Bundling up, he shivered.
Christ, he had honest-to-god goosebumps covering his body. These horror writers were amazing.
They knew precisely what it took to make your skin crawl. And once they had you hooked, their phrases and adjectives were like acids that ate away at your mind. When one of these stories worked, it virtually jumped off the page.
Andy noticed his stomach was on edge and smiled.
What better accolade to the writer of “Edworthy’s Fate"? Some hapless reader, lying in the dark, wide awake, stomach sashed by nerves.
Strange way to make a living, he thought.
Taking a breath, he tried to empty his mind of the loathsome images created by the story. As he did, he reached down to scratch the back of his left hand and felt something.
Damned mosquitos, he thought, scratching the bite-like rise directly above his knuckles. Must have gotten in through the bathroom window.
He was about to get up and close it, but as he scratched harder, his eyes suddenly widened.
It was moving.
Under his skin, it had crept upward, toward the wrist, like an eye sliding from the bottom of its socket to the top.
He quickly turned on the light, and his stomach twisted as he watched the tiny rise moving up his wrist. As it went, it pushed the skin outward, making his forearm swell slightly, as if a stray air bubble were lost in his system.
As it traveled farther up Andy's arm, the rise left a red trail, causing his arm hair to stand out.
For a moment, too frightened to move, he finally reached for the phone and began to dial his doctor's exchange. But he was stopped by the sensation of the bump racing up his left arm, and bolting across his shoulders, before hurtling down his right arm into his hand.
Shocked, Andy dropped the receiver and lurched into his dressing area to look in the full-length mirror.
He slowly raised his right arm and his mouth went dry.
There, in the center of his palm, was the bump, pulsing slightly; stirring like a trapped animal. In dead silence, he watched the thing continue to swim about beneath the skin on his palm, coursing from side to side in random patterns.
As if it were waiting impatiently for something.
But for what? he wondered, deciding to try and feel it. He could see how far it was stretching his skin, but wasn't sure how large it actually was.
Feeling as though he were losing his mind, he cautiously arced his left hand over and allowed it to hover over the right palm. Taking a deep breath, he lunged down on the bump, trying to grab it with his left hand.
But it had already moved, and he watched in panic as the bump began to move up his right arm. As it did, it left an inch-wide track of red, swollen skin in its wake.
Sickened, Andy grabbed at it again as it climbed above his elbow. But it had moved too quickly for him and was now sliding to his shoulder. Hysterically, he slapped at his shoulder, trying to stop the bump from moving any farther. But though he could feel the lump of it beneath his hand, it quickly slipped away and began to move across his chest.
And as it did, something new began to happen.
As Andy darted back into his bedroom, thrashing from his pajama top, he felt a squeezing, gnawing agony beginning to cover the tingling areas where the bump had been.
Looking in his bureau mirror, he could see ropy bruises where the strands of inflamed tissue had been.
And as the bump crossed over his chest, a torturous burning filled his torso.
The thing seemed to be sawing through his flesh.
He knew there was no way he could drive himself to the emergency hospital. The thing would somehow try to stop him, and he shuddered at the thought of what it would do if he tried.
Suddenly, the scalding pain had returned, and the bump raced more savagely through his body.
Gasping, he ran into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. But as he did, the bump slid around his naked waist like a cinch. In seconds, it traveled to his back and settled on the spine, where it began to torture anew.
As it moved farther up his spine, he could feel it squeezing and tearing at the spongy tissue, trying to get at the nerve braids.
Screaming in pain, Andy threw himself onto the floor and lay on his back, pressing hard, trying to crush the bump. As he did, he could feel it boring further into his spinal sheath, devouring nerves. As the bump continued to gorge through his body, feasting on the pulpy nerve junctions and carving through the skin, just a quarter of an inch under the surface, Andy's face turned bright red.
He was screaming, but no sound came.
Sprawled fitfully on the kitchen floor, he looked down to see the bump slowly making its way up his leg, toward his internal organs.
His mouth opened in revulsion as the bump stopped for a moment, directly above his appendix and intestines, and began to pulse, again.
For the first time, he could see it was getting bigger, as it ingested his living flesh for nourishment.
Andy felt like vomiting.
The bump began to gnaw at his intestines and as he shrieked, he now knew what the thing needed to survive.
As it continued to feast upon him, Andy struggled to stand, stumbling for the kitchen drawer; reaching into it.
From its interior, he withdrew a huge butcher knife, which glistened under the fluorescent lighting.
But in seconds, as if it had seen, the bump moved.
And this time, Andy cried out, clutching his hands to his face, screaming.
Somehow, the bump had moved to his face and was now causing his features to distort, as it made its way under the skin, devouring what it could.
Holding the knife firmly, Andy staggered into the bedroom bathroom and watched himself in the mirror.
On his right cheek was the bump.
Only now, it was much bigger; the size of an egg. And as Andy watched, spellbound, the bump rotated beneath the surface of the bruised skin, showing something on its opposite side.
The incisors were vague, under the quilt of his skin, but there was no doubt they were starting to move.
And as they did, he felt the pain, immediately.
The bump was beginning to consume.
Andy could actually hear the sound of his facial meat being ravaged as the insatiable bump continued to grow with each tearing piece it ate.
And though his screams caused him to tremble, he didn't hesitate, holding the knife directly to his face, beginning to stab at the monstrosity. As he did, it averted his slashing lunges, as if anticipating every move.
His face bled profusely from deep gashes, and Andy stared, through the wash of red covering his eyes, to see where the bump would show next.
He screamed for it to go away, blood spraying from his lips. But as he howled for it to leave, he suddenly felt something in his mouth, filling it like an inflating bladder.
And though he tried to scream, the bump muffled everything, attaching itself to his tongue.
Andy put the knife to his mouth and opened wide. Peering at himself in the mirror, he began to thrust the knife into his mouth, stabbing at the bump, causing it to squirt fluid. It tasted acrid, and sloshed down Andy's throat, as he continued to stab.
Then, it happened.
Suddenly, the bump was gone and Andy could see only the raw mutilation of his mouth, dripping its bloody wetness down his shirt. Searching his body, he couldn't see or feel the bump anywhere. For a moment, all pain stopped.
Inexplicably, the thing had ceased; all was calm.
At least, Andy thought it was.
Until pain began in his forehead.
Then, horribly, his brow began to inflate outwardly, causing him to resemble some terror-stricken primitive. The brow continued to jut out further, and the wrenching pain pile-drived through his skull.
Then, in a blinding insight, he knew what must be happening, as he felt his shrieking brain being descended upon.
And though the neighbors could hear his screams echoing over the streets, no one call
ed the police until it was too late.
It was a lovely afternoon, and the countryside lolled comfortably under a summer sky. As he snipped peacefully at the carnations, the bell caught his attention.
Yawning, he strolled toward the mailman's bicycle. The mailman strummed the tiny bell, which was attached to his handlebars, one last time, and smiled.
"Lots for you today, Mr. McCauley."
The old man smiled and stepped closer, taking in the beautiful flowers, which bloomed in abundance before his quaint country home. Insects buzzed around the colorful garden.
"Bills, no doubt," chuckled the old man, accepting the handful of envelopes.
"Think there's one in there from your agent in the states, sir." The old man's eyebrows lifted with interest, and he sifted through the envelopes. In seconds, he'd opened it.
As he read the letter, the mailman looked at him with interest. "Sell that horror novel, did you?"
The old man shook his head with a relaxed sigh.
"No, those publishers in New York haven't made their final offer yet."
The mailman lifted a look of disappointment.
The old man peered up at him with a glint.
"There is a bit of good news, though. You know that story of mine you hate so much? It's been requested as a reprint in another anthology."
"How many times is that, now?"
"Over two hundred," answered the old man, about to turn and putter up the path to his house.
"Edworthy's Fate' just never gave me goosebumps," said the mailman.
"Lucky you," smiled the old man, heading back to his flowers, humming a gentle little song.
Water Child
for my
mother,
Ruth Ann
"This place. . ." A lioness's sleepy yawn. "I've always loved it here."
Liv turned on the towel, pressed Peter's hand to her lips, tasted his Palm's soft mazes.". . . salt-water tastes delicious," she whispered.
He closed eyes, listened to surf faint; retreat. Could see the day they'd met . . . the foreboding purity of their first glance.
He'd watched her rise from surf, blonde hair braided like a child's. Her haunting eyes, staring, trying to place him. His heart falling, before they'd even spoken.
Beneath the towel, sand pressed against him like a warm body. Two wind surfers slashed sea, beyond the waves, and the resort logo fluttered on their rainbow sails.
PARADISE INN, Bermuda.
Peter checked his Rolex chronograph; Liv's honeymoon gift to him. He watched the second hand, lost in its narcotic axis, and everything around him gradually, silently vanished as the sun buried him.
His family, none of hers. She'd told him she needed to flee their caring invasion, find herself. But it had been such an odd ceremony. His family had felt sorry for her, perhaps dreaded some deeper truth; they'd never said. They'd tried to talk to her, get to know her. But she had little to share except pale, blue eyes that watched everything, filled with strange partition; desperate to belong. . . despite their lie.
". . . dinner's in an hour."
Liv yawned, dry sea frosting her.". . . should we go?"
Before he could answer, she slid closer, leaned her delicate face over his; an adoring eclipse.
"I love you," she said softly, vulnerable eyes somehow afraid; lost.
The reggae band was a carnal hypnosis.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, as he held her closely and they danced to a Marley ballad.
The resort balcony rose over bay, and they swayed, near torches that clawed night, silk dress against white trousers.
"That I can't live without you," he said, holding Liv more tightly.
They moved near the conga player, who appeared in trance, and Peter's hands caressed her face, as if trying to glimpse their future.
When they'd decided to marry, he'd felt scared, sensing she was beyond reach; a captive to secret things. He'd wanted to make life perfect, though he knew little about her He'd always sensed he'd regret it.
As couples wandered to their beachfront cottages, Peter noticed the steel drum player staring at her, distress seeming to fill the man's eyes.
Peter took her hand and they ran through the feather rain until something fell from her purse, onto stone path, with a musical oddness. He bent to pick it up, and orange glowed on the tines from path torches.
She smiled sweet guilt. "A momento of our honeymoon?" He regarded the fork, looked at her. Finally smiled.
"My wife, the thief."
He awoke, in the middle of a terrible dream.
Moonlight tumbled, from skylight, and he searched the bamboo cottage with a glance.
Liv was gone.
He put on shorts, opened shutters that lifted like a score of waking eyes, and went out onto the patio, scanning sleepless Caribbean. A deafening noose of waves assailed the island, wanting in, and it somehow frightened him to know tiny creatures were alive in its mint foam. Far down the beach, a lone form walked, white nightdress blowing like smoke.
He jumped over the railing. "Liv!"
The moment he'd slid the ring onto her finger and the priest nodded with distant sanction, Peter had felt a rapture he knew was self-destruction, itself. He somehow understood it would find nutrition in his blind faith; feast on his doom.
His footprints were panicked, zagging eyelets, on wet sand, and crashing waves muted his calls to her. "Liv!"
He could see her wading into surf, lifting her dress over head, allowing it to drift away in currents. She greeted the waves, her naked body like an unprotected slave and he ran faster, sand fanning behind bare feet.
". . . wait!"
Peter reached water's edge, beyond which her slender form seemed irresistibly drawn, now past the waves, her body moving into black sea.
"Liv!"
He ran into the pounding tide, but its convulsive machinery held him back, pushing him over, until he was kneaded into the curve of a tall wave.
Suddenly, all was churning onyx, and he fought back to the surface, coughing water.
Then, he heard himself scream.
The sea was splitting apart, beside her, and a huge man slowly rose from the water. He was over twenty feet tall, his beard and hair past strong shoulders, wreathes of kelp banding the long, gray strands. He held a sea-eaten trident with one hand, reached out gently to Liv with the other.
Peter stared, in trauma, coughing, trying desperately to call her name; warn her.
"No!" he yelled, thrashing through the seaweed, watching her float closer to the huge man.
His own legs tangled in the kelp, and he stumbled, reaching down to brace himself, until crying-out in pain, realizing coral had sliced his palms open. They bled and he watched frozenly as Liv was lifted from the chaotic waters, nestled into the man's massive embrace. The ocean squalled and Peter fought, wildly, to get to her, but was beaten back by the guarding tides that seemed to suddenly surge; raging, protective.
She was being taken out to sea, held like a child, and though he fought to swim closer, she began to descend under the waves with the giant man who cradled her.
Peter pleaded for him to stop, to bring her back.
But she was lowered into night waters, and opened her eyes only long enough to look lovingly at her new husband, a final time.
Then, she descended into sea, like drowning statuary.
The ocean began to calm into drowsy painting, and Peter's face gradually lost its suffering; his horror eased by shock. He closed his eyes and began to move like a creature of the sea, adrift in blood, warm current.
He awakened on a lonely beach, miles away, at dawn, and found his wounded hands had been wrapped, tenderly, in kelp. He scanned the sea for some sign of her, fixated by its restless void, but knew it was futile. She was gone, and he wept, lost in sick enigma, slowly laying against the sand, as if to a mother's breast.
She'd wanted to come here for more than just a honeymoon, he'd felt it, known it. It was as if she'd needed to return;
come home.
He walked for hours and quietly kneeled when he found a lone, nautilus shell, thinking he'd never seen one quite like it. His hands carefully freed it from the sand and cleansed it in the sea, its design fascinating him as he ran fingers over the sacred curves. In instinctive spell, he slowly brought it to his ear, closed his eyes and listened, as if awaiting some primordial secrecy.
But he heard no mystic echo, nor evocation of hope, and despair emptied his heart. As he was about to lay the shell back into sea, he thought, strangely, impossibly, he heard something. . . from deep within the shell's delicate cochlea.
"I'll always love you. . . " a whisper, like ghostly sea; distant, serene.
"I'll always love you," she seemed to say again, in perfect time with the wave's sleepy exhalations. "I'll always love you . . ."
Peter held the shell as if it were a precious child and lay on the soft sand with it, listening to her faint voice within its cathedrals, until he finally slept.
For the rest of his life, long after the shell had fallen silent, he would return to the shore to sit alone, listening to the sea that whispered her sad devotions on hushed waves.
Dead End
It was a perfect day for a drive.
There was a blue sky, with full white clouds that floated carelessly, drifting in slow motion with the wind. The brisk air was cool and clean from the rain the night before.
I floored the Porsche, and Annie and I were thrown to the left by the small curve. The tires slid slightly on the moist pavement.
"Careful," said Annie.
"Right," I answered.
She was looking at the map.
"What's our next move?" I asked, curving more tenderly into another turn in the canyon road.
"1 think we go right, on the next street."
Dystopia Page 21