozing forward in slow motion.
Burying her body was difficult.
As she lay in the shallow ditch, the moonlight lighting up her face like some perverse, yet beautiful painting, he found himself longing once again for her smile. Hardening himself, he threw a shovel full of dirt into her face and moaned. When he realized he was whispering her name like a mantra, he became furious, stabbing the shallow grave with the shovel, feeling sick when he heard the crunching of her broken teeth.
Never again will I allow myself to grow so close to one of my victims, he thought to himself as he stared up at the skull-like moon.
He felt invisible again, and enjoyed it. Katherine had somehow begun to make him feel naked and vulnerable.
As soon as he arrived back at his house, he began the tedious process of cleaning the basement. The blood-covered chair sat in the center of the room, a grisly reminder of what he had done. He leaned down and touched the thick puddle of congealed blood and studied the crimson tip of his finger. Closing his eyes, he touched the finger to his tongue, savoring her one final time.
As the taste of her blood filled his mouth, an image of Katherine detonated into his mind. Her blood-covered face was down, though her eyes were locked on his. A ghostly smile erupted underneath her nose and she began to giggle mockingly. Repulsed, he spit her blood to the ground, wiping his finger off on his jeans.
Simon felt she had somehow invaded him in that moment, he had felt her presence so profoundly he could almost smell her scent. He could still hear her giggling in his brain.
Feeling a desperate need to rid himself of her presence, he retreated upstairs into a hot shower. As he washed himself vigorously, the soap lathered around his body like a protective shield, he kept itching at his wrist. When he noticed the hard lump just under the flesh, he stood rigid, as if the water had suddenly turned icy cold.
He stepped out of the shower slowly, rubbing at the lump on his wrist. The itching was maddening and he was suddenly struck with the intense feeling that a beetle of some kind had managed to bury itself underneath his skin. It was not attached to his bone, but instead rolled around loosely, turning around under his flesh like a parasite.
He thought he heard a brief, feminine titter in his head, but it was gone as quickly as it had danced through.
Two minutes later, he found himself standing before his steam covered mirror, his knife clutched in his fist as he studied the large, pebble sized lump.
He wiped the mirror and looked upon his chiseled face.
When he saw another lump set just above his right eyebrow, he had to chase the scream that threatened to erupt from his throat back into his mind. Feeling himself shiver in disgust, he examined lump on his forehead. Just like the one on his wrist, it felt loose underneath his flesh and moved slightly. When he touched it, he was hit with a gnawing pain.
Simon placed the sharp edge of the blade against his wrist and began to cut, warily trying to avoid a vein. Blood splattered into the sink, providing a stark contrast to the white porcelain. He cut a thin line just near the lump and then pushed his thumb against the pebble-sized pocket in his flesh.
A single tooth tore through the wound and landed in the sink with an audible click.
Simon stared down at the blood-covered incisor and felt his stomach retch. When he realized the very same thing might be residing in his forehead, he had to fight the urge to claw away the flesh with his nails.
With the experience of a surgeon, he sliced a neat line just underneath the protruding gob on his forehead, leaned forward, and pushed yet another tooth from his skin.
A thin line of blood dripped from the newly acquired wound, running just across his eye and down his cheek like a teardrop. Unable to fight his disgust, he leaned forward and vomited. He shrieked when he saw he had regurgitated at least six more teeth, many of them still holding the root. Frantically, he began to run his hands over his nude body in a desperate search for more of the horrifying lumps.
Not wanting to cover his flesh with clothes, he lay in his bedroom and tried to meditate. It was something he often did when he felt overwhelmed.
Someone giggled. Simon sat up, his eyes wide underneath his still bleeding forehead.
“Katherine,” he whispered, staring around the room. The only sound was the rustling of his curtains from the nighttime breeze.
He lay back on the bed, enjoying the cool air as it blew across his chest. Simon wondered if he had been hallucinating. He knew that Katherine’s death had affected him on levels he still did not understand.
In the past, he had enjoyed the immense feeling of power he had derived from killing his victims. He enjoyed killing women, sighing in almost sexual pleasure in their final moments. This feeling of omnipotence was one of the reasons he kept killing so compulsively, it was a desperate need to recapture a moment when he felt like…somebody. They would not dare to laugh at him in such moments, it was a feeling he needed like food.
Katherine made him feel different. For the first time in his life he had felt as if he was no longer invisible. She looked into his eyes and verified that he was a human being, worthy of attention. That verification had left him defenseless, something he had never felt before.
He awoke to the wings of an insect fluttering on his chest. It felt as if a butterfly was flapping rapidly just underneath his left nipple, tickling his skin.
He touched his chest, running his fingers over his flesh with delicate precision. He knew what it was as soon it touched the edge of his forefinger and he rushed into the bathroom to get a better look at it in the fluorescent lighting.
A single eye stared at him from his chest. It blinked once, tickling him yet again, and continued to watch him. He knew as soon as he made eye contact with it, that it was Katherine.
He noticed just a sliver of an opening in the other side of his chest and saw with abhorrence that it was yet another eye. He could see a pupil moving around just under the slit, giving him the sick feeling that a bug had delved a deep nest into his flesh and was using it as a home.
Just the tip of a nose could be seen just below, followed by the ghostly outline of a set of full lips. He pushed at the lips with his fingers, pulling back suddenly when he felt what he knew could only be a tongue brushing against the still sealed flesh.
He picked up the blood-covered knife and held it to the eye. “Katherine, this must end now. If I have to, I will literally cut you from my flesh.”
As he watched, the sensual lips bloomed just above his belly button like an obscene flower, forming into a wide, wicked grin. Some of the teeth were missing from the smile.
“Hello, Simon,” Katherine said, the eye staring into his, daring him to look away.
Simon felt a hollow sensation in his body from where the mouth spoke—the sound of her voice rumbling through his skin
and into his skull with maddening echoes.
“Get out of me,” he whispered. “I promise you, I will stick this blade right into your fucking eye.”
Katherine giggled hysterically and locked her eye onto the end of the knife. A line of blood dripped from her mouth and down his waist.
“Are you sure I am real, Simon?” she asked. “How do you know that I’m not just a product of your sick fuck mind?”
Simon reached down, picked up one her teeth and held it before his chest. “This looks real enough to me.”
“I can read your thoughts, you know,” she said, laughing again. “I did love you, Simon. I know it makes me sick, shows I must have had all kinds of problems. But I did love you. At first I was repulsed, but something happened. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to save you.”
He almost fell backwards, as if struck. “You are lying.”
“Why would I lie Simon?” she asked. “I loved you. As disturbing as it sounds, I loved you. You have no idea how much. I would have given up my other life. I would have helped you fight your compulsions.”
“Shut up,” he whispered, placing the edge of the blade even closer to her eye. “I swear, I will take it out.”
“Do you honestly think you can scare me now? You already buried me in a shallow grave.”
“You didn’t care about me,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a weak whisper.
She laughed uproariously. “I would have spent the rest of my life with you. I wanted you. I would have done anything. The only reason I didn’t tell you was because I knew you would not believe me. I hoped that our relationship would develop.”
He set the tip of the blade into the eye, causing her to explode into even more fits of laughter. Stabbing into his chest, he punctured the eyeball, surprising himself at the blast of pain he felt.
“No one ever loved you and no one ever will. Just me. You killed the only person who could have loved you. I can see by your thoughts you fear and know this, Simon. You will never find that again.”
“Shut the fuck up!” he howled, sticking his finger through the slit in the other eye, tearing away at the flesh as blood splattered into the mirror.
“I loved you!”
Simon shrieked and plunged the knife into her mouth, sending a fountain of blood into the already drenched mirror. The eruption of pain in his stomach blossomed as he pushed the knife even deeper. She continued to laugh as he stabbed her mouth, teeth falling out of his stomach and onto the hard linoleum floor.
He fell back against the wall and slid down slowly, unable to breathe as his life fluids streamed out of her mutilated mouth in waves. The mouth continued to laugh, the blood spewing out like vomit.
“I loved you too,” he whispered before he died, her bubbling laughter still ringing in his ears like a blood soaked aria.
LESS THAN HUMAN
By Gary Raisor
For Debbie and Jason, whose contributions are beyond measure. And for a few friends in no particular order:
Joe and Karen Lansdale, Dave and Laurie Hinchberger, Al Sarrantonio, Beth Martin, Richard Christian Matheson, David Silva, Ed Gorman, John Gibbons, Janet McKinley, and Barbara Peuchner for always being there to listen.
Andrew Adler for making me feel like a writer, and for his neat last name.
The crew on the EFT team: Wayne, Kevin, Boyce, Sara, Kathy, Ralph, Wanda, Ed, Dan, Rick, Denise, Martha, Pat, Bob, Tim, Lonnie, and Linda, who prove every day that real life is stranger than fiction. Thanks, guys.
Bryan (Big B) Crady, my horror-movie buddy.
Gary Goldstein, who proves being a cowboy isn't what state you live in, but the state of your mind.
Chapter 1
The Greyhound pulled into Carruthers, Texas, a little after nine and unloaded seventeen people into the unseasonably cold autumn night. All had family waiting for them.
All, except for two.
Steven Adler was the last one to get off. He was slender and pale, about twenty-five, with sleek blond hair combed straight back beneath a black headband. A small golden crucifix dangled from his right ear, catching the light whenever he moved. He wore black leather high-tops, jeans, and a black sweatshirt that had a picture of an upright shark leaning on a pool cue. If the cold bothered him, he didn't let it show. He took in a deep breath, as though inhaling the night, and impatiently shifted the case he carried under his arm.
"You got the address?" Steven asked the older man who had gotten off the bus with him.
Earl Jacobs buttoned his ratty leather jacket against the cold. He too carried a case. "Yeah, I think it's only a couple of blocks from here, over on Eighth." He didn't look happy.
"Good night for a stroll," Steven said with a slight grin. "You can't tell anything about a town from a cab, Earl. You've got to get out and walk around if you want to know what's going on."
"The only thing I see going on around here is the possibility of getting your throat cut," Earl answered.
"You always were an optimist, Earl. That's what I like most about you."
They walked across the now-deserted lot, quickly leaving the lights on the bus station behind. Several of the buses were parked over by the far fence, giant shadowy mastodons sleeping in the night. The sounds of their cooling engines carried into the night as though their sleep were troubled.
After five blocks, Earl stopped to lean against a street lamp and fished the address out of his pocket once more. "We should've been there by now." His breathing was ragged. Beneath the gray stubble, his face had taken on a slightly bluish cast, and when the wind chased some leaves down the sidewalk, he began shivering.
Steven took the piece of paper from his companion's hands. "I'm sorry, Matt. We should've taken a cab."
"It's Earl. My name is Earl. That's the second time you've called me Matt this week. Who is this Matt?"
"Matt Thomas, an old friend from a long, long time ago. I'm sorry, Earl, sometimes I forget. Are you all right?"
"I'll be okay. It's a little hard to breathe after that bastard kicked me last night. I think he busted one of my ribs." Earl pulled out a pint and tossed off a quick sip. "I always thought the game of pool was supposed to be a non-contact sport."
"You made him look bad in front of his girlfriend." Steven took the proffered bottle, took a sip, and made a face. "She was laughing at him."
"I coulda showed her a few strokes, too," Earl said, tucking the bottle out of sight.
"She was young enough to be your daughter."
"Granddaughter is more like it." Earl looked around at the crumbling buildings and weed-infested lots. The smokestacks from some long-closed factory cast a shadow across the sidewalk. "I think we're going the wrong way."
"No, we're not. It's up ahead about five blocks."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Somebody's playing nine ball. I heard them break."
"Did they sink any?" Earl asked with barely masked sarcasm.
"Yeah, one."
"You wouldn't happen to know which one, would you?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. It was the nine ball." Steven looked at his watch and stepped up the pace. "Come on. I feel like playing."
Earl had to trot to keep up. Damned new boots were his feet. His breath was a sporadic white cloud that trailed along behind him in the night like exhaust from some engine that wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He silently cursed. His damned ribs hurt worse than his feet.
A soft glow of light spilling through a window told them they had at last found Leon's Pool Emporium. A skinny old black man weaved out of the building, paused to drain the last of his beer before smashing the bottle against the door of a Bonneville sitting at the curb. On the car's windshield someone had spray-painted in bright red: REPENT, before Jesus runs the table on YOU.
"I guess getting a game in a nice place is out of the question?" Earl asked as he watched the old black man stagger off into the night.
"Your problem, Earl, is you've got no spirit of adventure."
"I'm
getting too old for adventure," Earl said under his breath. "What I need is a couple of drinks and about ten hours sleep."
They pushed through the swinging door and halted inside the dim interior. The room was small and it smelled of hard times; the booze and cigar smoke couldn't blot it out. There were four gigantic Steepleton pool tables taking up the middle of the room. Only one was being used by a haggard cowboy and a college kid playing nine ball. A mahogany bar ran along the back and three men were sitting in front of it nursing drinks and arguing. They were watching football on a TV with the sound turned off. One of them eased off his stool and fed some change to the juke.
D. J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince added to the din.
"Why don't you turn off that nigger music and turn up the TV?" Earl yelled, walking closer. "I got money on that game."
"Cause it's broke, that's why," the bartender said, as though the answer was obvious. "It's been broke since '79. We got to where we kinda like it that way."
Every face at the bar turned toward Earl.
Every face at the bar was black.
Earl halted.
The huge bartender kept on polishing glasses and studying them as though they were apparitions that would disappear if he just waited long enough. He showed them some yellow teeth. Someone had cut him bad years ago, leaving a scar that ran from his eyebrow down to his jawbone, and when he smiled, only half his face worked. The smile didn't improve his looks any. "You gentlemen must be lost."
"Not if you shoot pool here," Steven said. He took a stool at the bar and laid his case on the pitted wood. "You do shoot pool here, don't you?"
"Yeah, we been known to shoot a game or two. If the money's right." The bartender quit polishing glasses and leaned forward, his muddy eyes looking at Steven Adler the way a snake looks at a crippled bird. "You two sorry-ass white boys don't look like you got a pot to piss in."
"We got a little put back," Earl volunteered. "Mom doesn't know about it, but we've been saving our lunch money. You'd be surprised how it adds up after a while." He pulled a wad of bills out or his jacket pocket and laid it beside the case on the bar. "There's a lot of dead presidents there. I'm sure you recognize a few of them."