Mass Hysteria

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Surprised, Laura let out a quick laugh. “You think? Oh my god.”

  Joseph shrugged half-heartedly, kicking off his shoes beneath the table. His socked foot found her ankle and brushed against the bare skin, stroking upwards. She shot him a small smile, apparently not minding, and drew her chair closer.

  THE EIGHTH DISH WAS joint meat with an arugula salad. The roast was herbaceous, the salad hitting a sweeter note with its honey and balsamic vinegar dressing, and topped with goat cheese and an egg.

  “OK,” Laura began, “what has horns, fucked-up bug eyes, and a shit brown egg yolk?”

  Her stomach still roiled from the earlier eyeball incident, and the food was no longer sitting right with her. She felt bloated and gassy, the contents of her stomach shifting painfully, and an acidic burn lingered at the back of her throat. She picked at the food with her fork, moving it around the plate but unable to eat anything.

  The egg appeared rotten and its odor was cloying. The brackishness made her belly lurch, but Irene, still feeling somewhat adventurous despite an upset stomach, and being unfamiliar with such an odd egg, sliced into half of it with her fork, spilling the brown yolk across the greens, and stabbed into the arugula. The bite was nutty and creamy, but held an unctuous flavor that she could not quite pinpoint. Greasy, certainly, and bitter, like lye.

  As the treacly yolk slid down her throat, she placed the flavors with an unexpected connection. The taste reminded her of an abortion when she was two days shy of becoming a teenager.

  The food carried with it a proprietary invasiveness, and she felt a too-familiar pinch in her cervix, a cramping deep in her core that she blotted her eyes shut against. A gorge rose in her throat, stuffing her esophagus, the muscles in her neck collapsing around this reaching otherness as it crawled up and up, stretching into her skull.

  Gagging, she dropped her fork, a painful twitch in her eye. Something was pressing against the back of her orbital bone, and she could feel her right eye pushing up against the eyelid as that thing tried to shove it out of the way.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain, she backhanded her fork to the hardwood floor, where it rang out with a metallic crash.

  Startled, the other guests stared at her with concern. Blood was leaking from a tightly pinched eye, pooling against the inside of her mask. A sharp cracking noise echoed across the table as the suture that fused her maxilla and zygomatic bones fractured, and she let out a wretched, agonizing cry.

  Peter shot up, his chair falling behind him, and bent to try to help Irene. He had no idea what he could do or what could be happening to her, but he was driven by the instinctual need to assist. His first thought was that she was choking, but that didn’t make any sense. As far as he knew, choking people didn’t bleed from their eye.

  Irene’s mask was askew, the shattered bones of her orbit punching through the skin and upsetting the balance of her leather mask as the geography of her face quaked and ruptured.

  Her eye twisted through the mask’s eyehole, dangling by the optic nerve across the side of her face.

  Laura screamed, shoving herself away from the table, not knowing what the fuck was happening. In seconds Irene had gone from bad to worse and she could feel the electric hum of chaos as everything unraveled around her.

  Joseph yelled a warning to Peter. “Get back,” he said several times, but the words were lost. Either Peter was ignoring him or couldn’t hear him over the increasing din of Irene’s screaming.

  Peter bent closer, seeing something writhing in the red-black hollow of her eye socket. A thin, bluish muscle was expanding, inchworming its way forward along the raw rope of optic nerve, its bulbous, multi-eyed face seeking the air, sniffing its way out of her skull.

  “What the fuck,” Laura shouted, now standing and rushing backward, away from the table. In her panic, she didn’t realize she was going the wrong way until her shoulders slammed against the heavy panes of the window. Frost nipped at her, surprising her as her bare back pressed against cold glass. The doorway was now at the opposite end of the room, past the horror show Irene was inexplicably birthing.

  Peter couldn’t get away fast enough. The creature exploded free of Irene’s face, her jagged bones opening long slits in its sides as it pushed free. He had time to see a disc-shaped mouth as it opened, springing at him, biting down on his large, fleshy cheek. He tried to tear it away, but the fucker was clamped on too tightly, and he could feel it sucking against his flesh, inhaling him.

  Its tail grew larger, its body stretching as it wrapped around his neck. He pulled, but the tail cinched tighter, the skin slimy. His fingers slid off the damn thing, unable to find any purchase.

  Joseph stabbed at it with a fork, sure that he could hear the abomination squealing in pain, even under Irene’s tortured moans. Peter’s face was going purple, and Joseph found himself surprised at how strong, and how much bigger, the creature was. Fucker’s like a python, he thought.

  He screamed loudly, forgetting about Peter’s predicament in a flash of pain as Irene drove a steak knife into his shoulder blade and ripped it free. He turned toward his assailant, her cratered face unbearably close, and managed to dodge out of the way as she thrust the knife toward his belly. She howled in anger, and with her mouth open, he saw this waking nightmare expand even further.

  They were small and multi-legged. No, not legs. Tentacles. They reached and grasped at the sides of her unhinged jaw, their bodies snaking across her tongue and teeth, seeking escape. Beneath her blouse, he could see something roiling in her large belly, pouches of fat rippling against the fabric.

  He stabbed at her with the fork, burying the utensil in the side of her face, but it didn’t even faze her. Irene was running strictly on autopilot, he realized, nothing more than a vessel for these monsters excavating their way free.

  He stepped back as she threw a half-hearted swing his way, then doubled over with pain, a wretched tearing noise sounding from her abdominal cavity. Fluids slapped at the floor, and her blouse and slacks were immediately drenched. Paralyzed by fear, he watched as her intestines unraveled between her legs, slopping against the floor with a wet staccato as more of those tentacled, spidery creatures crawled free. Her body went slack and collapsed upon itself on the floor.

  He felt faint, a wave of nausea sweeping over him as his stomach cramped. He fought back the urge to vomit, but could taste the knot of bile at the back of his palate.

  Joseph glanced back, toward where Laura had been seated, but she was gone. He heard her scream and stared over his shoulder, finding her by the window, batting at her hair. Some of the spiders had reached her, were crawling on her. She managed to fling several off, their bodies sailing into the fireplace and exploding in the flames. He hurried her way, smacking away as many as he could and taking her hand, pulling her away from the window.

  “Up,” he said, leaping atop the table and pulling her with him. He kicked aside the dishes, rushing to the opposite end, flailing at the creatures as they tried to jump on him.

  Peter fell to his knees, his fingers uselessly trying to pull at the thing coiled around his throat. He couldn’t breathe, and the world was turning black at the edges of his vision, the dining room growing dimmer. His face throbbed, and he could feel hundreds of teeth grinding against his cheekbone. It had sucked away the flesh and fat and muscles and still buried itself deeper and deeper, consuming him, growing larger and stronger.

  Small appendages tickled his ear, and he swiped at them. He was lethargic, but still cogent enough to realize that whatever was on the side of his head had bit him. Was still biting him, nipping at his ear. He wanted to scream at the unpleasant feeling of tiny legs stepping across the folds of his ear, dipping inside the ear canal. He tried to wave it away again and a searing pain flushed through his hand. Holding his arm before him, he saw that two fingers had been torn away, the small bones of his first knuckles exposed around ragged clumps of pale flesh. His eardrum ruptured as the creature burrowed deeper, a painful, fuzz
y feeling as it rutted around inside his skull.

  The snake constricted further, the mouth hinging open wider and darting through his eye with the horrible, wet burst of an exploding water balloon.

  When the darkness came, he welcomed it.

  PULLING LAURA ALONG, JOSEPH shoved through the first door they came to, off the right side of the dining room. He suspected the kitchen lay beyond, and had noticed their mourning-veiled waitress coming and going from there. He decided the time had come to speak to Schauer.

  Rather than a kitchen, he found a large, empty room. The waitress was there, and if the cigarette butts at the base of the stool she sat on were any indication, she had been chain-smoking through much of the evening. A dumbwaiter stood open on the opposite wall behind her; the kitchen appliances were clearly unused. Dirty dishes were towered atop the counter, beside a disused, dusty sink.

  “Where is he?” Joseph asked. He stifled a belch.

  The waitress stubbed out her cigarette on the countertop, and that was when he noticed the gun. She held the revolver in her lap, pointed at him.

  She raised it and fired, but he was already moving, slamming the door shut behind him. Two more rounds found their way into the door, the wood splintering and sending tiny shards at his face.

  Laura was screaming, and he moved her farther away from the door, briefly taking her in his arms. The bugs, or whatever they were, were preoccupied with the easy pickings in the dining room.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said.

  “What about Noel and Cora? We should find them.”

  “They could be like Irene. Maybe what happened to her happened to them and that’s why we haven’t seen them.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, pulling at his arm. “We all had the same food. What if that happens to us?”

  The thought had lurked in the back of his mind, but he’d forcefully sent it to the side, ignoring it. There were enough problems to deal with.

  “It won’t,” he said, but the words lacked the weight of assurance or conviction.

  “I don’t feel good,” she said.

  “C’mon,” he said, dragging her forcefully along the corridor before she could protest or ask more questions.

  “I overheard the waitress say the bathrooms were at the end of the hall.”

  “Forget them. We need to go.”

  “No, we can’t. We can’t do that. Are you crazy, we can’t leave them here.”

  Nearly shouting at him, her voice went shrill. He hated the way women’s voices took on that whiny, high-pitched tonal quality when they were upset, expecting the rest of the world to cave to their pathetic needs.

  “Fine,” he snapped, cheeks burning. He shook his head, but went along with it. If more of those things were waiting for them, it would be her fault, and he’d have no problem shoving her into the heart of the horror and running away. She was thin and small, not much meat on her, but enough to be a distraction. Easy pickings.

  “Cora,” Laura called. “Coraline!”

  “Would you shut up, at least?” he snapped. “You’re going to bring those things right down on top of us.”

  She rushed past him, peeking into the open doorways and finding empty rooms and sheeted furniture. “Noel?” she tried, moving on when he failed to respond.

  Joseph took the next door, and she rushed past to check the one after that. Every few seconds he stared over his shoulder, worried he would find those bug things scrabbling against the walls, coming for him, fully expecting the waitress to pop around a corner and shoot him to death. He could hear the creatures wheezing in the air, the gasp of a dying old woman, the stink of bleach and ash hanging in the corridor.

  The two bathrooms were on opposite sides of the hall. Instinct drove them together, Joseph opening one door while Laura, who he now noticed was awfully pale, her eyes glassy beneath the mask, crowded next to him. He closed the door on inky darkness and turned toward door number two, heart racing.

  His slick palm grasped the knob, turning it. His brain spent a long moment absorbing the sight of blood-slicked floors and shattered mirrors. Laura gasped in his ear.

  They were everywhere, hundreds of them, and much, much larger than their dining room kin. The largest of them fought one another, feasting on falling brethren, their massive tusks goring soft bellies, boney cages parting as their round, tubular mouths suckled at seeping, bluish-gray flesh.

  He could barely make out the remains of Noel and Coraline, the latter splayed open and dismembered, thick, gory streaks trailing away from her body on the white ceramic tiles. The smaller spiders gnawed on her innards, while a larger beast tucked its snout into Noel’s waist, clumps of his skin and plasma sheeting its enormous, abstract cranium, wet smacking noises echoing through the chamber of Noel’s chest.

  Laura bumped into him, her body flailing and shoving him forward. He turned to cuss at her, but saw the bathroom door being pulled shut, barely catching sight of black fabric before the lock clicked into place. He ran to the door, searching for a way to unlock it, but found no more than a solid brass plate. No lock. Not even a handle. The door could only be opened from outside the bathroom.

  Sensing their presence, the beast kneeling before the dead diners looked up, gore trickling across the boney cages that hid much of its face, crouched on thickly plated knees, its arms like thick tree trunks, terminating in three long, ropey fingers that curved into serrated talons. Tentacles swam through the air, seeking them. The walls shook under the deeply resonant grunts, the bass of its guttural cries quaking through the floor and up the skeletons of Laura and Joseph.

  They stood stock still, not even breathing, hoping they would somehow be ignored.

  Joseph doubled over with a pained wince, his arm curving around his belly. A wad of phlegm lodged in his throat, and he tried to clear it. His other hand groped at Laura, and she bent to help, concerned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing that his death was imminent. Knowing that Laura’s was, too. Still, even a few more moments of life were better than none.

  He forced himself to stand upright, despite the agony. Grabbing Laura by both arms, he pushed her forward, toward the giant beast crouched before them. Tentacles snapped around her, and he heard bone crunch beneath their grasp. She was dead before she had time to scream, her head hanging at an unnatural angle, neck broken. The tentacles twisted and pulled, her head coming free, the rest of her body dragged toward those massive, parting tusks.

  His stomach clenched and roiled as the muscles cramped and constricted. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his core as his innards calved. He flung his mask off, then pulled free of his sweater and tore the button-down shirt beneath it open, buttons clinking against the slippery tiles.

  In the mirror, he watched in horror as the skin of his torso rippled, as if a strong ocean current shifted through him. His flesh was nearly transparent, thin, and shot through with black piping. He pressed his fingers to his greasy belly, punching through the too-thin screen, and stretched it open. With a dazed sense of curiosity, Jopseh watched a host of tentacles unravel and spill out of the ruined cavity.

  The massive beast stopped eating, bits of Laura dangling from the ivory cage across its mouth. It stared at him, watching him with keen interest, waiting.

  A slick wad, thick and heavy, climbed up Joseph’s esophagus. Pinpricks of pain tickled the back of his mouth as the creature rose, entrenching its stingers in the soft tissue lining the inside of his neck as it dragged itself higher and higher.

  Collapsing to his knees, he screamed in pain, his mouth full of blood and a repulsive, oily liquid.

  Joseph had noted the taste in the previous dishes and was familiar with it now. He could finally pinpoint what, exactly, that particular flavor was. Bitter and ashy, unusually greasy, with the sliminess of okra. He tried to swallow it away, but that was of no use.

  The taste of death flourished in his mouth.

  BAEN’SOLLOGOTGARTHA AND THE OLD Gods of its realm promised im
mortality to those they consumed. Not on earth, but elsewhere, on another plane. A plane where mankind would be seen as gods in their own right, where their power over existence would be immeasurably strong.

  Schauer craved no power, and cared little for the weight of life and death in his hands. As with any number of magnificent chefs, though, he sought the power of transformation.

  Footfalls sounded against the stone steps as the waitress descended into the manor’s basement, gun in hand.

  “It’s time,” he told her.

  She nodded mutely, removing the tricorn hat and veil, setting them neatly on the counter. She undressed and quickly folded her clothes, placing them beside the mourning wear. Schauer took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Opening her mouth, she put the gun barrel to the back of her upper palate and pulled the trigger with no hesitation. Matter exploded out of the back of her skull, smacking against the creature’s face. Its ruined mouth opened and contracted, its forked tongue seeking sustenance.

  If time allowed, he would prepare a meal of long pig for his final guest, here in this kitchen.

  Good food did wonders for a soul, Schauer knew, and the mingling of a particular blend of flavors could bring tears to one’s eyes. In the best instances, they helped another individual experience something communal, to share in the stories and cultures of another. Meals could inspire and lift a man.

  In the best cases, ingredients were used in unusual ways to elevate an otherwise common dish to something extraordinary. With that sense of respect and endearment, those meals became transformative in nature.

  For years, he had sought the perfect guests. Those with palates of depth and subtlety, and a breadth of experience, who could appreciate mysterious, experimental meals and allow themselves to be consumed by the heady flavors of the dish plated before them. It had taken time, but Schauer was patient.

  His patience had been rewarded. His skill had aided him well, and his dreams had been realized. With little more than his culinary know-how, Schauer had transformed his guests, elevated them.