Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  And then, just to spite him, I'll go online and make every other asshole pay, every other bastard who's ever pissed me off.

  Reaching the door, I slump against the frame for a moment and peer through into the narrow room beyond. To my relief, I see a bare stone staircase leading up to another door. God knows where the hell I've been held for the past few hours, but I'm guessing it's some kind of weird hut or underground shelter in the park. Taking a couple of stumbling steps forward, I almost fall, and I have to stop again and rest at the bottom of the steps. Looking down at my legs, I see that they don't look quite right. I used to have pretty muscly calves, thanks to my asshole mother never driving me anywhere, but now my legs seem almost thin, like the muscle has wasted away.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, before figuring that I'm just losing my mind.

  I'll pull myself together soon enough.

  Shuffling forward, I start to make my way up the stairs, although after just a couple of steps I end up leaning forward and using all fours. God, this is pathetic, but I'm way too weak to actually walk properly, and by the time I get halfway up I have to stop again and lean against the wall. I mean, I know I've never been the fittest person in the whole world, but I thought I could manage a set of goddamn stairs. Still, that asshole did a real number on me, so I guess it'll take time to recover. Once I've rested for a few more seconds, I start clambering up to the doorway, and when I try the handle I'm relieved to find that it's unlocked.

  Leaning against the door, I push it open and fall though, landing on wet grass. The sunlight is momentarily blinding, and I have to shield my eyes as I roll onto my back.

  “Fuck,” I stammer, “fuck, fuck...”

  I wait, struggling to catch my breath, before finally my eyes adjust and I look up at the clear blue sky. Still blinking a little in the light, I take a moment to rest and then I roll onto my side so I can start sitting up. Every movement is painful, but slowly I'm able to shift around until I'm leaning against the wall of a ramshackle little hut in a corner of the park. Taking a deep breath, I look across the grass, relieved to be free but also starting to realize that something seems very wrong.

  The park is empty.

  In fact, I don't hear any noise anywhere. No cars on the street nearby, no voices in the distance, no nothing.

  Where the fuck is everyone?

  Rolling forward onto my hands and knees, I take another moment to gather a little strength, and then I get to my feet. I'm way more wobbly than I expected, but I manage to stumble forward a little across the grass like some kind of cripple. Looking around, however, I still don't see anyone. On a day like this, there'd usually be people sitting around, people walking, assholes on bicycles, plus the usual steady stream of traffic.

  But there's nothing. It's like the whole town just packed up and left. Seriously, where do everyone go?

  ***

  “Jesus... bitching...”

  Letting out a gasp, I slump against the lamppost, desperately trying to catch my breath. The walk home has taken forever, at least a couple of hours, thanks to this incredible weakness that seems to have come over me. I guess I'm still under the influence of whatever that asshole used when he drugged me, although I can't help noticing that my hands – like my legs – seem gaunt and thin.

  And there's still no sign of anyone.

  All the houses on my street are calm and quiet, but there's no hint of life and there are no cars in the driveways. The lawns don't look too tidy, either, and there's no trash on the sidewalk. I've called out a few times, hoping for a little help, but I swear to God I haven't seen another living soul since I got out of that underground hellhole.

  Spotting another lamppost up ahead, next to my parents' driveway, I figure I can handle another little walk. Stumbling along the sidewalk, I almost fall a couple of times, before finally reaching the next lamppost and slumping against it, grabbing hold and somehow managing not to crash to the ground. I wince as I feel the pain in my exhausted arms, but after a moment I manage to look toward the house, hoping against hope that my parents or my brother might actually give a damn and notice me out here.

  And then I see him.

  The asshole wearing the mask is sitting on the wall next to my front door, casually watching me.

  I immediately feel my blood starting to boil at the sight of him. He looks so confident and sure of himself, and when I glance around I realize that there's still no sign of anyone else at all.

  Just him.

  If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd start to think that maybe I'm dreaming. Or having a nightmare.

  Still, I don't have anywhere else to go and I figure the asshole still has some bullshit to talk to me about, so I start limping across the driveway. It's not like he can attack me again, not out here in the open. I'm pretty damn sure I can scream and bring people running from wherever the hell they're hiding, and it might be good to let them see this guy for themselves. After all, without some evidence that he's real, I might have trouble making people believe me. Coming out into the open like this, though, the guy has just made my life a whole lot easier.

  Clearly, he's insane.

  “What are you...” I start to say as I reach him, but I have to hurry to the wall so I can lean against it before I collapse. It takes a few seconds for me to catch my breath, and then finally I turn to him. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask. “Are you nuts? No, wait, don't answer that. I'm going to the cops!”

  I wait, but he simply stares at me.

  “Did you hear me?” I shout, as my anger boils over. Lunging at him, I only manage a few steps before I fall, landing hard against the gravel. Rolling over, I look up and see that same dark, melted mask staring down at me. “What the fuck is this?” I stammer, feeling a rush of panic now. Turning, I look toward my front door. “Help me!” I scream. “Mom! Dad! Bobby! Someone help me!”

  “They can't hear you,” the guy says calmly.

  I turn to him. “What do you mean? Where are they?”

  I wait, but he doesn't answer.

  “What have you done to my family?” I ask, feeling a whole new wave of panic in my chest. After a moment, I turn and look toward the street. “Somebody help me!” I scream. “Help!”

  “They can't hear you either.”

  I turn back to him.

  “You've been unconscious for almost three months, Molly. A lot can -”

  “Three months?” I stammer.

  “Yes, and -”

  “Bullshit!” I spit back at him. “You're a lying bullshitting asshole!”

  “You've been unconscious for almost three months,” he says again. “A lot can happen in three months. A lot did happen in this quiet little town of yours.”

  “No way have I been gone for three months,” I reply, although when I look down at my legs, I can't help noticing that they really do look as if they've begun to waste away.

  “I tried to keep you fed and limber,” the guy continues, “but I'm afraid I was pushed for time and your physical condition wasn't my priority. For the most part, I only really had time to administer the daily injections that kept you unconscious. Still, I'm glad to see that you can walk. Just about, anyway.”

  “Where is everyone?” I ask, looking around once again. I just need to see some sign of life, maybe a curtain twitching or a car in a driveway, but there's nothing. The whole goddamn town is silent as hell.

  “There was a water contamination incident,” the guy says calmly. “Just a few days after your disappearance, in fact. Vast quantities of ammonium nitrate, mixed with half a dozen other noxious chemicals, somehow flooded the entire town's network of pipes. Pretty much every single one of those pipes was burned through. A lot of people got very sick in the two or three days before the problem was identified. I believe the final death toll was eighteen, including five children. The local reservoirs were also contaminated, beyond the point where it would ever be possible to fix them. Given the severity of the situation, the state governor declared an emergency and t
he town's entire population was evacuated.”

  I stare at him, barely able to believe the complete bullshit he expects me to believe.

  “Of course,” he continues, “it helped that the governor was already deep into negotiations with a drilling company that wanted to buy the rights to the land beneath the town. A once in a lifetime opportunity, I believe. Anyway, once the water problem had arisen, the governor and the company saw the opportunity to expedite matters. You might find this hard to believe, Molly, but it only took a few additional days before the entire town was bought out by the company. Householders were duly compensated the market value for their homes, and they were also given a relocation budget. Nothing quite like this has ever happened in the modern age, but in the end it made good sense for everyone, and the few holdouts were given no choice. The company is now in the process of knocking the entire town down so they can start drilling. It's been very noisy for a few weeks now, but today's Sunday and the workers have been given a day off.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I don't really know what to say. There's no way that my entire town has been sold off to some company, so I know he's lying. I mean, how stupid does he think I am?

  “So that happened,” he says with a sigh, “and by that point, I'm afraid your family...” He pauses. “Almost every worker in the town was offered a new job elsewhere, Molly, but your father was one of the exceptions. In fact, shortly after your disappearance, the police searched your house based on an anonymous tip and discovered some rather unfortunate files on your father's computer. It seems he was into some dark and very illegal -”

  “Shut up!” I shout, trying to sit up but quickly feeling a blasts of pain in my chest. I turn and lean against the wall, but it takes several seconds for the discomfort to pass. “What the hell are you talking about?” I stammer.

  “No matter how hard your father professed his innocence,” the guy continues, “no-one believed him. He swore that someone must have placed the files on his computer and set him up, which...” He pauses. “Well, I suppose it sounds far-fetched, but it might be possible. Anyway, he was taken away by the police, and a few weeks later... Well, let's just say that prison wasn't kind to him. People who are accused of that sort of thing tend not to be too popular. Lord knows how his cellmates managed to get hold of a screwdriver, but by the time the guards heard your father's screams, it was far too late. By that point, your mother had broken off all contact with him. She'd seen the evidence of the files on his computer, and she'd come to accept that he'd been living a secret life online, despite all his protestations of innocence. She and your brother moved away to live with your grandparents, and they didn't even go to your father's funeral.”

  Shaking my head, I feel tears in my eyes. “You're lying,” I tell him, as my bottom lip starts trembling. “I know you are.”

  “Things aren't going so well for your mother,” he continues. “The shock of what happened to your father, coming so soon after your disappearance, sent her into a downward spiral. Alcohol, pain-killers, then knock-off prescription drugs, then the harder stuff... Last time I checked on her was about two weeks ago, but she'd been thrown out of her parents' house and was living with a gentleman by the name of Trigger, in a rather rat-infested building in a city just a few states over. Crack-whores are never a pleasant sight, but crack-whores in their late forties are even more pathetic. I believe she was picked up recently for trying to steal some beer from a late-night store, but I'm sure she'll be back home with Trigger in no time, and the crystal meth will flow once again. I hate to say this, Molly, but the drugs have really aged her, she looks like a -”

  “Liar!” I scream, reaching out and trying to grab him, only to fall a few inches short. “You're a disgusting liar! You're sick!”

  “Your brother had begun acting up by that point,” he continues. “Poor Bobby, he really stayed strong for so long, but all that business with your mother was the last straw. He started spending time with some rather rough people, he lost interest in school -”

  “Stop!” I shout.

  He tilts his head slightly, and now I can see his eyes again, staring at me from behind that goddamn mask.

  “What's wrong?” he asks. “Don't you want to know what happened to your brother? I can even tell you where he's buried, in case you decide to visit his -”

  “Shut up!” I scream, once again lunging at him. This time I manage to grab his leg with my trembling right hand, but he quickly pulls away and takes a step back.

  “Well,” he continues, “I'm sure you can find his grave without my help. Your father's, too, and perhaps your mother is also dead by now. You seem like an enterprising young woman, Molly. I mean, the things you used to do just sitting at that computer and typing away... You're an intelligent girl, I'll grant you that. Sharp as a pin, inventive, creative, industrious... All that energy could be so beneficial if it was directed somewhere else, if it was used for positive things rather than to tear people down and to make the world such a dark place.”

  Reaching forward, I start trying to crawl toward him. All I can think about right now is that I want to grab that mask and tear it away and then I want to rip the smile from his face.

  “Oh Molly,” he says, stepping around me before I can grab him, “you do look awful. It's amazing how just three months of poor treatment can really age someone. If I was meeting you right now for the first time, I'd think you were in your late twenties, at least.” He pauses. “Then again, if I was meeting you right now for the first time, I might feel sorry for you. And I'm sure people will, once you finally crawl far enough to be found.”

  I lunge at him again, crying out with pure anger, but he steps out of the way and then turns, making his way toward the sidewalk.

  “The construction workers will be that way,” he calls back to me, pointing along the street. “They'll be back at work tomorrow morning, I'm sure you can last until then and crawl along to meet them. I'd get started now, if I were you. You'll probably be quite slow. After that, someone should take care of you and you'll be back in the land of the living.” He stares at me for a moment as I continue to drag myself toward him. “Oh, and there's one more bit of bad news. What with the dead father and the crack-whore mother, I'm afraid your entire family is broke. You won't be able to study to become a vet, but I'm sure you can carve a nice little niche for yourself somewhere. Not everyone gets to live out their dreams, do they?”

  Trying to crawl faster, I let out a loud, snarling cry, more like some kind of wild animal than an actual person.

  “It's okay,” he replies, “you don't have to say the words. I think I can guess how you feel about me now. This is where we say goodbye, Molly, and I can assure you, we will never, ever meet again. Not face to face, and not even online. I'm pretty confident that you've learned your lesson now.”

  I snarl at him again, but he simply turns and walks away. After a few steps, he slips the mask off and tosses it to the ground, but he doesn't look back at me and I don't see his face as he makes his way along the street.

  I try to scream at him, to make him come back, but my throat is torn and I can barely get any words out at all. Crawling past the end of the driveway, I wriggle out to the middle of the road and see him in the distance, getting further and further away. Again I try to call out to him, but he just keeps walking until finally I can no longer see him at all. I scream and scream, trying to form words, but I doubt he can even hear me now. I keep screaming, though, even though I know there's no point. Finally, after a few more minutes, I feel my dry throat starting to seize, but I still don't stop. I scream and scream and scream until blood starts spraying from my mouth, splattering across the tarmac, and still I don't stop, not until I feel the back of my throat starting to collapse.

  I'll get him. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I will find that bastard and make him pay for everything he's done to me. Reaching forward with trembling hands, I dig my fingers into the cracked tarmac until several of my nails split open, and th
en I start dragging myself along, while still letting out a few brief, guttural gasps as blood dribbles from my mouth.

  He might have a head-start, but I'll catch him one day. Even if it takes the rest of my life.

  Meat

  One

  They were weird, she was sure of it. Sure in her gut. It had only been a few minutes since their car had pulled up next door, but already she had that feeling.

  She knew because she knew. Harry had always laughed when she used that expression. He'd never understood her instincts.

  Standing at the kitchen window, Patricia slipped another slice of meat into her mouth and began to chew.

  Outside, her new neighbors started lugging suitcases out of their SUV and toward their front door. This immediately struck Patricia as a very, very bad sign. For one thing, they had those very shiny, very modern clam-shell suitcases that she always disliked so much. She knew she was being a tad old-fashioned, but she much preferred the older style of suitcase, before everyone started sticking wheels on the things. She remembered her husband Harry carrying the cases whenever they traveled anywhere. The sight of a strong man actually carrying a suitcase, rather than wheeling it along, was something she missed terribly.

  “Oh Harry,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes.

  Now she watched as her new neighbors wheeled their own case along the driveway, and she flinched at the sound of those little wheels rolling across the ground.

  Horrible.

  Utterly horrible.

  Watching in stunned silence, she slowly held up the meaty bone and took a bite, chewing slowly and carefully before swallowing.

  Tasty.

  The Goldmans. She knew the new neighbors were the Goldmans, because during the previous night she'd crept out onto the lawn and checked their mailbox. Sure enough, there had been a letter in there, addressed to a Mrs. Alexandra Goldman. She'd steamed the letter open, of course, and found that it concerned an appointment for Mrs. Goldman to have herself examined at some kind of medical clinic. Believing very strongly that the man of the house should be responsible for arranging such things, Patricia had promptly burned the letter, and she only hoped that by doing so she might have saved poor Mrs. Goldman from some humiliating and unnecessary experience. Doctors, she felt, were always -