Simple Things

by Press, Lycan Valley

  The black eyeliner pencil, however, was another story. Jesùs told her that it was the very eyeliner pencil Marilyn had used to create her iconic beauty mark. The idea to use someone else’s eyeliner pencil was ludicrous, even if it had been used by Marilyn, but Jesùs assured her that he didn’t allow anyone to use the pencil. Said she would be a dead ringer for Marilyn and that the pencil would bring her good luck, whatever that meant. Farrah reluctantly accepted, figuring that she would use her own eyeliner anyway.

  Thing was, she tried her own eyeliner and it didn’t work out the way she would have liked. When she picked up the timeworn eyeliner pencil Jesùs had given her she felt something, some kind of tug at her soul that she was indeed holding onto a connection to the past. The tip of the pencil was dull and she dared not sharpen it. It was almost as if she knew that she couldn’t sharpen it, that it needed to be dull to create the perfect beauty mark, regardless of whoever had used it last. Was Jesùs lying? Did he really think she had what it takes to be a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like? She thought not. Farrah was curvy, maybe too much so, and, compared to the skeletons that graced fashion magazines and catwalks, she was on the chunky side.

  The woman looking back at Farrah in the mirror was no longer Farrah. She pouted her lips, gave a toothy smile, closed her eyes to sexy slits.

  Goddamn I look good!

  ***

  The party was fun, but ultimately it was a bust.

  Farrah got plenty of attention from a mixed bag of guys dressed as anything from the Devil to Superman, but in the end most of them were clowns. They saw Marilyn Monroe and thought they could get her out of her iconic dress after a few drinks. Farrah remained in character most of the night, eating up all the attention she received from horny ghosts and drooling monsters, but she had no intention to take any one of them home for a one-nighter.

  There was a costume contest, but some whore in a slutty she-devil getup won. You could pretty much see the fuzz on her snatch with her skirt so short. After a few cocktails, she had a tendency to bend over like she had a habit of dropping things, flashing her kitty for votes, which pretty much peeved Farrah to no end. Lil’ Miss She-Devil went into the hallway bathroom with at least three different men. She probably had blisters on her knees by the end of the night.

  Yeah, that bitch won first place.

  As irritating as it was to watch the slut cavort through the party (‘cause there’s always one in the bunch, right?), Farrah did her best to ignore the bitch and enjoy herself, chatting with friends and drinking whatever beer was in the keg—probably some watered down domestic shit.

  It was half past midnight when she decided to leave. Some steroid jock freak offered to give her a ride, but she could see through his valiance. He was thinking with the wrong head, figuring that she finally had enough to drink to fall for his blue eyes and false charm.

  Farrah left on foot. Her apartment was three blocks away. She’d walked to the party so she didn’t have to worry about drinking and driving. Saturday before Halloween and the cops would be out in droves.

  About halfway to her house, a car crept up on her, slowing down so that the passenger side window was parallel with Farrah.

  She didn’t look at the car right away, thinking it was a cop. Not that she should be afraid of the police, but let’s face it, she’d been drinking and if they wanted to, they could bust her for being drunk in public.

  The humming sound of an automatic window issued. Elton John’s voice drifted out, singing about a candle in the wind. It wasn’t a cop. She could smell something like marijuana and vanilla air freshener.

  It’s that fucking jock!

  But when she looked, she didn’t recognize the person sitting in the driver’s seat. By the size of the arms, it was a man, but his face was covered in some kind of red and white checkered rag that was wrapped over his head and tied at the neck with a piece of rope. There were two holes cut where beady eyes twinkled like ageless stars, darting ahead for a moment, to be sure he didn’t veer into cars parked along the road, but mainly focused on Farrah as she walked.

  No, she hadn’t seen a costume like this one at the party. It was weird, creepy in its unusual simplicity.

  “Hey, Marilyn!” came a voice in a thick Mexican accent.

  A familiar voice.

  She glanced at the man in the car, picking up speed. She was a block away from her apartment, but she didn’t want this guy to know where she lived. He could be a stalker for all she knew.

  “Hold up, honey, you’re walking so fast. Kinda like yer trying to get away from me or something. What, you don’t like me? Is that it?”

  She didn’t know what to say. The car stayed with her no matter what speed she walked. Sure, she could run, but then what? He’d just drive after her, maybe get pissed off and run her down like a small animal on a country road.

  What the fuck does he want?

  “I’m almost home,” she said, not even thinking about the consequences of this creep knowing where she lived. “My ... brother’s there and he’ll ... kick your ass.”

  She closed her eyes tight for just a moment, just long enough to mentally slap herself for sounding so goddamned stupid. What was this, fourth grade? She was twenty-four years old.

  The car sped up all of the sudden, turning abruptly in front of her. She slammed into the passenger side fender, nearly stumbling to the ground.

  The driver’s side door opened. Farrah ran, but her shoes, though not as precarious as stilettos, had a bit of a heel that twisted her ankle, causing her to fall.

  She yelped when hands grabbed her from behind, but there was no one there to hear. A thick hand wrapped around her mouth and she was pulled close to the man. She squirmed and flailed, but he had a hold on her like he’d done this before, as if he knew just how to maneuver a kidnap victim.

  He threw her into the car. She kicked him in the face like an ornery mule and that set him off. “Fucking gringa bitch!” he yelled, and then his hand whipped her face and everything went black.

  ***

  Farrah came to as she was being carried into a room that smelled like grease paint and mold. It reminded her of the Movieland Wax Museum she’d visited as a kid whenever her family went to Knott’s Berry Farm.

  A familiar smell, that, earlier that day, she had found to be comforting.

  Her eyes began to focus and survival instinct took over like something primal, something beyond calculated logic.

  She squirmed and flailed enough to cause the man to drop her on the ground. He was clearly startled, though she still couldn’t see his face. He mumbled an expletive and reached down for her, but she thrust her foot into his groin as hard as she could and her aim was true. His beady eyes closed tight in agony. Both of his hands met at the apex of his legs and he almost fell backwards.

  Farrah stood up and backed away, bumping into a stack of boxes. She pivoted to see that the top boxes were wavering about four feet above her head. Putting her hands out, she tried to prevent them from falling, but all that did was sturdy up the lower boxes and allow the top ones to tumble forward. She blocked her face with her arms, expecting the weight of the boxes to knock her down, but they were light and toppled over her to the left and right.

  When she opened her eyes she saw that the boxes had been full of plastic vampire teeth, spiders, and bats.

  The man stood and said, “You shouldn’t have done that, Chiquita.”

  That’s when it all clicked: the voice, the musty odor, the Halloween props.

  Jesùs pulled off the checkered mask. His eyes were dark, embedded in thick folds of flesh on a pockmarked face that would have frightened a troll. His mustache was about an inch thick and caused his wretched sneer to look menacing like a train robber in a silent film.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, as if he was going to have a rational conversation with her. “You followed me, didn’t you?”

  “I always follow them, Chiquita. Always. Gotta get that eyeliner pencil back, you know. While y
ou’re still in her skin.”

  Farrah shook her head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t realize it, do you? They never do. But I bet your friends noticed.”

  “What? The costume?”

  Farrah looked for a way out, but she was cornered, somewhere in the costume shop. Probably in the storage room.

  “It’s more than a costume. You think you look that good because you put on a dress, a wig, and some make-up?” He shook his head.

  “Just let me go,” she said. “Please.”

  “Yeah, sure, with fuckin’ sugar on top. You gotta be crazy if you think you’re getting out of this. Fuck no, miha. You’re my Marilyn this year, but you’re a feisty one.” His eyes deepened. “And my balls hurt! You piss me off, Chiquita. Oh yeah, you piss me off real good.”

  There was no way out of this. Every time she tried to move, he shifted himself to show dominance, yet he didn’t come in for the kill, as if he was playing with her like a cat on a crippled mouse.

  “Fine,” she said, cut and dry. “Do whatever you’re gonna do to me. Just get it over with.”

  Jesùs smiled, his silver tooth gleaming from a mess of crooked yellow kernels in purple gums. “You have the eyeliner with you, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Yeah, they always do. It’s the most important part of the costume. You could say it’s what makes the costume. Where is it? In your purse?”

  She shook her head, reached into the cleavage of her dress. “Got it right here.”

  “You know what you have there, gringa? I bet you don’t.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  Farrah held it out, but just before he could grab it she pulled it back. Jesùs took a step toward her as if he was going to snatch the eyeliner out of her hand or maybe grab her by the throat. She held the pencil in both hands and threatened to break it in half.

  “No, no, no, no, no! Don’t do that!”

  “Then stay the fuck back. I’ll break it right in half, I’m warning you.”

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “Likewise.” She gritted her teeth as if about to snap the pencil in two. Jesùs’s eyes went wide. He sucked air through his teeth like a snake hissing in reverse.

  “You want this eyeliner in one piece, you let me go. I fucking mean it. Don’t fuck with me or I break it. I don’t have anything to lose at this point?”

  “You break that pencil and you’re gonna suffer good, bitch. I can make you suffer reaaaal good. Maybe you should know what it means to me. Maybe you should know why I’m gonna burn you to death with acid starting with your pretty little toes if you break it. One toe at a time. A lot of pain, Chiquita. You want that?”

  Farrah’s eyes glossed over. Tears welled. She held the pencil firm. It was the only thing she had to negotiate with, and even then she was up the creek and drowning.

  “There’s power in that eyeliner pencil there,” he said. “My pop was a mortician in Hollywood back when I was a boy. He did Marilyn’s make-up, you know, after she died. That pencil you’re holding was the last one to ever put that legendary beauty mark on her face. But something happened when my pop did it.

  “He didn’t know, my pop didn’t. But he loved that pencil. He boasted that it was the last pencil to ever grace the face of Marilyn Monroe, and when he got drunk he liked to bring it out and show everyone. Got to be pop was drinking and you left the house so he didn’t corner you and yap about that fuckin’ eyeliner.” Jesùs chuckled. “He died, he gave it to me like it was some kind of inheritance, and to him it was.

  “I left Hollywood and opened up this store. Too many costume rental stores in LA. I had a girlfriend and she wanted to be Marilyn Monroe for Halloween. I told her about the eyeliner and she wanted to wear it. Didn’t fuck with her mind that it had been used on corpses.” He chuckled. “Because before Marilyn, it had been used on a lot of dead bodies. No, she was a crazy bitch, a nasty whore. She didn’t care, and neither did I, but when she put that pencil to her cheek something changed. She changed.”

  “Bullshit. You’re telling me this is some kind of magic eyeliner?”

  “You don’t see it. Like I said, they never see it. That’s why they never see me coming, but I underestimated you. You’re a tough cookie, miha. I never killed nobody before. I fuck my Marilyns, take my eyeliner and the costume and leave ‘em in a fuckin’ ditch. You know the best part?”

  She shook her head.

  “They come back and pay for the dress. You believe that shit? They come in all sad and defeated and they have to pay me ‘cause they lost the dress, not that any of them tells me what happened. They always have some crazy excuse, you know: they washed it and it shrunk; spilled wine on it; someone stole it.”

  “You’re sick, you know that?”

  He nodded, flashing his gleaming silver tooth. “Fuck yes, Chiquita. I’m a sick bastard.”

  “You’re full of shit, too.”

  “What, about the pencil?”

  She nodded, still holding the pencil in both hands, prepared to snap it in two if need be.

  “You don’t realize it, but right now you are Marilyn Monroe. Maybe not your voice, maybe not even your mind, but your looks.” He nodded and whistled.

  “It’s a wig, see.”

  She grabbed the wig and yanked, but it didn’t come free. Felt like she was pulling on her own hair.

  “Not a wig,” he said. “Not ... a ... wig.”

  “Here, take your eyeliner.” She acted as if she was going to toss it to him but threw it over his head, hoping the distraction would be enough for her to run past him.

  Jesùs reached for the pencil. It ricocheted off his hand and spun to the ground like a miniature propeller. He turned in the direction the pencil had fallen and dropped to his knees to recover it.

  Taking the only opportunity she was going to get, Farrah dashed by Jesùs, barely making it past him before he rose from the floor and reached out for her, his heavy hand grabbing the blonde curls of hair on her head that, when she’d left her house that evening, had been a wig.

  She screamed and lost her footing. It felt as if he’d scalped her, and she was sure some of her hair had been pulled from the roots.

  “You really fucked up, you know that?” he said. “You’re gonna regret this, bitch!”

  He grabbed her by the hair and yanked, dragging her like a cartoon cavemen drags his bride across the threshold. Farrah screamed and grabbed his hand, trying to pull his fingers free from the grip they had on her hair.

  He dragged her into a wider room in the back of the store and she could see a door that had a green exit sign above it.

  Moments ago, when he told her about the eyeliner, she thought that he was full of it because there would have been a shocking amount of Marilyn Monroe look-a-likes if he had committed this sick scheme as many times as he alluded to, which meant there was a way to change back to herself.

  Just one way.

  Farrah licked her fingers and rubbed them on her left cheek, obliterating the beauty mark into a smear of black that faded to gray. Her body dropped to the floor so suddenly she didn’t have a chance to break her fall. She pushed herself up and ran through the emergency exit.

  The last thing Farrah saw before the door slammed shut and she fled into the cool air of predawn was Jesùs standing there with a blonde wig in his hand.

  Yes, this does appear to be an empty Chinese food take-out box. It once contained chicken fried rice and I’m pretty sure the sticky stuff left inside contains the DNA from whatever creature last ate from it. You might be tempted to refill with it fresh chicken fried rice, but I don’t recommend it.

  Ken MacGregor brought this tale to us. He lives in Michigan with his family and two cats… one of which is dead, but he assures us he doesn’t hold that against her.

  IMPURE BREED

  Ken MacGregor

  NILES stood in the open back door of his house. He leaned against the frame and watched the alley. Clive h
ad been gone for twenty minutes, which was ten minutes longer than usual. The dog’s name was supposed to be a joke: Clive Barker. But, it turned about to be a girl dog, so people always asked why she had a boy’s name. No one got the joke.

  Putting his hands in his pockets and fiddling with the contents, Niles found a crumpled bill and pulled it out. George Washington looked at him sideways. The large A matched the smaller A at the beginning of the serial number. Niles had never noticed that before. Folding it in half, Niles slid it back into his pocket and looked again at the alley mouth. Clive was nowhere to be seen.

  A scraping sound snapped Niles’ head around. Clive limped toward home. Niles ran to her and felt all over, his panting matching his dogs as his fingers felt for wounds. He couldn’t find any, but Clive smelled like rotten eggs and was favoring both her back legs. After a bath, Clive smelled like herself again but still seemed out of sorts.

  The next day, his dog was still moving stiffly, so Niles called the vet. The woman on the phone said it didn’t sound like an emergency, but that she’d be happy to look at Clive if Niles brought her in. The vet had an opening day after tomorrow. Niles had seen her at the office a few times; her name was Rebecca. Her long, burgundy-dyed hair framed high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose; her eyes were the green of a tropical lagoon. For a doctor, Rebecca dressed casually but well: designer jeans or pencil skirts and a button-down blouse. Every time Niles saw her he found himself smiling a lot.

  The examination room, a door away from the lobby, was decorated with animal cartoons and pictures of kittens and puppies. Clive lay on a small, high table in the center, listlessly wagging her tail. Rebecca talked to the dog while looking her over, explaining what she was doing in a calm, quiet voice. Niles found it comforting, too. After fifteen minutes or so, Rebecca scratched Clive behind the ears, gave Niles a smile that made his heartbeat stutter, and gave Clive a clean bill of health.