by Jack Ketchum
***
Tara tried to concentrate. She thought if she put her mind to it, really focused and got her thinking straight, she could figure out how long it had been. When she didn't try to focus, the answer bounced all over the place. Sometimes, she thought she'd been watching The Mouth for hours. Other times, she knew it had been months, maybe close to a year. Each time, she remembered Marco with the pickaxe he'd bought at the hardware store, the way he'd dragged the washer from its cubby hole and started swinging at the linoleum beneath, how the flooring had peeled back like great scabs until the pickaxe began ringing off concrete. She recalled how she'd asked what he was doing, how she'd screamed the question at him, and how he'd answered with a voice so calm it had terrified her.
"There's something underneath."
For a long time, she'd tried to ignore him, had cranked the volume on her stories and pretended there was nothing strange happening. When the apartment management started knocking on the door about noise complaints, the panic inside her had boiled, and she'd begged Marco to stop, to listen to reason before they found themselves homeless.
"Almost done."
He'd broken through the concrete just as management unlocked the front door and pushed their way inside, and she'd heard the voice for the first time, the same voice she heard all day, every day, that never died and that always demanded More.
And now she heard the voice again. It kept her awake almost constantly, her mind balanced on a point between exhaustion and what had to be insanity. The world moved in shapes and colors around her, and she constantly fought to keep everything in focus.
Focus. Focus was the key, and she knew it. Enough of it, and she avoided slipping into the strange state almost everybody else in Juniper Ridge exhibited. Even now, more than a dozen filthy, stinking residents littered what had once been her living room. They slept on the floor and the couch. Another filled the space that served as her lone hallway, blocking both the bathroom and bedroom with her naked bulk. All of them lay where they had collapsed, too exhausted after finding food for The Mouth. Marco moved between them, shoving aside those who took up too much space.
The front door opened, knocking against the top of a sleeping man's head, and two adults in tattered clothes entered. Tara knew from the way they kept their hands cupped in front of them that their offerings were small, but she still had to see. It was the role she'd either assigned herself or been forced into by The Mouth. She couldn't remember anymore, wasn't sure she'd ever known. Just like how much time had passed, the answer swam in and out of her head, changing all the time. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe she'd simply forgotten what was real.
More.
The first person, a woman whose T-shirt smelled like rotten meat and had stretched and torn at the shoulders, stepped up and presented her gift. It was a dead bird, a cardinal. It lay in the cup of her hands like a strange sculpture, all odd angles and pain. Tara examined it for a second and then nodded, stepping aside so the woman could drop her dead bird in the hole that had now been widened to almost four feet, nothing but darkness inside. She didn't bother watching. When the chewing sounds came, she knew the woman had dropped her offering.
She looked at the old man who stood in front of her, at the exhaustion that filled his eyes like fog and the terrible way his entire body sagged. He held up his hands, and she saw hope in his features before she looked down to see the dead crickets he held.
Please accept it, she thought. She didn't know if The Mouth could hear her. Most of the time, she hoped it couldn't, but now she wanted her plea to break through.
The answer came the way it always did, appearing in her mind without words or commands, just a feeling she couldn't ignore, couldn't resist. Without warning, she slapped the old man's face. The hope crumbled, and depression rushed in to fill the cracks. She hated herself as the man turned and left the apartment. He'd spend the rest of the day searching for something to feed The Mouth, and if he didn't make it back home before fatigue claimed him, he'd sleep on the ground, his pillow either dead grass or oil-soaked concrete.
It had to change. Tara knew it, and sometimes when she looked in Marco's eyes—she couldn't recall the last time they'd spoken—she could tell he knew it, too. The Mouth held too much control. From the moment it first spoke directly into their minds, it had taken over their lives. What would it do when they ran out of things to feed it? Would they be next? Sometimes the questions kept her awake even when the fatigue was a lead weight on her shoulders, dragging her down, down, down.
Shaking her head, she made the questions disappear. She feared The Mouth would catch on, would sense her betrayal and punish her for it. Worse, she feared it would punish Marco, the man she still loved with some piece of her heart The Mouth had forbidden.
And the rest of the world wasn't helping them. She wondered about that sometimes, why the police never bothered them and no one cared that the rent or utilities hadn't been paid in months. Or years. Or hours. She made sure to never consider it too long, because the possibilities frightened her.
Marco entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He watched her with tired, pleading eyes, and she saw tracks in the grime on his face. Tears of frustration and fear had cut those tracks, she knew, just as she knew a matching set adorned her own face. Silently, she prayed as she stepped toward her husband. She wanted to speak, but she didn't really remember how to form words. Instead, she placed her hand on the counter and slid it toward Marco's. She reached with her little finger, hoping for the slightest contact. Her eyes never left his, and for the first time in months she felt her heart accelerate.
They touched, the skin of their fingers sticky with dirt, and Tara watched her husband shudder. The beginnings of a smile appeared on her face. She still had him, and he still had her. That counted for something. It kept the nightmare at bay.
More.
She jumped, gasping, and jerked her hand back to her side. Marco's face crumbled, and he turned from her, shuffling back to the living room, where he stepped over comatose bodies and rubbed his face with his hands.
Tara watched him, and her heart felt like ashes. Something had to be done. Searching her mind, she hoped she'd find the answer.
***
A year had passed. At least, Gary thought it had been a year. He remembered the leaves turning colors and falling to the ground, remembered them growing back. Most of the dead leaves remained in the Juniper Ridge parking lot, a carpet of decay in orange, red, and brown. The entire community smelled like rot now. In addition to the leaves and the unwashed state of every resident, most of the older tenants had failed to last through the winter. For some reason, no one had fed them to The Mouth. He didn't understand why they'd been left to decompose in their apartments, but he suspected it was a mercy. If The Mouth developed a taste for humans...
He shut out the thought before it could percolate. Everything required concentration now, and he'd grown better at it over the preceding months. When he kept his thoughts sharp and controlled, he could resist The Mouth just enough to function like a normal person. More than once, he'd considered letting his concentration slip or disappear altogether. He'd moved beyond Juniper Ridge enough times to know the world had changed. There must be mouths everywhere. It was the only way to explain how people had transformed so drastically, how ugly and vicious and desperate they'd become.
When he saw the deer, he'd decided to do something. It was dead, a recent kill found on the side of the road. Why no one had dragged it to The Mouth was anyone's guess. Maybe the vehicle that struck it had already been loaded with morsels, or maybe it had been hit by somebody who'd pulled their will together long enough to decide escape was a good idea. Either way, he'd known the relatively fresh carcass presented a way to fight back.
Now, the dead deer filled his living room floor. He'd feared someone would see him drag the remains up the stairs by a chain, but some stroke of luck had left him unnoticed. Since that time, he'd made quick runs to abandoned hardware and
grocery stores, grabbing anything he thought might hurt The Mouth. Already, he'd soaked the deer's carcass with bleach and rat poison and a dozen different insecticides. He kept the windows open and wore a painter's mask, and still the stink was overpowering. The smell scared him, because surely someone would realize what he was doing. Hopefully, The Mouth had kept everybody too tired, too close to insanity to be a threat. Preparing for bed, knowing he'd show all his cards the next day, he prayed long and hard, and hoped somebody could hear him.
When Gary woke, he slapped himself across the face before The Mouth's voice could enter his thoughts. The daily ritual worked once again, and he crawled out of bed, his stomach a flutter of excitement and fear. His mask had shifted in the night, and the smell of bleach and other poisons made him dizzy as he sat on the edge of the bed. Pulling the mask back into place, he smiled. It was good to feel things again. For too long, he'd been just shy of an automaton.
He changed into one of the dirt-caked outfits he kept in a pile in his closet. So far, no one had seen through his disguise. With enough luck, no one would until he'd dumped the poisoned deer down the hole and fed it to The Mouth. After that, they could do anything they wanted. As long as he did some damage, he didn't care much. Still, he grabbed his car keys and stuffed them into his pocket. His car held just over half a tank, and if he could reach it, he'd drive as far as that tank would allow.
Wrestling the deer down the stairs proved just as hard as dragging it up, but he did it without getting crushed. Without his mask, the smell stung his nostrils. His back ached, and his arms burned, but he refused to rest until he reached apartment 414.
As he approached The Mouth's home, the fear that roiled in his belly crept up his spine and threatened to set his mind on fire. What if somebody tried to take the deer? He'd seen similar things happen, The Mouth inspiring violence like he'd never seen, and he wondered if he could kill someone if they threatened him. If it needed to be done, he'd try his best. All of this served a greater purpose, even if that purpose amounted to no more than thumbing his nose at death in the moment before it took him.
More.
The closer he came to building four and the dreaded apartment, the louder the voice grew. He hoped that meant The Mouth sensed his offering and wanted it, but the frightened parts of his brain said his concentration was crumbling, that soon he'd be the same as he'd been for months, just another mindless body kept around to bring food. Once he made sure no one was looking, he squeezed his eyes shut and lined up his thoughts. Everything became neat and orderly, and the voice quieted some, now little more than the tapping of a fingernail against a windowpane.
Please, God, he thought. Please. If you're still there, help me.
He dragged his prize through the door of apartment 414.
***
Tara knew the next offering was a large one before she saw the man wrestle the deer's corpse through her door. The Mouth's wanting was a hook in her brain, and she felt its greed tugging harder and harder. All through her living room, the others gasped and grumbled, both jealous and dismissive of the man's offering. Her eyes met Marco's and she saw worry in them. She knew why. If violence broke out among the people gathered in their apartment, they'd never be able to stop it. The crowd would tear apart both of them in their frenzy to please The Mouth.
Jesus, she wished she had the courage to do something.
Panting, the man dragged the dead animal around the corner and into the kitchen. He had a chain around its limp neck, and she saw the links dig into the corpse's flesh as well as that of his hands.
A thought wedged in her brain, but she couldn't understand it. Something about the man's hands. Was there something wrong with them? She found herself staring as the man grunted and struggled to maneuver the dead animal into the narrow space. Could they even fit the deer down the hole? Maybe they'd need to cut it into pieces. Without thinking, she opened a drawer and retrieved a butcher knife, one of the many kitchen utensils they never bothered to use anymore. Surely, it could slice through the meat.
Behind her, The Mouth demanded the man move faster. Tara felt this more than heard it, The Mouth's hunger like a charge traveling the length of her spine. She moved to help the man, to start cutting pieces off the deer, and he pushed her away, his hand strong against her shoulder. For a moment, their eyes locked, and what she saw stunned her. Clarity. This man wasn't like the rest. He knew what he was doing, and he was in charge of his actions.
In the next instant, the smell struck her. Bleach and other chemicals raced up her nostrils, not the rotting scent of dead meat. Terror filled her. This man meant to hurt The Mouth, maybe kill it. He could free all of them, but what if he didn't succeed? What would The Mouth do to them if he angered it? The questions whipped through her head like leaves on an October wind, and the man was standing at the hole, peering into it with a smirk on his face, and she knew she had to do something, but she didn't know which action was right until she made up her mind and plunged the knife deep into his back.
He didn't scream or shout or make any noise but a small gasp. Slowly, he turned to face her, but she couldn't see his expression through the tears that filled her eyes. Already, she thought she'd made the wrong choice, that she should have helped him instead.
With one groping hand, the man tried to grab hold of the knife she'd buried in him. His knees buckled, and he fell. Tara dove, trying to catch him, but she was too slow, too tired. The man's body hit the ground and then tumbled into the hole. A scream erupted from Tara's mouth, but it disappeared beneath the crunching and tearing noises. It had tasted a person now. She felt The Mouth's pleasure through every piece of her, a riptide of enjoyment that made her want to die.
More!
Somewhere in the distance, she heard shouts, violence. Marco called to her, but she couldn't answer, could do nothing but curl into a ball beside the deer carcass and sob. Too late. They'd lost.
***
Cali watched the boy. He lay in the grass, naked and filthy. His thumb filled his mouth. A grin stretched Cali's lips because the boy didn't know yet. In his exhausted dreams, he probably thought The Mouth still wanted animals. Cats and dogs and mice. Squirrels. Her grin widened to a smile.
A heavy rock occupied her hands. Cali lifted it and giggled.
—Lisa MOrton
Lisa Morton is a screenwriter, author of dozens of short stories, and one of the world's leading Halloween experts. Her first novel, The Castle Of Los Angeles, won the Bram Stoker Award for First Novel, and her first collection, Monsters Of L.A., was released in 2011 by Bad Moon Books. Coming in 2012 are Witch Hunts: A Graphic History Of The Burning Times (McFarland), co-written with Rocky Wood and illustrated by Greg Chapman, and Trick Or Treat?: A Cultural History Of Halloween (Reaktion). She lives in North Hollywood, California, and can be found online at www.lisamorton.com
—Blood for the American People
By Lisa Morton
Tom leaned back against the closed front door and stared at all the blood. He sighed once, and began mentally cleaning the apartment.
The couch had taken the worst of it. Fortunately it was cheap and typical, and he could replace it in hours.
Likewise, the carpeting—standard issue low pile, light beige. Unfortunately, he'd have to redo the entire living room. He hoped it hadn't completely soaked through to the padding.
The walls.
Now Tom groaned, used a gloved hand to lock the front door behind him, and carefully crossed the room. As he stepped around the coffee table (which, to a cursory glance, looked untouched), he noticed a crimson-splotched hand just behind the sofa. He walked another yard, and saw that the hand had been severed from the rest of the body, which was apparently also behind the couch; he saw a leg flung into a far corner of the room, having just missed the window treatments.
Jesus fucking Christ.
In his career as a highly discrete "cleaner," Tom had dealt with a number of messy disposals—a man who'd been stabbed roughly 50 times, a woman beaten
by a team of three professionals—but he'd never seen blood splattered at this magnitude before. He leaned over the couch and saw entrails three feet away from the main trunk of the body; and there, on the tasteful wallpaper—were those claw marks?
What the fuck did the killer use? A goddamn tiger?
Tom glanced at the pale, dead face, and saw the features frozen in a grand-finale expression of terror and agony. Just after he'd accepted the job and had been given the address, Tom ran a check and found out the apartment was rented to a Morgan Dempsey, a minor-league employee of the State Department. Mr. Dempsey was so far down the food chain he didn't even have a memorable title, but apparently he'd pissed somebody off.
Bad.
Tom tore his gaze away from Dempsey's wide eyes and focused again on the task at hand. He realized this job would require more than just new furniture and fresh paint; the crime scene was severe enough that he couldn't possibly remove all evidence in a day. He'd dispose of the body, get the furniture and carpeting and wallpaper in place, then—since he'd been assured by the client that he had an unlimited expense account—he'd grease a few palms.
And, most importantly—he wouldn't ask any questions.
***
The man on the other side of the desk gave Tom an envelope of cash and a smile. "Your fee and your expenses." As Tom pocketed the envelope, the flabby, middle-aged man with the ugly comb-over chuckled once. "I don't know how you do it. I hear the D.C. forensics team hit the apartment this morning, and came away with nothing."
Tom let his relief course silently; outwardly, he nodded, apparently confident, sure of his own skills.
The client, Mr. Dickson, squinted. "My contacts said you were good. I trust it would be acceptable to hire you again in the future...if necessary, I mean?"