Instead of satisfying him, it made him want more. He knew he had to go out again this weekend. If he didn’t have to work, he’d go out tomorrow.
Just a few more days.
***
On Wednesday, Robert found it hard to focus at work. His eyes were drawn to the filing cabinet where his newspaper clippings resided, hidden amongst the dull client records. Several times, he found himself standing in front of the cabinet, hand resting on the handle. The last time he’d done this, he had opened the filing cabinet, only to find sand in the manila folders. It was overflowing, sliding across the metal bottom of the drawer with a skitter as of a million tiny sharp claws.
It had taken him forever to clean the sand out of there. Someone’s idea of a joke?
Throughout the day, he found more of the insidious grey grains everywhere. When he opened the top drawer in his desk to retrieve a pencil, it was full of sand. When he attempted to use the shredder, it growled before grinding to a halt. The inside was packed with sand, the teeth mangled.
The final straw was when he sat down to eat the lunch his wife had packed that morning. Everything within was not only coated in sand, but it had rotted in the few hours his lunch sack had rested in the refrigerator. He’d thrown it away in disgust, marching out of his office to the maze of cubicles beyond it.
“Who’s doing this? If you turn yourself in, you might not get fired.” His voice was so loud it bounced off the walls.
Stunned faces rose above cubicle walls, poked from the entrances. Any other time he might have laughed about their resemblance to prairie dogs. Instead, he stood there, chest heaving, breaths coming in giant, angry gasps. They began to turn to each other, unspoken questions bouncing from face to face.
Chartreuse, a middle aged woman so skinny she had to be anorexic, stepped out of her cubicle and approached him cautiously. “Robert? Are you okay?”
Face warm, he swallowed with a gulp, gasps diminishing to pants. Speaking just above a whisper, he said, “Someone’s been playing pranks on me all day. There’s sand all over my office. They switched my lunch out with rotten food.” Voice a little louder now: “I won’t stand for this.”
“I haven’t seen anyone go in there. I don’t know who it could be.”
“Whoever it is, I will find out, and they can find themselves another job.”
She looked uncomfortable, and paused before speaking, wringing her hands. Then a tentative smile crept across her face. “I keep an extra Lean Cuisine in the freezer. You can have it if you like.”
Chartreuse, always so sweet. And bland. Too old and vapid to be of any interest to him. With a disgusted wave of his hand, he retreated back into his office, pausing only to call over his shoulder, “I’ll be reviewing the security cameras. Whoever did this might as well start packing right away.”
When the next day went much the same—sand slid out of his phone receiver, his laptop—he left work early, citing an appointment. But when he opened his car door to leave, his seat was full of sand, two words etched into it: NO ESCAPE.
With a strangled cry, he ripped open the back door, found the snow scraper, and used it to brush the sand out of his seat. Obviously, someone in his office was waging psychological warfare on him. How had they gotten his car keys?
Even at home, everywhere he went was filled with sand. There was so much of it everywhere that he felt the dust in his lungs. His eyes felt scratchy.
When he yelled at his son and daughter about tracking sand into the house, Myrna glared at him, her thin lips pinched. The baby began to cry, and he locked himself in his office.
Friday morning dawned, and he was hesitant to go to work. He didn’t even want to climb out of bed. Myrna came up to see what was wrong with him, asking if he felt sick. He could see the judgment in her eyes, finally driving him out of bed. Every time he reached for a new item, he expected to feel the grate of sand beneath his fingers.
Instead, the day was uneventful. No more sand.
Feeling better than he had in days, he ordered sandwiches for the staff and joked with them the last half of the day.
When he went to bed that night, it was with a smile and a deep feeling of satisfaction. One more sleep.
***
Robert woke up to the sensation of something sticking into his side. He rolled over, rubbed a hand down his ribs. There was something scratchy on his skin, and when he held up a hand to examine it, sand stuck to his palm.
Myrna was already up, wrangling the kids. Saturday meant cartoons for them, housework for Myrna, and a jog in the park for him. Excitement tingled through him, and he stiffened against the cloth of his underwear, only to feel a sharp pain. With a grunt, he pulled the elastic waistband away from the flat plane of his stomach and reached in, looking intently. Something settled against his skin, something almost fluid, moving as he moved.
His fingers plowed into sand. His underwear was full of it. With this realization came awareness of new sensations, an itch in his butt crack, the feel of the sand grinding into his skin. Jumping out of bed, he removed his boxers, sand sifting to the ground at his feet. When he jerked back the covers, he discovered more of the grey powder on his side of the bed. Where had it come from?
As he watched, the sand began to move. It gathered into a rough rectangle and smoothed out. Then, as if an invisible finger moved through it, letters began to form.
NO ESCAPE.
He yelped and slammed a hand into the middle of the sand, scattering it.
“Honey? Are you up?” Myrna walked into the room, looked at him quizzically, eyebrows shooting up as she noticed his lack of underwear. “What’s wrong?”
Robert panted, chest heaving. He realized his face was set in a grimace, eyes wide, and he worked to get himself under control.
“I guess I had a nightmare. Having trouble pulling out of it.”
Myrna’s face relaxed and she gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know those all too well. Though I can’t say a nightmare ever made me rip my underwear off. You coming down for breakfast before you go out for a jog?”
He smiled and nodded. “I’ll be down in a few. Just going to take a quick shower.”
The moment the door shut behind her, he yanked the sheets off the bed, careful to keep the sand in the middle. He opened the window and slid the screen up. He thrust the sheet outside, letting it fall open. The sand drifted away in the breeze, and he flapped the sheet for a moment to make sure it was all gone before bringing it back inside and settling it on the bed. He scattered the remaining grains on the floor, hoping they wouldn’t be too noticeable.
In the bathroom, he braced his legs around the toilet and relaxed. He closed his eyes as the stream of urine pounded against the water’s surface. It began to feel thick, then to scratch, and the sound changed from the familiar rumble to a soft shush, as of something light being dumped into the water. He opened his eyes when it began to burn. Instead of the urine he expected to see, a light dust rested on the surface of the water, thicker grains of sand sunk at the bottom.
Panic turned to consternation as he considered the source of the sand. Had it been forced inside him the other day? It made sense that this might be a possibility, but this much? And why was it only now coming out?
He could only hope there’d be no further sand. If it continued, he’d have to go to the doctor. Turning on the shower, he brushed his teeth as the water warmed up. The toothpaste felt grainier than usual, but he ignored it and kept brushing. When it began to scratch his gums, he gagged and pulled the toothbrush out of his mouth. Grey flecks dotted the light green of his toothpaste, and he picked at one, trying to pluck it off and see what it was, but it just embedded more deeply into the paste.
He ran his tongue around his mouth, felt more of the specks scratching against his teeth, grating along his gums. When he spit into the sink, the foam was laced with more of the grey flecks and a stream of blood. He turned on the faucet, scooped some water into his palm, and brought it to his mouth, slurping it up to rin
se his mouth out. But instead of a mouthful of water, he found himself with a sand-covered tongue. The sand slid down his throat, causing him to choke. As he coughed, it sprayed out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin along with strings of saliva.
He pulled back the curtain and stumbled into the shower, opening his mouth to the water, coughing more. Gagging then heaving, he squatted down over the drain and willed the sand out of his mouth. When he finally vomited, it began as a steady stream of sand, tapering out to bile in the end. One arm braced on the tile wall, he shook, dry heaving.
The heaves gradually calmed, his breathing slowed. The warm water running over his back soothed him, and he was able to stand and finish his shower.
He decided not to finish brushing his teeth.
Instead, he put on his jogging clothes—sweat-shorts, a tank top, and a hoodie—and ran downstairs. His wife stood in the kitchen.
"I'm going out for my jog," he said, pausing at the front door.
"But you haven't had breakfast." She went to the cabinet and pulled out a protein bar then grabbed a banana from the bunch on the counter. "Here, at least take these."
He took them, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and headed out to his car. Nerves raged through his system, so he took the time to pop the trunk and check under the spare tire for his knife. Right where he'd left it. He replaced the cover, smoothed out the carpeting, and climbed into the driver's seat. The banana and protein bar went into the backseat—he was far too amped up to eat—and he proceeded on his way.
Once there, it didn’t take him long to find a victim. A woman with light brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail exited her car, beeped the alarm, and stepped onto the lesser traveled path which would lead her deeper into the park, toward the valley. She wore light blue sweatpants that clung to her curves, and a white tank top. As he watched, she slipped ear buds in and started bobbing her head.
“The easier to sneak up on you, my dear,” he whispered to himself, a smile spreading across his face. Sometimes they just made it so easy for him.
He paused by a pond surrounded by giant cattails, doing stretches so he’d look like any other jogger out here. The dank smell of the still, shallow pond tickled at his nostrils and made him want to sneeze. When the light blue of her pants disappeared, he stood up, did one final stretch, and began jogging in the direction she’d gone, making a point to nod and smile at people as he passed, say the occasional hello. Appearing normal and friendly was the best thing he could do to remain anonymous.
Just as he’d hoped, the woman continued on her route to the valley, always choosing the branching path that led that direction. The deeper into the valley she went, the denser the trees became. With the park this big, most people stuck to the easy outer paths. Not her.
Her light-colored clothing made it easy to keep an eye on her while keeping a distance. At least that way she wouldn’t become alarmed. She was even visible through the trees.
Surely, these women were put before him on purpose, some kind of divine intervention. Otherwise it would be harder, right?
Around the next bend, the ground changed from firm and cracked to sandy—one of the many currently dry streambeds running through the park. His feet sank, and it became harder to move forward. It didn’t take long to adjust to walking in the sand, though, and he continued, light blue bouncing in his vision.
The sand seemed to be getting deeper and deeper, so he tried to step up onto the solid, packed portion of the path off to the side. He couldn’t get his footing, sliding back down into the sand, which immediately enveloped his feet. It was up to his ankles now, the sand shifting the way it does when filling a hole. Only there was no hole.
The sand seemed to be running up, climbing his legs.
Ahead of him, the woman still moved along steadily. The sand wasn’t stopping her at all.
What the hell’s going on here?
He shuffled forward, attempting to push his feet through the sand. They continued to sink, even as he made minute progress forward. The light blue ahead of him faded from his sight, sand swirling up in front of him like a wall. It solidified as the sand below him reached mid-calf. It felt like ants were running up his legs, higher and higher.
In the wall of sand, a figure appeared, formed from the tiny grains, pixelated at first, then smooth. A woman took shape, shaded in grey like an old photograph.
It was Samantha.
Richard reached for her, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she held up one hand. His mouth filled with sand, this time plunging down his throat as if it were a fist, ramming and stretching his esophagus. She stared at him with cold eyes, no expression on her face. He clawed at his throat, digging furrows into the skin of his neck. The sand tore through his sinus cavities and began to pour out of his nose. He couldn’t breathe.
Heaving, he tried to force it out. Instead, it filled his stomach, stretched it. He could see the fabric of his hoodie expanding as his stomach distended, and he could feel the pain as his body fought the sand.
He went limp, bending at the waist, the sand now at mid-thigh, keeping him from falling to the ground. The strange visage of Samantha continued to gaze at him as he hovered there. She moved closer to him, her form and the wall of sand moving as one. Richard was unable to move away from her, still suffocating. He had no idea how he was still conscious. His lungs burned. His stomach raged. He felt about fifty times heavier as sand filled his stomach and lungs.
A voice filled his ears, as rustling and whispery as the sound it rode. “As you committed me to the earth, so I commit you.”
The sand doubled in force, both shoving inside his body more forcefully and climbing his body more rapidly. He felt something give inside him, heard the wet tearing sound. It felt like he was being ripped open, shredded from the inside out. When he tried to scream for mercy, the sand tore his throat open.
As the earth swallowed him whole, his eyes filled with sand. The last thing he saw was Samantha, hovering over him. She blurred just as darkness overtook him.
Body Found in Colorado Springs Park Thought to be the UV Slasher
Colorado Springs, CO – A man’s body, found last week in Ute Valley Park, has been identified as Robert Ressler, 44. He was discovered in the same general area as victims of the Ute Valley Slasher. Police say a knife recovered at the scene might be the weapon used on the five slasher victims.
Cause of death is still unknown, though initial reports said he had been torn apart, possibly by a wild animal. Police are warning residents to stay out of the park or travel in groups until the investigation is complete. Joe Sanchez, a local wildlife expert, said, “As residents in the urban-wildlife interface, a general knowledge of how to respond to a bear or mountain lion attack is necessary, though it is a rare occurrence. This case serves to remind us of this.”
No other victims have turned up since the discovery of Samantha Bisbee’s body two weeks ago.
Blue Sludge Blues
Norman steeled himself against the rank odor he knew would assault his nostrils the moment he opened the door. The handle felt slick and cool in his hands, and he grimaced at the sensation. His gut clenched as he prepared to step inside.
He’d never been a fan of port-a-potties, not even these rest stop ones that were disguised as little wooden cabins, less port-a-potty than hole-in-the-middle-of-a-room. They housed a vacant space anything could move into, hiding away inside until some unsuspecting fool revealed a full moon. And they were always disgusting.
But he was being ridiculous. He turned the tainted handle and held his breath as the hot, rancid air buffeted his face. Stepping inside, he pulled the door shut behind him. The air was almost liquid, soupy with moisture and stench. The smell filled his nostrils, his mouth. Jesus, he could taste what the fifty people before him had eaten.
“Ugh, foul.”
The floor was sticky and slimy in turns, bits of sodden yellow toilet paper smeared across the surface. A single brown shoe lay on its side against one wall,
looking somehow lonesome. The toilet rose like a pathetic termite hill, the lid hanging by one hinge off to the side.
“Fancy.”
Oh man, if he didn’t have to go so bad…
As he approached the toilet, peeling his feet from the soiled floor with each step, he took in the seat that awaited him. His gorge rose as he studied it. Blood and feces painted the surface, moist smears of black-brown that resembled elongated fingertips clumped along one side, and blue droplets sprinkled the seat.
“What the hell? Did they wipe their asses on the toilet seat?”
Norman grabbed a wad of toilet paper, used it to lift the seat. There was only a rim below, but it was mercifully clean. At least in comparison. He tried not to think about what might be there that he couldn’t see.
Dropping the toilet paper into the toilet, he undid his belt and looked anywhere but down. Never look down in a port-a-potty. He turned his back to it and shoved his pants down his thighs, trying to keep them there as he crouched over the toilet. But they slid down to his ankles, puddling on the floor around his shoes as he fell backwards onto the rim, misjudging the distance. His sunglasses fell off his shirt and bounced off his groin before plummeting straight down into the blue-tinted sludge below.
“Shit!”
Cold slime on his hand alerted him to the fact that he’d slammed it down into something when he fell. He righted himself on the rim and picked his hand up to look at it. Sure enough, something viscous covered his hand. He couldn’t identify it, the color a brown-green, texture like patè. He located the closest clean spot and rubbed it off his hand the best he could before clutching the rim to keep himself steady.
Now to distract himself enough to relax and take a dump.
He thought about this cross-country trip, why he was on it. A new job awaited him in Colorado. Saying goodbye to those scumbags at his old company was the best thing he’d ever done—he was still riding the high of that day. When he’d found out how dishonest they were, about the evictions without grounds, that had been it. This new job would allow him to help people, not unwittingly put them on the streets. It would be—
Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations Page 5