The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors

by Jason Brannon

  “Heart attack?” she asked politely, thinking Bentley might have had bypass surgery. “My dad had scars similar to those.”

  “Something like that,” Bentley said, apparently unwilling to talk much about it. “It’s not me you should be worried about though. A pretty young lady needn’t be out by herself in the middle of nowhere like you are. Lots of things could happen.”

  Before Liz had a chance to respond, a spider crawled out from underneath the cash register, stopping in the center of the counter, unsure of where to go. Instinctively, Liz grabbed a rolled-up newspaper from a nearby magazine rack.

  “Don’t do that,” Bentley was quick to say, holding up both hands in a ‘stop’ gesture.

  “I hate spiders,” Liz insisted.

  “They’re not the most pleasant things to have around,” Bentley explained. “But they keep the gnats away. And that’s quite a feat during the summer months when it gets really hot.”

  Liz thought to herself that Bentley might have some success keeping the gnats at bay with a bar of soap and a stick of deodorant. Unaware or unconcerned about his lack of hygeine, Bentley quickly scooped the spider up in his cupped hands like a father lifting his newborn son out of the crib. He lowered the spider to the floor and watched it scurry away.

  “Is it O.K. to go ahead and get my gas now?” Liz asked a little more impatiently than she meant to. Like a monkey at a typewriter, Bentley ham-fistedly hit the buttons on the old manual cash register, feigning surprise when the bells and whistles began to go off.

  “You’ve done it now, miss,” he said, tugging on the bill of his Peterbilt cap. “For being our twenty-fifth customer of the day, you’ve just won a free car wash. And I must say it couldn’t have happened to a prettier lady than you.”

  Liz looked at Bentley as if he had just told her she was pregnant with his child. Try as she might, Liz just couldn’t imagine twenty-four other people stopping here today for any reason, last resort or not. Still, Bentley was grinning good-naturedly from ear to ear, bits of black tobacco clinging to his teeth and gums like plankton on a ship’s hull.

  “All I want is some gas,” Liz protested, having failed to see any sign of a car wash outside.

  “Ma’am, it’s free,” Bentley was quick to add. “You should take advantage of the offer because you won’t be able to get one anywhere else for quite a while. Every other town nearby is under a water ban. They won’t allow what little water they have to be wasted on dusty cars and trucks.”

  Liz thought it odd that all neighboring counties had a restricted use of water while Mother Mary’s was giving away free car washes. Then again, the offer might have simply been Bentley’s way of trying to pick her up, an old man flirting with a younger woman that he couldn’t possibly catch with his snaggletoothed grin, balding head, and prune face. She was reminded of that brief moment when he touched her hand just a second longer than was normal. In ordinary circumstances, Liz might have felt flattered, but out here in the scorching desert, she felt a little apprehensive. Nobody knew that she was going to Reno. Therefore, nobody would even know where to start looking for her if anything went wrong. Liz made a mental note to call somebody as soon as she got her gas and found somewhere a little more suitable up the road to stop.

  “I’d really rather get my gas and go if you don’t mind,” she said as gently as she could, flashing Bentley a smile, hoping it would do the trick.

  “I do mind,” the old codger said more forcefully than before. “Mother Mary won’t be happy if I don’t treat the customer right.”

  “Fine,” Liz sighed, “I’ll take the car wash. Now, can I go and get my gas.”

  “The wash comes first,” Bentley insisted.

  “Whatever,” Liz conceded, thinking it odd how much emphasis Bentley was placing on her free car wash. Surely, Mother Mary wouldn’t hold him accountable if she declined the offer. Yet, it didn’t seem like Bentley was going to take no for an answer whatever the consequences. It certainly seemed odd, and while Bentley didn’t really seem like much of a threat, Liz wasn’t about to take any chances.

  She tried to convince herself that Bentley was just a harmless old coot. Still, she knew that a lot of women had gotten themselves killed because of naivete. Trying hard not to show her apprehension, Liz began to think of everything in her purse that she might be able to use if things got out of hand and Bentley didn’t turn on the gas pump like he’d promised. Frustrated and beginning to sweat just a little, all Liz could remember was tampons, lipstick, loose change, moist towelettes, chewing gum, nothing that might give her an advantage if things turned nasty. Of course, she always had the whistle that she carried while walking through the park at night. But out here there wouldn’t be anyone to hear it. Which meant that she was in deep trouble if Bentley was lying about the car wash.

  “When your car is finished, I’ll turn on the pump,” Bentley said with a smile. “Just humor an old man, would ya? It makes my job so much easier.”

  “I appears that I don’t have much choice,” Liz said with a sigh.

  Certainly, Liz could have gotten in her car and driven away at this point, but she wasn’t at all sure how far it was to another gas station. The Accord still had about an eighth of a tank of fuel, but judging from the sparsity of rest stops along the way, it was probably another half-hour before she saw any sign of civilization. An eighth of a tank certainly wouldn’t get her that far.

  “Where do I pull my car?” she finally said, reluctant to go along with this but having no other choice.

  “I thought you’d see it my way,” Bentley said, flashing his black teeth. “Just pull around to the back of the building. You’ll see the car wash. It’s a drive-through. All you have to do is stay inside and keep your windows rolled up. We’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Fine,” Liz said curtly and walked out.

  Immediately, the heat slapped her in the face like an abusive boyfriend, and it became hard to breathe. During the few minutes she had stood there at the counter arguing with Bentley, the brisk wind had covered her Accord in a fine layer of beige desert dust. Putting a hand over her nose and mouth to keep from sucking in the harsh sand, Liz quickly removed the gas nozzle from her tank, threw the car door open and got inside, shutting herself in before the dirt could follow. Then she pulled around to the car wash and hit the brakes.

  Like Bentley, everything inside the drive-through looked like it had been out in the sun, baking and withering and drying up, covered with dust from top to bottom as if the water hadn’t been turned on in years. It was dark inside the car wash, and Liz hesitantly turned on her lights, her hand on the gearshift, ready to put the Accord in reverse if need be. The bodies of several dead animals littered the floor of the small building like shrivelled tumbleweeds that might blow away at any minute. Liz could pick out what looked like a couple of rabbits, a dog, and a coyote. The rest was a mishmash of road kill that somebody had presumably dragged into the shade to keep the stench at bay.

  Cobwebs clung to the cleaning mechanisms of the car wash like a second skin, and Liz could only imagine what sorts of creepy crawlies might come out of the woodworks if the water ever did penetrate their dark, unused hovel. Out of curiosity more than anything else, Liz eased the car forward, letting the headlights penetrate the darkness. In her rearview mirror, she could still see the desert, shimmering like a gong that has been hit several times with a well-placed mallet. It was a reassuring sight. What wasn’t reassuring, however, was watching Bentley drag the heavy warehouse door across its track, blocking out sunlight, sand, and the open road, leaving her in complete and total darkness with only the bodies of several decaying animals for company.

  “Hey,” she screamed. “What are you doing?” But there was no way Bentley could have possibly heard her. Or maybe he would have ignored her anyway.

  Not wanting to smell the stench of hot, rotten, road kill, Liz kept her windows up and turned the air conditioning off. Until now the thought hadn’t really crossed her mi
nd that Bentley might be seriously dangerous. Yes, he was crude and made her desperately want to go and take a shower to violently scrub those places where his eyes had wandered over her exposed skin, but he also looked as old and harmless as the dirt that was swirling around outside in lazy whirlwinds. Of course, he had managed to lock her inside of an old car wash that obviously hadn’t been used in years. Which meant that even at his age, he still had a few tricks up his dusty unwashed sleeve.

  Liz began to grow impatient at the waiting and sat down on the horn, knowing all the while that it probably wouldn’t do any good. Not surprisingly, Bentley didn’t respond, but one of the dead animals did. The dog that was more skeleton than flesh raised its head and turned to look directly into the headlights at Liz, its eyes shining dully like unpolished marbles. Liz immediately let off the horn, and the dog collapsed to the floor.

  Apparently, she’d been wrong about the mutt. It wasn’t quite as dead as she had first thought. It was moving, and dead animals didn’t simply decide to come back to life. Obviously it was very, very sick. But not dead. Certainly not dead. The horn must have hurt its ears. Liz tested that theory and laid down on the horn again. This time the coyote rose up with the dog, its mouth open as though it might howl at the moon at any moment. Liz stopped honking. Both animals fell to the dusty floor, their ribs showing through the thin windows of flesh like prison bars.

  Now Liz had plenty of reasons to be frightened besides Bentley. The coyote’s head lolled at an unnatural angle that was undoubtedly the result of a broken neck, and yet, at the sound of the Accord’s horn, it rose up again like a zombie from graveyard dirt. The coyote was dead, and Liz suspected that the dog was in a similar shape.

  From this distance it was impossible to tell anything about the two mangled animals, yet Liz could see enough to discern that something was moving along the dead skin, inside the open, lolling-tongued mouths, in every gaping wound. Maggots presumably. It made Liz sick just to think about it. It also made her wonder what sort of microbes were floating around inside the car wash, what sort of things she might have inhaled via the car’s ventilation system before she turned off the air conditioning. Something had obviously killed those animals. And yet the dog and coyote were animated to a degree. Undoubtedly, Bentley knew what was out here, and was probably enjoying himself immensely at her expense. That’s why Liz was determined not to panic. She was at Bentley’s mercy until he decided to let her go, and she knew that the only way she would ever get out of the musty car wash would be to cooperate with him. Cautiously, Liz covered her mouth and nose with the tail of her shirt and stepped out of the Accord so that Bentley would be able to hear her when she spoke.

  “O.K., Bentley, I’ll do whatever you want. Just open the door and let me out.”

  She heard Bentley laughing, and understandably, it frightened her just a little.

  “I think you’ve got this all wrong,” Bentley cackled. “This ain’t about what Bentley wants. Bentley’s name ain’t the one on the sign outside. The best I can remember that sign says Mother Mary’s. She’s the one you’re here for.”

  With so much else transpiring around her, Liz had forgotten all about Mother Mary. Naively, she had presumed that Mother Mary was a nice little old lady who hobbled about the store with her walking cane and tobacco pipe planted firmly between her lips. Now, she knew that her impression of things had been wrong.

  The lights of the Accord weren’t nearly bright enough to light up the entire car wash, yet there was enough illumination to show Liz that something was moving up in the rafters, scurrying amongst the heavy rotors that turned the massive water brushes. Suddenly very scared, Liz tried to get back into the car but found that her foot was stuck fast to the floor and to the thick patch of web beneath her.

  Tugging with all her might, she found that her feet weren’t going to budge as long as they were firmly implanted in the sneaker. Quickly, she untied her shoes and stepped out of them, jumping into the car, making sure not to touch the ground again. Hoping to get a better view of what was going on around her, Liz hit her high beams and watched as the gruesome scene in front of her came to life. Tiny spiders, not maggots, hustled over and into the dead carcasses of the slaughtered animals, taking what nourishment they needed, leaving the rest for their brothers and sisters. Thin lines of silk held the animals fast by the head and limbs like marionette strings. Liz pressed down on the horn and watched as all the animals jumped in a bizarre facsimile of life. The rabbits bounced up and down where they had fallen. The dog’s mouth fell open, its tongue rolling out like a red carpet. The coyote’s head bounced from side to side like a dash ornament mounted on a spring. Suddenly, Liz knew what sort of puppeteer had been maneuvering the animals to the siren’s call of her horn. Mother Mary.

  The longer Liz blared the Accord’s wimpy horn, the more than animals danced. Then without warning a scream pierced through the cacophany, sounding as though it came from somewhere above her. Keeping one hand pressed down hard on the steering wheel, understanding that the noise was something that Mother Mary definitely didn’t like, Liz used the other to crank the car. If Bentley wasn’t going to open the door, then she was just going to make a new one.

  But Mother Mary, it seemed, had other ideas. The car roof caved in as though it were made of a thin, cheap tin, and Liz had to duck to keep from striking her head. Two large, spiky legs pierced the ceiling, one knocking out the dome light, the other missing Liz by only inches. She screamed, matching Mother Mary decibel for decibel. Not enjoying the horn at all, Mother Mary clambored onto the hood, all red eyes and hairy, black appendages, and rammed one leg like a javelin into the source of the noise. The horn went instantly quiet. The darkness soon followed as the headlights were broken one by one.

  It was suddenly very quiet inside the car wash. Slow tears burning their way down her face, Liz listened intently for any sign of movement. All she heard instead was the thudding of her own heart. And the sound of the door being slid back on its track. Liz hoped that Bentley had finally decided to take her up on the offer she’d made earlier. At this point, she would really do anything he wanted if only to escape. As it was, the door only opened enough to let a narrow beam of sunlight in, striking the coyote dead in the face, sending thousands of baby arachnids scuttling off into the darkness. Liz could see through what was left of her rearview mirror that Bentley was smiling.

  “Do you see what I’ve brought you?” Bentley said, his voice audible through the holes that Mother Mary had made in the roof. “I think you’ll like her.”

  Like the chattering of a thousand souls, Mother Mary warbled her reply. The smile quickly faded from Bentley’s face.

  “You won’t have to worry about that noise any more,” he said defensively.

  Liz remembered the panic whistle that she kept in her purse in case anyone ever tried to mug or rape her. Ducking her head so she wouldn’t scrape her brow on the protruding jagged metal of the collapsed roof, Liz leaned over and searched until her hand happened upon the leather strap of her handbag. In a matter of seconds she had the whistle in her mouth and blew with every bit of air she had in her lungs. Mother Mary shrieked, and this time Bentley joined in the chorus, shrieking along with her.

  Bentley’s chest exploded as the shrill screeching of the whistle undoubtedly disturbed what had been lying dormant inside of him. The scars that had been made so many months ago split open, like the seams of a pillow that has been stuffed to the bursting point. A cascade of spiders spilled out everywhere, immediately taking what sustenance they could from the withered leathery attendant.

  Taking this as her cue, Liz slammed the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas hard enough to give her a stone bruise on the ball of her sock-covered foot. The door gave easily, nearly torn out of the track, and the sunlight showed Liz a lot more than she ever wanted to see. Many eyed and writhing in the sun, Mother Mary was about the size of a Harley Davidson motorcycle and nearly as sleek, mandibles working like well-oiled vices to tear apart
what was left of Bentley, the man who had unwittingly carried her children inside of him like a surrogate mother.

  Not wanting to see any more of the grim spectacle, Liz turned the car around and swerved out of the dusty parking lot in a cloud of dust and a spray of gravel. Although she knew speeding would drain her already-depleted reserves of gas, Liz floored the accelerator and didn’t let up until she had left Mother Mary far on the other side of the quicksilver mirage that shimmered in her side mirrors. It was only after she had gotten several miles down the road that Liz noticed the fuel needle and saw the orange light that had flashed on to tell her it was time to fill up her tank. But there was nothing for miles but desert and scrub and shimmering waves of heat coming off the blacktop. There was also the tiny spider that scurried across the cracked dashboard of her car. This time without Bentley there to keep her from it Liz smashed the spider with the palm of her hand, enjoying the way its death felt against her skin.

  One down, she thought grimly, and at least a million more to go.

  The Misunderstood

  Today was the day for fashioning men out of old clothing and hay. Today marked George and Cynthia’s fourth year on the farm. As annual tradition dictated, George was supposed to build a scarecrow to commemorate the move from city to country. But he didn’t really see the point. None of the other three scarecrows had done their job. The carcass in the back pasture was proof of that.

  George kicked the mutilated bull with his boot, stirring up a cloud of flies. “Son of a gun,” he muttered, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. This was the fifth cow he had lost in less than two weeks.

  George suspected the backwoods cult that was rumored to practice in the surrounding woods. They probably sacrificed his cow to Baal or Dagon or Marilyn Manson or whoever it was the kooks worshipped these days. The strange thing about it all was that he never heard a sound during the night. No chanting. No cattle lowing. No horses whinnying. No dogs howling. Nothing.