Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  The Pinto rolled through the pines and up the drive to Herb’s little house in the woods. Killing the engine, Herb gripped the steering wheel, a thin sheen of perspiration on his brow causing stray hairs to stick to his forehead. His neck itching something fierce and his earlier nausea returning with a vengeance, he exited the car and pushed his way toward the front door. Once inside, he ran to the kitchen sink as the dry heaves set in. A few convulsions later, the nausea passed. Trembling, he rinsed his face in the sink and collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. His mouth felt stuffed with dirty cotton, and his lips pulled back like two dehydrated worms left on the sidewalk in the sun. Herb couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thirsty. Grabbing the closest beverage, he took a long pull of cherry Slurpee. Before he could even swallow, he retched and spit cherry-colored slush all over the table. Hands shaking, he popped open a can of beer to wash away the vile tasty of spoiled Slurpee. Nausea tornadoed through his guts. With a surprised groan, he spewed a mouthful of beer onto the melting, sticky mix on the tabletop.

  Fighting back an involuntary gag reflex, he grabbed a jerky stick and bit down hard. As the dried, salted, artificially flavored dead animal settled on his tongue, the nausea receded. Slowly, he chewed once, again. Swallowed. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. The first stick gone, he grabbed the second, hungrily grunting as his teeth tore off chunk after chunk of meat. Too soon, the three sticks of jerky were gone. He stood so quickly the chair flew over behind him. Still grunting like a feral wolverine, each grunt adding a strange counter-beat to the pulsing whispers clamoring behind his burning eyeballs, he stalked toward the fridge. Opening the door, he pulled out the package of ground beef. The torn plastic wrap fell to the floor as Herb scooped up handfuls of raw, ground meat and crammed it into his mouth. Had his eyes been engaged in seeing, he might’ve noticed his reflection in the window above the kitchen sink, blinking in and out, in and out, in... and out.

  Chapter 7

  The morning sun pushed its way through the windowpane, the slightly distorted glass casting ripples of light across the bedspread. Inch by slow inch, the line of sun advanced until the rays reached a carelessly exposed hand. As the light touched the fingers, a soft sizzling underscored the faint snores coming from beneath the covers. The sizzling grew louder as the skin turned an angry red and thin trails of smoke started to rise up from the burning flesh. Snores gave way to groggy whimpers as the hand pulled back into the shadows. Moments later, the sunlight closed the gap, dissolving the shadowy sanctuary the hand had crawled into. Thin tendrils of smoke rose up as the hairs on the back of fingers scorched and burned. The whimper resolved into a groan as Herb swept the covers back and swung his feet to the carpeted floor of the bedroom. Standing, the sun slapped him full in the face. With an incoherent sound more zombie than English, he staggered back from the light into the safer shadows of the bedroom. Semi-conscious, he lurched down the hall and into the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later, Herb emerged from the shower. He was clean and a tad more aware, but a hangover worthy of a page in the Guinness Book split his skull. Light was too bright, sounds were too loud, and a sea-sick pelican had apparently visited his mouth during the night. Leaning in toward the bathroom mirror, he pulled down his lower eyelids, staring at the bloodshot whites of his eyes and sighing at the stubble that always seemed to mar his cheeks and chin. Bending down toward the sink, he splashed cold water on his face in an ongoing attempt to wake up. Raising back up, he watched his blurry reflection flicker in the mirror. Translucent for a moment, gone, back. Translucent, back.

  “Murphle. Awbuss shooey,” he chided as he reached up and jiggled the bulb above the mirror. Reflection stabilized, Herb flipped off the light, pushed his glasses onto his face and slouched back to his bedroom. The morning sun was waiting and slapped\ him hard across the face again. Reacting on instinct, he grabbed the curtains and yanked hard. Blessed shade descending on the little room again, he began the morning excavating that constituted getting dressed. Shove, dig, flap, sniff test, repeat. Soon, Herb was clad in worn blue jeans and a red, short-sleeved flannel shirt that added up to his Sunday best. In preparation for a big day ahead, he tucked in the flannel, threw on the lesser worn of his two belts and his favorite rope tie, and double-checked to make sure his socks matched. Satisfied that the ritz had been put on successfully, he headed back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  It took a moment to process the scene. Sticky-dry beer and Slurpee coated the table, splattered the cupboards and puddled on the floor, congealed around pink bits of ground beef. Always industrious, a colony of ants had arrived and was busily trucking minuscule bits of grossness to present to their queen. The fridge door hung open, compressor struggling and failing to keep a steady 40 degrees. Stepping across the line of ants and swinging the fridge door shut, Herb thought back on what little he remembered from the previous night. Obviously had a few too many, he concluded when the details failed to surface. He probably shouldn’t have driven home, but there weren’t many cabs in Trappersville. Must’ve been one helluva night, he thought, making a mental note to ask Stanley how they’d done bowling. Herb surveyed the overturned Slurpee cup, jerky wrappers, shreds of ground beef on and around the table. Oh yeah, Patt’s. I stopped for gas. The memories that finally percolated up felt borrowed. He reached around them, felt their edges, trying to decide if they really were his. Raw ground beef? he wondered. Jesus, how drunk was I?

  Shrugging at the perplexities of inebriation, Herb resigned himself to a long span of cleaning. That would have to wait, though. Returning to the fridge, he pulled out the box of Get’n’Gobble snicker doodles. Cracking the cover, he dumped the cookies onto a plastic tray and arranged them in concentric circles. Stretching Saran Wrap over the top, Herb looked appreciatively at the result.

  “Herby’s home-made snicker doodles coming right up!” Grabbing his coat and heading for the door, his mind danced with thoughts of Lois while the trashed kitchen was demoted to I’ll-deal-with-that-later status.

  To say the drive to First Lutheran was uncomfortable would be a poor accounting of the experience, but excruciating might’ve been overstating things a bit. Suffice it to say that the drive was unexpectedly unnerving and definitely unpleasant. The light was too bright, washing out all the colors of the world and causing Herb’s eyes to squint and tear up. Every time the sun found exposed skin, it felt like a tiny little cattle prod jolting away. The closer he got to the church, the harder it became to drive in a straight line since getting to the church required driving into the morning sun. He must’ve been more out of sorts than he thought, because Herb drove past the entrance to the parking lot three times, only realizing he’d passed the entrance moments after he’d missed it. When he finally directed his Pinto into the parking lot, the hangover headache reached a crescendo. He was early and there were plenty of parking spots to choose from, but the closer he got to the church, the more severe the pain in his temples. Brong brong brong complained his car as Herb swerved away from a spot in the front of the church lot and headed back toward the road. Once his car was moving away from the church, his headache immediately receded from a thirteen to a comparatively pleasant eleven on a one-to-ten scale. Giving in, Herb finally parked in the farthest corner of the lot, panting and squinting at the blindingly bright world beyond his windshield.

  Brewers cap pulled down as far as it would go, snicker doodles platter clutched tight in his hands, Herb exited his car and started across the inferno that had once been a parking lot. Guts twisting, eyeballs melting, throat caked in chalk, each step was another spoonful of misery. Looking up, Herb was horrified to realize he hadn’t headed toward the church at all. Instead, he’d veered in a circle and was now approaching his car again. Turning back toward the church, he set out again, leaning forward as if walking against a stiff gale. After losing count of how many steps he’d taken, Herb looked up again and discovered he still wasn’t any closer to the church. Redirecting yet again, sweltering in the morning s
un, he set his eyes on the church doors, moving inexorably toward the entrance. With each step, the church seemed to bend away from him, veer to the side, stretch further beyond his grasp. Mirage-like, it didn’t seem to get closer despite holding it in his sights and refusing to blink the boiled eggs he was using to see. Step after step, the church kept sliding away when suddenly, the mirage popped like a bubble and Herb found himself at the entrance. Reaching the doors, he ducked into a patch of shade near a “No smoking” sign and stood panting. He’d been hung-over plenty of times before but never had he felt like this. His muscles screamed like he’d just run a marathon and each pump of his heart sent jagged bolts of pain arcing across his temples while hammers whammed the backs of his eyeballs. As he collected himself, an elderly couple stepped up, glared at him and looked pointedly at the “No smoking” sign. The gentleman cleared his throat while the woman scowled.

  “Oh, I don’t smoke,” Herb offered, following their pointed looks. The couple harrumphed and went into the church. Herb could smell it too, and turned to see who the culprit was. Looking around, he didn’t see anyone nearby. He could smell the burning, though, could smell the smoke. Confused, Herb turned his head once more, sniffed deeply and realized that he was smoking. Literally. Curls of white, sooty smoke rose from every patch of his exposed and angry red skin. With a yelp, Herb grabbed the church door and pulled to get inside, fighting the urge to stop, drop and roll. Had the old couple barred the door? It didn’t want to budge. Unwilling to drop the snicker doodles, Herb adjusted his grip on the platter with one hand and placed the other on the brass handle. Ignoring the scorching of his palm, he braced a foot against the wall and pulled, pulled, and pulled some more. Sure that his arm was about to be wrenched from its socket, tears turning to puffs of steam as they ran down his flushed cheeks, Herb pulled on the church door to no avail. It didn’t budge. Not an inch. Panting with pain, fear and exertion, panic rising up his gorge and threatening to choke him, Herb recoiled to the shadows as another elderly woman came walking up toward the church entrance.

  “Oh, is that you Herbert? You poor fellow, trying to do too much at a time. Young people, all the same. Let me get that for you. Here you go now. Come on in youngster. I suppose I’ll be helping you cross the street tomorrow, do you think? Heh! Oh, are those snicker doodles? I didn’t know you baked!” Smiling, Mrs. Devereaux pulled open the door and gestured Herb inside. Desperate to get out of the scorching sun, Herb ducked inside the foyer, Mrs. Devereaux puttering along behind him.

  Crossing into the church felt like someone turned Herb inside out, poured lye on his exposed innards, rolled him in shards of broken glass and razor wire and then flipped him right-side in again. For a moment, the only sensation in Herb’s existence was wholly consuming pain. So lost was he in the unexpected torment that he completely forgot just about everything else. Sheer momentum carried him further into the church foyer as Mrs. Devereaux walked beside him, gibbering on about the weather, how much coriander to put in lemon bars and other trivialities, oblivious to Herb’s excruciating torment. Once he’d made it a few steps in, though, the torturous sensation suddenly evaporated, leaving him feeling weightless and unsettled. While the words ‘right’ or ‘good’ or ‘fine’ didn’t quite apply, he didn’t feel like the inside of a nuked hotdog either. Panting, Herb stared at the entrance to the church’s main chapel.

  “Herbert? Are you ok?” Mrs. Devereaux’s face scrunched up at his, sniffing? “Oh Herb, did you start smoking? Shame on you. Disgusting habit. No wonder you don’t feel good.”

  “Oh, no,” he stammered, coming back to himself. “Um, I don’t smoke Mrs. D.”

  She clucked her tongue in the way only old women can. Turning left, Mrs. Devereux walked with Herb across the foyer, toward the stairs that led to the gathering hall in the basement. Herb followed, lost in his own confused thoughts and trailing wispy tendrils of smoke.

  Chapter 8

  The gathering hall in First Lutheran was a testament to the no-nonsense functionality of fluorescent lighting, cinderblocks and linoleum tiles. An austere space, it was a blank canvas that could easily transform to suit any occasion. With the addition of some folding chairs, tables and tablecloths, the right felt banners and a couple of colorful signs done up by the youth group, the bare room could become Santa’s North Pole workshop, a St. Patty’s Day paradise, or an Easter emporium. Wedding receptions, funeral receptions, baby showers, Bible studies, bingo or a bake sale, the space could accommodate it all. Just swap out the felt banners, throw the appropriately themed table cloths on the folding tables and wallah, it was perfect.

  Today, the youth group had made signs proudly proclaiming the 27th Annual First Lutheran Bake Sale. On one wall, a giant construction paper Cookie Monster chased giant cartoon cookies. Across the hall, a mural on large sheets of butcher paper showed Jesus in the parable of the loaves and fishes, passing out strudels and pumpkin bread instead of the more traditional bread and fish. The folding tables had picnic style, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, rolls of paper tickets were neatly stacked in anticipation of the big raffle, and small wicker baskets sported signs proclaiming that “every dollar helps,” and that this year’s proceeds would be putting “more pads on the pews.” Herb couldn’t really attest to whether the current padding was sufficient or not. Herb wasn’t a regular church-goer, a fact that made his sudden entrance into the bake sale stick in the craw of more than a few devout Lutheran blue-hairs. But he supposed pew-pads were as good of a cause as any to raise funds for. Last year, the proceeds had gone toward buying azaleas for the church garden. Why azaleas were so important for the church garden Herb wasn’t sure, but he supposed that was a good cause, too.

  Herb checked in and wound his way toward the table marked Number 7, instinctively ducking and weaving across the hall to avoid stray beams of sunlight pushing in through the ground-level windows. By the time he reached his spot he felt dizzy and short of breath. As luck would have it, the window directly behind his table had an old curtain drawn across it, filtering out most of the light. Settling in to the relative safety of the half-shadows, Herb peeled the plastic wrap off his snicker doodles and took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Soon, anticipation of when Lois might stop by had eclipsed any worry about his strange reaction to the sun.

  The widower Mrs. Lowry was next to him at Table 6, setting out her signature cinnamon wheels. Ever since old Mr. Lowry passed away, there wasn’t a charitable event in town that didn’t include Mrs. Lowry’s cinnamon wheels. This correlation wasn’t lost on the general population of Trappersville. Despite being a well-liked man, there were more than a few bake-sale aficionados who found themselves guiltily wishing dear old Mr. Lowry had met an earlier demise.

  “Hiya Mrs. Lowry. Cinnamon wheels! They, um, smell delicious,” Herb offered politely. Usually, a buttery pastry buried in cinnamon would’ve made his mouth water. Today, each whiff churned his gut and threatened him with the dry heaves. Mrs. Lowry turned to look at Herb, her smile stopping well short of her eyes. Squinting ever so slightly, her faded blue irises flicked down to look at his platter of cookies, then locked onto Herb’s, glinting in the fluorescent light and sending icy chills down his spine.

  This event marked the official beginning of bake-sale season, and all the blue hairs were chasing blue ribbons. A strong start at the First Lutheran afforded bragging rights. More importantly, enough blue ribbons virtually guaranteed the best table at the county fair in the fall, and that’s where the real money was. So all of Trappersville’s old ladies were here, pious and giving and ready to do their part for a good cause, while secretly hoping that their lemon bars, krumkake or brioche would pave the way for some fat cash at the fair.

  Herb had overheard a few comments when waiting to check in. It was hard not to, since the gossipers were hard of hearing and whispered louder than most people shouted. Apparently, Mrs. Lowry came in second place last year and was pretty salty about the whole thing. As a result, this year was all business. So wh
ile she smiled politely and thanked Herb for his kind words, her eyes made it clear that this year, this year, she would win first place, even if she had to go Tonya Harding on everyone else in the room. She continued to smile her piranha smile as she moved behind Herb to pull back the curtain covering the window.

  She was quick for an old lady. When Herb realized what she meant to do, he was far too slow to stop her. Rays of light that had been smashing ineffectually against the curtain were suddenly free to invade the room and splash across his face with all the heat of boiling oil. Jerking away, he backed into the table, scattering snicker doodles across the table. He recoiled and pressed his back against the wall, sinking down below the torrent of sunlight shining in.

  Mrs. Lowry’s barracuda smile grew a tad wider. “Nervous Herbert? Oh I can’t imagine why. Those snicker doodles of yours look so tasty, I’m sure the judges will just love them. In fact, I was talking with Judy Macintyre - you know Judy, she’s judging this year with Bill Homestead and Clarice Goodman - and Judy just loves snicker doodles. She gets them from the Get’n’Gobble all the time. But I’m sure yours are much better than some store-bought excuse for a home-made confection. Although, the resemblance is striking. Hmmm. Maybe they stole your recipe? Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Oblivious to Mrs. Lowry’s thinly veiled threats, Herb reeled in pain-induced shock. Despite being in relative shade, the skin on his face still felt like a thousand red-hot pins were being pressed through his forehead, cheeks, lips. Sweat ran freely down his back, plastering his shirt to his chill-wracked spine. Sure he was going to vomit, he started to stagger his way toward the back of the hall where the bathrooms were. He made it past Mrs. Lowry, past Table 5 where another contestant was building Rice Krispie squares into pyramids. At Table 4, where Miss Devereaux was putting the finishing touches on her display, a stabbing pain wrenched through his gut, causing him to stumble and catch himself on the edge of the table.