Sound of Madness

by Brett Williams

  Carl stewed about it through another cup of coffee before resigning to the idea. There simply wasn't any other way that he could think of. A lot of work lay ahead. He would have to start with clearing out the furniture (and the crap) in the boy's room. Annabelle could do some of that—at least the small stuff. It would take both of them to move the heavier things. He saw no sense starting out on an empty stomach.

  “Make me an extra egg,” Carl said, breaking the silence. Annabelle sat across from him at the table. “I'm going to the hardware store after I eat. Better fix something for yourself.” Sometimes she skipped breakfast. “I've got some shit for you to do.”

  Annabelle went straight to the stove. Carl went to pop a couple aspirin, knowing good and well it didn't stand a chance against this headache. But he didn't care. A story surrounding the disappearance of Billy was beginning to form in his head.

  # # #

  The cover-up progressed as planned. They busted ass moving everything out of the kid's room into the living room. Despite having burned all the blood-splattered magazines and trash previously, plenty of other junk surfaced from under the bed and behind the chest of drawers. Mostly broken toys, crumpled paper, candy wrappers. Carl burned the majority of it slow and methodically, making sure only ash remained in the burn barrel out back. When he had finished he determined the barrel to be ready for burial. A spare drum waited in the shed, so he used his riding mower to pull a trailer carrying the filled barrel deeper onto his property, where he dropped it into a ditch then covered it over with dirt. He had done this many times. Everyone outside of town did.

  Back-breaking work, to be sure. Then he got to painting.

  He painted the kid's bedroom and the entire hallway.

  With each stroke of the paintbrush Carl fully expected to hear someone pull onto the gravel driveway, or pound on the front door.

  His nerves jangled with each unexpected sound in the house. A lump formed in his stomach, acid burned his throat. Carl took pills for the discomfort. Their effect was negligible. After the painting was complete, he ate a late supper with his wife. Then Annabelle relaxed with a glass of wine while he drank several beers. They went to bed early and awoke even earlier.

  The carpet, the cheapest available, would cover the floor of the bedroom. Without care, Carl covered it quickly, doing a half-assed job. The carpet would serve its purpose. While working he realized the inconsistency within the house. He might need to lay carpet in the other room to avoid any obvious suspicion. Annabelle had insisted on laying carpet in the living room years before, so he didn't have to worry about that. For good measure he decided next weekend would be spent carpeting their bedroom. Most likely the hallway as well. In the interim, the runner he bought would have to do.

  Finally, carpet down, furniture rearranged, Carl relaxed. He had Annabelle scatter a few things around the boy's room for appearance’s sake. Not that anyone ever visited. Still, he felt better tending to details.

  By Sunday afternoon he was beat. As were the goddamn St. Louis Rams, who couldn't pass for shit. Nor could they defend against the pass. He doubted they would have played any better had they, instead, been playing against Kansas City's own cheerleading squad. Pathetic.

  A few hours later, after sunlight started to wane, his eyes grew heavy. He began to doze off. Annabelle must have shut off the TV, he realized, when he awoke hearing the song. Somehow the a capella serenade, and thus the woman, had slipped his mind during the busy weekend. It all seemed so surreal. A distant, unbelievable memory.

  Carl's heart swelled. He had missed her music.

  You've tended to your house, your wife, yet her I shall never trust.

  You, however, I trust have dealt with her. Dealt with her as I suggested. Struck her the way she desires.

  Yes. He had hit that bitch. Beat her good. Just as the voice had suggested.

  Keep her under control. We don't want her ruining things.

  No, not at all. The last thing he needed was more of his wife's shit.

  The urge to see the woman in the lake proved too strong.

  “I'm going for a walk,” Carl said, taking the cigarette pack from his shirt pocket.

  “Yes, dear.” Annabelle's voice slurred. Her right eye was still puffy and purple.

  Carl lit a smoke, put on his jacket.

  Bring her. Bring her to me. I want to see the source of our concerns.

  The request seemed odd. However, Carl suddenly didn't trust Annabelle home alone since she resented him for the recent beating, not to mention killing. Also, the wine she drank might give her the courage to do something stupid. What if she simply picked up the phone? One quick telephone call is all she needed to fuck him over.

  “Put on your shoes, you're comin' with me.”

  “Go on, it's okay. You go. I don't mind.”

  “The hell I will. I said put on your goddamn shoes. Now shake a leg, woman.”

  Reluctantly, Annabelle rose. She waddled out of the room. While he waited, Carl listened to the soothing melody. The vocals rose. Sweeping passages lifted him to emotional highs, then crushed him to ominous lows. The voice resounded in his head, a sensual instrument driving home images of the woman dancing in the lake, the way stagnant water glistened on her smooth skin, the lake rippling with her movement, coming to him in waves not unlike the music she produced. Minutes later, Annabelle returned. She wore a terrycloth robe and an old pair of flip-flops.

  Outside, the song echoed loudly. It sounded close. The woman was growing braver. Carl wouldn't have to go nearly as far to find her this time. He walked briskly, dragging his wife by his side. Her slow, carefree steps annoyed him.

  “Pick up the pace, you cow.”

  “I'm comin', I'm comin'.”

  Carl had half a mind to toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, haul her out under his own power. It would be quicker, less of a pain in his ass.

  Instead, Carl tried unsuccessfully to enjoy the brilliant hues of the sun sinking behind the trees across the lake. The last vestiges of light lay a swath of brightness across the shimmering water. Never before had the lake looked so appealing, nor the music so intoxicating. Carl wished he could pull up a lawn chair, cooler of beer, fishing pole, and drop a line. He would laze away the evening in a stupor. He could forget his problems. He could wait for the woman in the lake to arrive. She would serenade him, dance for him, and eventually please him. Hell, he might even catch the largest goddamn fish of his life, if only he could relax. However, Annabelle began to resist.

  “Where are you taking me? I didn't know we were going so far. What's going on?”

  “Shut your trap. I'm taking you to see the woman. Cain't you hear her?”

  I sing only for you...

  “I don't hear anything except crickets.”

  “Shut up. Come on.” He dragged Annabelle near the shore, causing her to wade into shallow water.

  “Please, no, Carl. What are you doing? You aren't taking me out where you took Billy, are you?” Annabelle sounded very worried.

  Billy? Billy? Carl couldn't recall a Billy. Tendrils of music massaged his mind. Like a good, stiff drink, its sound cloaked him in warmth. He numbed to everything except the woman and the lake. He paid no mind to frogs hopping out of his path, snakes slithering away, insects buzzing. Annabelle's own concerned pleas fell away into the background noise. Occasionally, the sound of gentle water lapping at the shore provided a beautiful accompaniment to the siren call.

  Only when the woman came into sight did Carl halt.

  There she stood, leaning against a tree, head thrown back, profiled by the setting sun. Her heavy breasts heaved as she belted out the notes. She appeared more beautiful than Carl recalled. Even the thick dreadlocks enticed him, although now he saw they were not dreadlocks at all. Instead, they were long, thick nodules of flesh, a darker shade than her olive skin. They moved slowly of their own accord in the still night air, as if by a stiff breeze.

  Then Carl blinked. He had not been seeing thi
ngs. The woman—could she really be a woman?—turned her gaze toward him and ended her song. However, a low harmonic hum continued. He saw that he had not been mistaken. The woman did in fact have several leg-like appendages. Two stood upright, water reaching just below where knees should be. The other four wrapped around the widening, swollen base of the tree, gripping it in a tender caress.

  “My Lord,” Annabelle cried. “What the hell is that?”

  “That is her. The woman you're jealous of.”

  “That thing?”

  Acid surged into Carl's throat. It left a burning aftertaste of hops.

  “She's hideous.” Annabelle's voice conveyed disbelief.

  The woman from the lake smiled pearly rows of pointed teeth. A forked tongue flicked out. She smiled wide when Annabelle let loose a scream, pulling hard trying to get free.

  But Carl held fast … the woman wanted her.

  The woman stepped away from tree. She appeared to glide across more than wade through the murky lake. The ambient hum grew louder. A musical interlude to accompany her approach. It echoed all around them. Annabelle reacted, obviously hearing the hum, if not the vocals. She used her free hand to try muffling the sound. But not Carl. He anticipated the woman's voice. It attracted him like a bitch in heat.

  Annabelle tugged hysterically to get away. The tentacled woman, amused, cut her eyes left, then right. Instinctively, Carl followed her gaze.

  Approaching from both sides were two more women just like her. One stood much taller, looking younger. The one to his left, apparently having slipped out from behind another tree, was much more muscular than the others. All three were beautiful in their natural glory. They glided closer, the pair flanking him moving much more swiftly. Ripples swept out across the water.

  Then something curled around Carl's leg. His back stiffened at the touch.

  Do not fret, my love...

  The soliloquy resumed, stifling Carl's terror. An appendage climbed his leg, erotically squeezing his inner thigh. Succumbing to music, he released Annabelle. The siren slithered to him. She embraced him, with arms and tentacles. Entranced, he watched the nightmare unfold before his eyes.

  From deadly deceit comes lustful revenge...

  Tentacles rose up from the water, curled, swayed. Like cobras, four poised for attack. Then, in unison, they struck. Two wrapped around Annabelle's arms. Two, her legs. The slippery smooth appendages pulled taut. Carl saw the strongest woman lean back, bracing herself. Annabelle was yanked hard. She flew back into the water. Water splashed Carl as an ominous tone tickled his ears.

  My sisters shall protect us. For you are worthy. And I am chosen. We must love. We must sacrifice. For we both shall provide, through our offering. To He Who Hungers.

  Splashing and thrashing sounds replaced the hum of the attackers, providing a percussion of assault.

  Violence begets death. Lust begets love.

  Arms and legs punched, kicked. Tentacles whipped through the air. A tumultuous frenzy ensued. Annabelle's clothes were shredded. Carl, entranced, watched his wife struggling until a tentacle wrapped around her throat. Her face turned blood red. Soon her struggling faded to little of nothing.

  Then, as Carl watched the nightmare unfold, the pair of womanly creatures descended on Annabelle, lowering their mouths to her body. From her they began to tear chunk after bloody chunk of flesh. Carl felt nothing save comfort in the slick, rubbery embrace of the woman, as well as her enrapturing song.

  You've offered what you have. You've given what was asked. You shall receive in return.

  The music clouded Carl's mind. Red-tinted water washed to him, the last thing he saw before consciousness faded away...

  # # #

  Carl woke in bed, head pounding, the beautiful music from last night gone. Although he longed for that sound, he couldn't recall a single note. However, the carnage immediately sprang to mind. The women. Their tentacles. Annabelle. Her strangulation...

  Horrified, he swept an arm across Annabelle's side of the bed. Empty beer cans rattled to the floor. A feather pillow lay in her spot.

  Reality shocked him sober. He had led his wife to her death.

  Goddamn, he needed a drink.

  Somehow he found the will to crawl out of bed. After relieving himself in the bathroom, Carl trudged off toward the kitchen, debating coffee or beer. He was reaching for a can of Folgers on the top shelf when the ring of his cell phone cut through the thundering in his head. He retrieved the phone from the jean jacket hanging on a chair back.

  “Hello,” Carl croaked.

  “Hey, man, it's raining like a bitch over here in Sikeston. Ain't supposed to let up all damn day.”

  “You don't say.” Carl hadn't noticed but now heard the steady patter of drops outside.

  “Yeah. Maybe it'll clear up 'fore tomorrow. Enjoy the day off.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The connection dropped. Carl opted for a can of beer over coffee. He took it to the kitchen table, too hung over to contemplate a proper breakfast. That was Annabelle's job. And now she was gone.

  He would have to come up with a story to explain his family's disappearance. How had he gotten himself into such a mess? How could any of this be possible? An intoxicating serenade by such a beautiful, feminine … thing. Her music influenced him much more than any drink had. Oh, he knew alcohol affected him. He had just never done anything about it. Besides, he needed it to relax. He deserved to relax.

  Carl took another swig from the can. Perhaps his original idea of saying the boy had ran away would work for his wife as well. Hell, it might make the story that much more believable. Surely some people suspected he smacked them around on occasion. When they needed it, of course. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for folks to put two and two together. Annabelle got sick of it, they would say. She took the boy, left town. Probably went to St. Louis. Or Memphis.

  A sharp pain stabbed Carl deep within his skull. He had spent enough time thinking about shit he couldn't control. He took another drink, shut his eyes, lowered his head. With the music gone, he listened to the soothing fall of rain.

  The shrill ring of his phone made him jump.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Hey, darlin'. You goin' to work today?” The voice belonged to Tressa.

  “Nah, not today. The rain, you know.”

  “Where you supposed to be workin'? Your old lady know you ain't going in yet?”

  “She don't know shit.”

  “Well, think you could slip on over later? Sooner if you can get away from the ol' ball and chain. I'm feelin' naughty.”

  Carl felt like shit. Initially irked by the call, the thought of meeting Tressa later helped lift his spirit. He couldn't help propagating the lie surrounding his family. “Don't worry about my wife. I ain't seen her in a couple days. Hell, the kid neither.”

  “Oh really? Maybe I could swing by. We could do it in your bed. Mm... I like the thought of that. Right under her nose. Makes me hot just thinkin' about it.”

  Last night sprang to mind. What if the intoxicating music started? Would he lead Tressa to her death as well? Carl replied: “Whoa there, Tress, hold your horses.”

  “What, baby?”

  “What say we meet up at your place in an hour? It wouldn't be good if Annabelle suddenly showed up. She's liable to fuck it all up like that.”

  “You got a point.”

  Carl caught a hint of disappointment in her reply.

  “Well anyway,” Tressa continued, “get on over here. I need me some lovin'.”

  Carl hung up. A shiver, like the tender scurry of a spider, crawled up his spine. He sensed he had narrowly avoided leading Tressa into danger. Not that he cared much for her. If she died in a car wreck in the next sixty minutes he would be forced to jack off—

  the woman in the lake

  —he hadn't had to do that in years. He didn't plan to start anytime soon—

  now that Annabelle is gone

  Carl drained his beer can. He
cracked open another to bring with him into the bedroom. He felt like taking a shower. It wouldn't take him long to wake up, get clean, then head into town. He figured he would pick up a few things while he was there. Maybe some TV dinners, definitely more alcohol. Although he thought of sex while getting ready, Tressa never entered his mind. Not until he reached her house, where they drank and fucked and wiled away the afternoon.

  Before leaving Carl had Tressa make him a sandwich. He finished it off with chips, planning to skip dinner. Instead, he planned to drink. If he didn't, the events from the following night would haunt him.

  Drinking didn't help.

  Carl sat on the couch, empties scattered about, drifting in and out of sleep. How could there be tentacled women living in the lake? Why this lake? It was just some mud hole in bumfuck, Missouri, really. It was his lake.

  Carl ran fingers through his greasy hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. Perhaps he had been drinking too hard. Or his family had driven him insane. Anything seemed possible besides sexy big-breasted bitches singing and dancing out in some snake-infested, backwoods sinkhole. Especially bitches with appendages for legs.

  Maybe that weed Tressa smoked had gotten to him. Carl let her do what she wanted, but he never touched the stuff. Tressa could do what she wanted, so long as she sucked his dick. Could he be experiencing hallucinations from secondhand marijuana smoke? No, that couldn't be. He didn't visit Tressa that often, only a couple times a week. Whereas the music came to him nearly every night.

  If something didn't give, he would end up as batty as that old coot Maynard Krenshaw around the other side of the lake. Damn bastard had slipped a cog, that's for sure. Once, Carl had stopped by his house to see if he had a chainsaw he could borrow. A terrible storm had broken a tree limb; wind had cracked it near the trunk. Still attached, the dead limb had reached into Carl's yard. His own chainsaw wouldn't start. Until he could get it repaired he needed something to help cut the limb down. He could have used an axe, he supposed at the time. However, considering the height, a chainsaw seemed the better, smarter choice. Besides, it gave him a reason to stop in to check on the old man.