If anything floated to the surface or washed ashore, Carl figured, wildlife would feed on it. Right now nothing much concerned him. Just peace of mind. The nearest house sat two hundred yards away or more. It belonged to Maynard Krenshaw. Carl wasn't worried about that crazy old coot. That retired bastard kept to himself. This lake attracted snakes more than people, although it had always held a special beauty to Carl. It would be months before the lake attracted anyone else, such as teenage skinny dippers, potheads, and perhaps the occasional fisherman.
Carl, now complete awake, waded out into the frigid water to rinse away blood. He could hardly believe what he had done. Much clean-up work awaited him. There was always something his weary bones needed to do it seemed. The water shriveled his penis as he baptized himself in the water.
# # #
Damn rain, Carl thought. What a pussy that Jeff Asbery, the foreman, was for ending construction at the site that afternoon. Can't build a house in a storm, Jeff had said. Storm? What storm? Nobody else was bitching about a little rain. Everyone else needed the money. Jeff probably wanted to knock off early, get a little tail on the side. Not such a bad idea, however, Tressa wouldn't be home from work for at least another hour. Besides, Carl needed to get home to make sure Annabelle hadn't left him. Or called the cops, although she knew better. Surely that wouldn't have happened. If it had, the cops would have shown up at the construction site. Either way, he needed to get home to ease his mind.
Despite the short work hours, Carl was exhausted. He had kept Annabelle up late, scrubbing blood from the carpet and walls. He had burned the bloody debris from Billy's room in the trash barrel. The midnight hour rang well before they turned in for the night. When the alarm woke him at five a.m. he had been dreaming of the mysterious tone. As he dressed his wife had fried eggs, sausage, and baked biscuits for breakfast, just like he liked. She had sat across from him sipping coffee, a puffy eye turned purple and black, staring at him in terror.
His mind swam.
Halfway through a cup of coffee she murmured: “What do you want me to do?” Her good eye had turned glassy. A tear dribbled from the corner.
Carl swallowed. He thought a moment. “Well, for starters, call the school. Tell 'em Billy's sick today. Pretty bad. Make up something. You'll know what to say.”
“I don't... don't know if I can do it.”
“Well, you ain't got a choice now, do you? Whatever you say, you best make it convincing.”
Sobs wracked her body. Annabelle nodded.
That scene played out in his mind as he drove his old Ford straight home. A headache still nagged him. On the way, his thoughts also turned to the axe. Each and every swing, every mutilated body part he tossed into the lake sprang gruesomely to mind. Only this time his attack replayed without an operatic soundtrack.
Pulling the old F-250 onto the gravel drive, Carl found himself not only anxious to check on his wife, but eager to listen for the music.
The cicadas had yet to reach full volume. There was no trace of the beautiful sound. So Carl went inside.
Annabelle sat sipping a glass of wine. She looked half soused.
“I bought you time with the school.” Her voice slurred. “I didn't expect you home so early.” She took another, longer sip.
“Rain—go figure.”
“Go figure? I figured you'd stop to visit your whore, Carl. What's the matter, did she find someone with a bigger cock?”
“Goddamn you.” Carl stepped toward her, hand upheld menacingly, causing her to cringe. “You better watch your tongue, Belle. I'm not in the mood.”
Not until he broke stance did she reply. “You can't hide what you did forever.”
No, she was right, he couldn't. That fact didn't sit well with him. In fact, he hated her for pointing it out. He would try not to worry about it too much. It wasn't like they had regular visitors at the house. Annabelle would stay in line; the school wouldn't catch on right away; Carl had bought time until next week, at least. He didn't want to deal with it right now. He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer before returning to the living room. He switched the channel on the TV. Instinctively his eyes checked the time. Typically, Billy would be coming home from school about now. A twinge of guilt shot through him. What had he done? He had butchered his son in a frenzied act of rage, of course. What was he going to do? Acid burned his chest. He shut his eyes to rest, a documentary about World War Two playing in the background.
# # #
The gentle rattle of pans eased Carl from slumber. From the kitchen filtered sounds of Annabelle sobbing. His troubles had carried over into dream, although the gravity of his situation hit harder as consciousness returned. After taking a leak, he grabbed a beer, then went outside for a smoke.
Insects buzzed. Fireflies twinkled in the dusk.
Carl, puffing a cigarette, made his way toward the lake, eyes roaming the bank for bits and pieces of flesh that may have washed ashore. The lake's surface rippled gracefully, clear of any debris. He had feared he would have clean-up to do from the madness the night before. Surprisingly, no trace remained—at least not in his general vicinity. All obvious blood splatters were gone. The rain shower earlier that morning must have washed everything away. At least to the casual eye. Those CSI sons of bitches could probably find something—if they were looking. Good thing he didn't have to worry about that right now.
Carl finished his cigarette, surveying the lake and nearby area. He was sipping a beer when the serenade began. It sprang up in the distance, muffled slightly by a rocky ridge and dense trees to his right. That he could pinpoint its direction surprised him. Never before had he been able to figure the direction of the beautiful sound. It seemed as if its origin suddenly needed, or wanted, to be discovered.
Still scanning for pieces of his son's body, Carl wandered in that direction. As he followed the sound through tall grass and weeds a lump formed in his stomach. What if something washed up? Something someone might stumble across? Whoever was creating that beautiful sound might find it, or notice blood splatters. Perhaps someone already had, earlier this morning... Maynard Krenshaw, for instance.
Maybe he should turn around, head back home. That way he wouldn't draw attention to himself if someone had found evidence. However, the sound kept him moving, leading him to its source. He listened closely, dissecting the sound, picking out details. The music seemed much too natural (organic?) to originate from an instrument, or vocals, operatic or not. However, the quickly growing pain in Carl's belly did little to discourage his curiosity of the puzzling “musical” piece.
Following along a narrow trail, grass gave way to rocky soil. Water lapped Carl's leather cowboy boots as he began to skirt the outcropping. The bank wound around to the right. After a short distance, he stopped. The sound had grown much louder; its origin awaited just around the bend.
A gentle sloshing sound replaced the water's serene ripple. The wake of a swimming serpent caught his eye. It traveled from behind the bend, not far from him, out across the lake, out of sight. The sloshing sound reminded him of a fly fisherman wading to shore. Carl's stomach clenched. He didn't want to be discovered.
Moving forward, he peered around a large rock. His eyes appeared to deceive him.
A womanly figure emerged from the water. A ghostly gray shape in the fading light. Long, slender arms slid across her, sluicing her body clean. Gracefully, her hands caressed her bosom, belly, and finally, moved lower. Like a writhing shadow stretching out beyond proportion, she reached down past her thighs and her knees, drying herself. Her hands trailed up, touching her inner thighs. Powerful thighs, smooth, slick. Their wetness shined as she waded to a tree reaching up out of the lake.
She wrapped a hand (a hand?) around the trunk. She began to swing around, head thrown back, a high soprano pitch bursting from her lungs. Her hair fluttered out in long, thick strands that reminded Carl of nappy dreadlocks. Usually black folk wore them, but Chris Jefferson the drywall guy's girl had them. That's how Carl knew what t
hey were called. Chris's girl looked like shit. She even dyed some of the strands different colors. Carl had never seen anything so stupid.
However, the womanly physique before him looked absolutely enticing.
Her music reverberated in his chest. A stirring started in his jeans. Water flung from her as she spun around the tree. It rained down around her and sprayed him with mist. Even the fishy smell of the stagnant lake was pleasant. Carl could feel a smile forming on his face. If a wine glass were nearby, he had no doubt it would shatter.
Carl gasped.
What in the world did this woman think she was doing, pole dancing a capella in snake-infested waters?
Her song stopped. She halted. Carl blinked, tried to focus. Her legs were smooth—too smooth. Although the water hit at calf level, he could see no calves. No knees, either. Her legs tapered down devoid of joints, each being a slick, almost rubbery appendage. When her weight shifted he noticed two more appendages behind the first two. She glided closer, carried by at least four leg-like tentacles. Her heavy breasts hopped, dripping water.
She stood before him, body glistening, “dreadlocks” moving of their own accord. Her eyes shone bright with green florescence. His presence did not disturb her. In fact, she raised an arm. It reached—stretched—toward him. The flat, fingerless “hand” curled repeatedly, urging him closer. Again, her song began.
Don't worry, my love. I shall watch over you. I shall tend to you. Your violence shall not be discovered...
Carl, shocked, scrambled backward. He nearly tripped. He chucked his beer can to the side, turned tail, and rushed away, sure he must be dreaming.
Please don't go...
Ignoring her request, he hastened his retreat. Behind him a harmonic shriek tore from her. Although devoid of words, he understood her perfectly.
I will be waiting... Singing for you... Calling to you...
# # #
Carl lay in bed, a phantom voice ringing in his head. They had eaten dinner. Then he had guzzled beer while watching TV, trying to forget what he had seen, what he had done. Drunk, he finally retired to bed for the night. Unfortunately he had woke several hours later unable to return to sleep because of the voice.
I disposed of the body. It’s gone where no one shall ever find it.
Every single piece.
Gone, without a trace.
Thank you, my love.
I want to wrap you between my thighs, squeeze you tight.
Squeeze you until you explode.
Sing to you. Dance for you.
Please you.
Come to me, my love...
Carl tossed and turned, unable to clear her image from his mind. She had to be a trick of light. Perhaps too much beer on an empty stomach. Maybe the grogginess of his nap hadn't cleared before he saw her.
Her?
Even if he had been seeing things—tentacles?—he couldn't dispute the fact that there was a woman in the lake. What the hell was going on? Had he gone insane? Lots of men cheated on their wives. Many hit their wives. But he punched and kicked his. Plus, he had killed his son. Now he was hearing—and seeing—a womanly creature in the lake.
Maybe he should stop drinking. Quit drinking—hell, he needed another drink.
And what about Annabelle?
Why can't you come home to me, instead of her?
He recalled standing outside smoking, listening to the sound, not wanting to go inside.
Ain't I good enough? I can please you. You don't need that bitch.
But he wanted her—the way she swung around that tree, the way she serenaded him, the way her body glistened, smooth and slick, and the way her eyes flared green when she gazed upon him.
His body reacted. He wanted to plunge deep inside her. Or, perhaps, that's what she wanted.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes, trying to get awake. “What the hell is happening to me?”
“Wha-?” Belle replied. She shifted in bed, throwing an arm across his chest.
He imagined one of the woman's arms stretched across him, wrapping him up. The thought made him rock hard.
“You want to be the one to please me, instead of her, huh?”
“I will...” Reluctance hinted in her voice. Carl sensed a mixture of fear, pleasant surprise, and defeat.
Carl took her furiously. He left her panting in a sweaty heap of disheveled sheets.
Outside he went, stark naked, puffing a cigarette. The early morning air nipped frigidly at his glistening skin. He felt exhilarated, alive. Testosterone raged in his veins. He could fuck Belle whenever he chose. Tomorrow he would have Tressa. Fuck her every which way from Sunday.
It could have been me. My body hugging you tight. Caressing you, teasing you. Pleasing you. I want you. And I shall have you.
The thought repulsed him, yet erotically charged him. Her body radiated slickness, firmness. Her body writhing like an eel as she swung around the tree. He could image her toned body squeezing him to ecstasy.
Suddenly he wanted to grab a fistful of her dreadlocks and take her from behind, as two of her “legs” wrapped around his buttocks to urge him deeper.
You should hit her.
She likes it.
So would I.
He could take the woman by the tree, then drop her into the lake after he had finished.
Do it.
Do it, do it, do it...
For me.
To me.
Crisp air filled his lungs. Smoke rings puffed from his mouth. Music pounded in his skull. His penis wilted in the icy midnight air.
You killed her son. She hates you, and your slut. She'll turn you in. The cops are coming. They'll be here tomorrow. Today was too hard on her, she'll never last any longer. She wants you. Not your cock. She wants you gone. Just like her son. Long, long gone. Deep into the lake. Right where I can find you. Don't worry, I'll be here waiting for you. To take you away. Into the warm, murky depths. My wet, warm depths. I want you. I need you. I'll be here for you. Always. But go now. Before it's too late. Unlike her, I'll share you. With her, with the others. Just don't let her ruin everything.
Go now. Go, my love.
But return to me.
I'll be waiting...
Steam erupted from his nostrils. Like a raging bull he charged back into the house, leaving the buzzing night behind but unable to escape its ringing in his head.
Annabelle lay propped up in bed, a freshly poured glass of wine on her nightstand, her hair mussed, sheet drawn up tight, still glowing from the fucking he had given her.
“Shut up, you bitch!” he bellowed.
“Carl—” Horror shone in her eyes. “What do you think you're do—?”
He slapped her sideways. The sheet pulled away, baring her sagging breasts. He batted her back up with the other hand.
“Carl! NO!” Her hands shot up defensively.
“Fuck you, goddamn it. Don't tell me what to do. How dare you tell the cops.”
“But I didn't—a”
His hands rained down upon her with a barrage of hits, slaps, and punches. Annabelle kicked for her life through the sheets, weakly connecting with him several times. One final kick whacked his thigh, dangerously threatening to rack his balls.
"I'll fucking kill you, goddamn it."
A flailing leg shot free of the flannel sheet. Carl snatched her by the ankle, gripped it like a manacle. With a jerk, he sent her sailing off the mattress. She landed with a whoosh of lost breath on the hardwood floor. Her head thudded loudly, and she skidded to a stop.
Fluidly, he knelt down and grabbed a fistful of hair, gazed into her eyes with burning hate. He began thumping her head repeatedly against the floor.
Annabelle, sobbing, pleaded, “I didn't tell a soul. Please don't kill me.”
“Don't you ever think of telling anyone about Billy—or yourself.”
“Oh Lord no, Carl. Don't-don't-don't kill me.”
Terror masked her face. Honesty shone in her eyes.
Carl said
, “Oh, I'll never kill you. But if you ever say anything to anyone you'll wish you were dead.”
“No, Carl. Lord no. Never.” Her body shook, possessed by fear. Slowly he let her up. Sweat dripped from his brow. Heat filled his muscles. The sensation invigorated him. A thought of grabbing a beer and wading into the lake, looking for the woman (creature?) tempted him. But a sense of serenity overcame him. The buzzing in his head was gone. Besides, somehow Carl knew he wouldn't find her again tonight.
Instead he switched off the light, crawled into bed. His wife's sobs lulled him to sleep.
# # #
Saturday morning greeted him without apathy. A thundering headache, a tongue like sandpaper, eyes glued shut, a cloudy mind. His knuckles stung. They were scabbed over. Busted them up hitting Annabelle he recalled.
He rolled over, sore muscles reminded him of the previous night's exertion. Carl found himself alone in bed. For a split second the fear of his wife going to the cops struck him. Then the scent of freshly-brewed coffee relieved him. Smugly, Carl told himself he had nothing to worry about from her. Coffee would do him good. He climbed out of bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, then went to the bathroom. Minutes later he joined Annabelle in the kitchen.
It looked like a truck hit her. Not a truck. Him. But he had to keep her in line.
Hit her, hit her.
With stiff fingers, Carl grabbed the steaming mug she handed him.
“Eggs and toast?” was all she asked.
Carl didn't bother answering. He would tell her what he wanted, when he wanted it. What concerned him, though, was what he should do.
The fact remained that he had killed the boy. Blood stains covered the hardwood floor and several walls. Although Carl could never erase all trace from the house—goddamn those CSI bastards—he could cover up the evidence. A fresh coat of paint on the walls, some new carpet... That should do the trick. Bloody hell, that was more work than he felt like doing. It would take all goddamn weekend.
Sound of Madness Page 2