The Bighead

by Edward Lee

  Oh, my…God!

  Charity couldn’t help but see the scars. Right there, burned into the insides of the old woman’s thighs. Fat, reddened worms of scars, like burns, abundant. Charity’s thoughts came to another guillotine halt, though, when she looked up. One breast had slipped out of the dresstop…

  The nipple a crust of burn scars.

  “The broth,” Annie muttered, still ont conscious.

  “Aunt Annie! Wake up!”

  The old woman’s throat wobbled. “Geraldine…forgive me. It was the only way…”

  The Annie fell silent again, still succumbed to her faint.

  Let her lay still, out of the sun, Charity advised herself. Let her breathe…

  She strayed, then, back to the lots, high, dry grass collapsing beneath her steps. The sun’s heat crushed her, but eventually she made her way back to the grave plots.

  Yes, it was no trick of vision. Both plots had been dug up, heaps of soil lying on either side. This was backwoods, rural—no grave liners, in other words, were implemented for burials. But the coffins had been pulled out, their lids unseated and flung open.

  Charity, her lower lip trembling, dropped on one knee and saw—

  (III)

  Jerrica was gone, ignoring him as she walked away naked into the opposing woods, but that was no real surprise. Alexander, however, as he turned, felt his vision snagged, by—something.

  He stood at the lake’s edge, squinting, the sun-glare on the water bright as the white-phosphorous they’d pump into VC gun nests back in The Nam, with their M-79s. Get a load of white phosphorous—willy-pete, as they called it—into a covered MG nest, and the stuff would burn so fast, it would suck all the oxygen out. The rest was a turkey shoot.

  The priest shielded his eyes, leaning forward. What is…

  There was something…

  But the sun was blinding him. The only way he’d be able to get a clearer view was by going to a higher vantage point…

  The tower, he realized. The abbey’s bell tower…

  A quick jog took him back to the building. A tougher jog took him up the tower’s winding stairwell, decades’ old dust puffing beneath his footfalls. Christ, quit smoking, you asshole, he warned himself once he got up top. The bell tower’s open air rushed his face; he leaned back, gasping, cursing his multi-pack-a-day habit.

  And, as do most smokers, he lit another cigarette.

  Then he turned, gazed out, and—

  Hoooooly motherfucking shit…, the priest thought when he looked again at the lake.

  (IV)

  It was disgusting, hideous. How could somebody do such a thing in the first place? Charity felt flensed, the skin of her reason peeling back at the loss of what she conceived of as sanity.

  Annie partially roused, enough to walk. “Come on! Come on!” Charity barked, her breasts swaying in her top. “We’ve got to get you back to the house!”

  “The broth,” her aunt replied insensibly. “Geraldine…”

  Who was Geraldine? And what was the broth? Charity stripped it from her pondering for now, more concerned with getting her aunt back to the house alive. But concerned—very concerned—also by what she’d seen at the disinterred plots. SISSY read the large stone. Its pried open coffin revealed a mere skeleton. And there was a tiny skeleton, brown-boned, lying in the smaller coffin—just a small crate—of the other unearthed plot.

  A child’s grave, Charity knew now.

  But it wasn’t so much the infant’s skeleton itself as it was the scrawl of inscription inside.

  BIGHEAD, it read. BURN IN HELL.

  (V)

  “Who is Bighead?”

  Annie’s eyes drooped.

  Charity slapped her aunt in the face. “Who is Bighead? It’s supposed to be a myth, a fable. Why did someone write BIGHEAD inside the lid of that coffin?”

  “One of the men, probably, one of the Ketchum boys, I think,” Aunt Annie mumbled as though her mouth were full of frogs. “The men got the coffin—it was just a little packing crate.”

  “And what about Sissy’s grave!” Charity was hot, riled. She wanted answers. “You said she shot herself in the head with a shotgun when my father died in the coal mine…”

  Annie’s face went gelid, a frozen, old mask. Her eyes locked up…

  “Tell me, goddamn it! The skull in that coffin was intact! What’s going on!”

  Dusk was seeping into the windows now, the heat abating however slightly. It had taken Charity forever to walk her aunt back to the boarding house.

  “What are those scars on your legs, and your nipples?” she demanded next, unable to sort her questions.

  “Geraldine. Forgive me.”

  “Who is Geraldine!”

  This was no use. Aunt Annie was out of it. Her consciousness seemed to lapse, in and out, her eyes opening and closing.

  “Aunt Annie!”

  No, it was no use.

  Charity’s senses pinwheeled. So many questions, yet no answers. And why would someone dig up those graves?

  And who?

  Charity jolted at the sudden, tremendous sound. A great, wood-splintering CRACK!

  The front door! she realized.

  Someone had just kicked in the front door!

  Annie’s mouth hung open. Drool shined. Her fingers feebled upward.

  “It’s him,” she whispered.

  (VI)

  They’d just come offa run, Tritt “Balls” Conner an’ Dicky Caudill, that is, takin’ their yoo-sher-al couple hunnert gallons’a Clyde Nale’s high-octane moonshine up ta them crackers ’cross the state line. Smooth as tit-skin, the job went. As yoo-sher-al.

  And, as yoo-sher-al, upon leavin’, they’d plucked thereselfs one’a them li’l white-trash alkie cutie-pies who were hitchin’ down the mountain road. She screamed like a weasel inna tredder, she did, once Balls jumped out the ’Mino an’ got on her, but she didn’t scream fer long, no sir. Just one crack upside the head with his homemade jack an’ she were out fer the count. Alls it took, then, were a minute’er two ta tie her up in the tarp’n throw her cracker ass in back.

  This pleased Dicky a might, it did, ’cos Balls’d ob-ver-iss-lee forgot alls about the hot blonde an’ the priest who’d whupped ’em the other night at the bar. Dicky didn’t want nothin’ ta do with killin’ no priest, an’ if that were still on Tritt Balls’ mind, then why’d he even bother jackin’ out this mountain gal? Yeah, Balls done forgot all about it. Good. Thats blonde an’ the priest—doin’ a job on them were just too risky. Shee-it, goin’ ta that boardin’ house? All them people around? Naw, that were bad news. They’d wind up fer shore gettin’ caught an’ chucked in the clink. Dicky thanked the Good Lord, he did, fer lettin’ Balls ferget all ’bout that scene.

  “Keeee-rist, Dicky,” Balls commented from the shotgun seat. He were hittin’ onna li’l flask’a shine, an’ he were rubbin’ the crotch’a his pants too. “My dick’s so hard feels like it’s gonna start bawlin’. Hurrys up an’ find us a place, huh?”

  “Relax, Balls,” Dicky assured behind the wheel, sippin’ a beer. “We’se almost home now. I’ll’se find us a good place’a right quick.”

  “Keee-rist.” Balls whooped. “I can’ts wait ta cornhole me that Kentucky trash in back. Dick been jumpin’ all day, dyin’ fer a nut. Hurrys up’n park!” Balls continued rubbin’ his cock through his pants. “You don’t find us a place soon, I’se’ll have to jerk off right here in the ’Mino!”

  Dicky rolled his eyes, he did. “Don’t’cha be doin’ that, Balls. Last tmme ya done it, ya got’cher jizz all overs the pole-stree.”

  “Then hurrys up!”

  God, he were insister-ent tonight. Dicky veered the El Camino off the Route then, an’ turnt uppa old loggin’ road. Soon he were dousin’ the headlights, an’ parkin’ their rod in one’a the side dells they’d used before. Balls were outa the ’Mino like his butt were on fire, openin’ the tailgate, an’ haulin’ that mountain gal out the tarp. Dicky watched in the moonlight, sippi
n’ his beer.

  “Keee-rist, I’se horny!” Balls hauled her dirty shorts right off, an’ had his cock out his pants faster’n corn-feed through a hog. Then he pushed her knees back inner face, hocked lickety-split inner crack, ands got ta cornholin’ hard. “Stinky bitch, ooo-eee!” Balls remarked, thrustin’ away. “I’se like that!” His arms propped hisself up over her whiles he were humpin’. But gettin’ it so fast an’ so hard up the butt roused the gal a right quick, it did, ands all at once she come to an’ were screamin’ again. “Ooo-eee!” Balls repeated. “I’se just love ta hear ’em scream like that! Somethin’ ’bout these Kentucky crackers, Dicky, ain’t there? They got throats on ’em! Fiesty li’l bitches, they is! So’s much better rapin’ a Kentucky bitch than a ’Ginia bitch! Hows you like it, honey? Hows you like me fuckin’ yer shit?”Balls’ hard steady thrusts rode right along with her screams, an’ right along too with his laughin’, but then—

  “Owwwwwwww!”

  He jerked up in pain, put a hand ta his forearm. “The cracker bit me, Dicky! Bit a chunk right outa my arm!”

  This were not good. Nor were it good when she started a’cussin’’n kickin’ at Balls. “Gits away from me, ya dirty shit!” she shrieked in a voice that sounded like the time Dicky’s ’Mino throwed a rod on the Route. An’ she were fightin’ she were, kickin’ an’ cussin’ an’ shriekin’ away. Then she hocked right’n Balls’ face…

  Balls’ big fist ’mediately clouted her in the jaw—SMACK!— ands she were out again. His anger were plain on his face. “These crackers never learn, doos they? Kickin’ me, bitin’ me, callin’ me a shit!” He was haulin’ her up then, draggin’ her by the hair ta the front’a the ’Mino. “Dicky! Git the copin’ saw!” he ordered.

  Dicky’s shoulders slumped. Here we’se go again. Dicky could scarsely even contermplate what manner’a industrious dispatch Balls had on his mind. But then, comin’ ’round the front, he saw that Balls had the gal lyin’ onner back, on the hood. “What’cha fixin’ ta do, Balls?” he queried.

  “Gonna hump me her neck’s what I’se fixin’!” He snatched the coping saw from Dicky. “Hail! Bitin’ me, spittin’ on me! I’ll’se teach this cracker cunt a thing’r two! I’se gonna fuck her neck, I’se say!”

  Dicky raised a brow in puzzlement. “Fuck her neck, Balls? That what you said?” Dicky, a’corse, knowed full well that Tritt Balls Conner were capable’a great feats’ a madge-er-nay-shun, ’specially when he got his dander up. But— Fuck her neck? Dicky wondered. How’s he fixin’ ta do that?

  Then came the gritty, coarse sound’a Balls gittin’ ta work with the saw. It were an ugly sound indeed, causin’ Dicky ta grind his teeth. See, Balls took a might quick ta sawwin’ that gal’s head off just at the jawline, right above her aderms apple, an’ his shitty dick were still hard’n stickin’ out his pants as he were doin’ it.

  Didn’t take long neither, not fer that coping saw ta do the job. The gal’s head fell right to the dirt, whiles her body remaindered lyin’ on her hood’a ’Mino, blood fairly pourin’ out her neck. Then Balls stepped right up, poppin’ his peter right inta the stump on her purdy shoulders. “See, Dicky, I’se gonna have me a come right down her hatch inta her breadbasket.”

  “Jeeeeesus,” Dicky remarked. Even he was a tad appalled. “Yous shore are one sick pup, Balls.”

  “Dag straight, Dicky.” Balls was holdin’ the dead gal’s hooters whiles he continnered steadily humpin’. “Feels good, it does, Dicky. Feels reals good ta fuck this white-trash cracker neck. Kin even feel her tonsils!”

  It were the strangest thing Dicky ever sawwed, a fella fuckin’ a gal’s neck. Leave it ta Balls, he thought. Only Tritt Balls Conner coulds ever thinkn’a such a thing.

  “Ah, yeah, git it!” Balls reveled, quickenin’ up his thrusts. “Git it, git it—ahhhhhhhhh!” Balls hips slowed, then stopped, his back arched as he were smilin’ up ta the night sky. “Yes sir, that were one dandy nut I just had. Shot me a big wad’a the cocksnot in her, I did!”

  Dicky just shook his head, cracked open another beer. “You shore showed her, Balls,” he tried approve.

  “Dag right, an’ I’ll’se show her some more…”

  Dicky’s face, then, pinched up in more confusion. Balls, see, even though he’d just had his nut, he weren’t quite finished. He pulled his peter out and leaned over, pickin’ up the gal’s severed head. The gal’s face had turnt a kinda queer white color, her peepers closed and her mouth’n tongue hangin’ out. Balls hocked on his bone, strokin’ it a bit ta git back a woody.

  “Balls? What’choo doin’ now?”

  What Balls done, see, is he stick his dick in the sawwed side’a the gal’s head so’s the end’a his peter were stickin’ out he mouth! Ands then—

  “Ahhhhhhhhh!” Balls moaned.

  —he began voidin’ his bladder.

  “I’se havin’ a pee, Dicky,” he finally got ta responderin’ ta his colleague’s query. “Been havin’ ta take me a whizz fer a spell now, so’s I figgure I mights as well take like this. Ahhhhhhhh, yeah! What’ch think, Dicky? Think I’se the first fella in histree ta take a pee outa gal’s mouth?”

  “I-I suppose ya shorely are, Balls.”

  Yeah, Tritt Balls Conner shore were somethin’ doin’ such a thing. Oh, well, Dicky thought. Least it gots his mind offa that blonde’n the priest.

  Balls’ beer’n-moonshine urine were just a’gushin’ out the gal’s mouth, an’ Balls were hard enough that he didn’t even need ta hold it there. Instead’ he were just standin’ with his hands on his hips, peein’ away out her yap ands laughin’ ta high heaven. Looked so weird, it did, not just the end’a his peter stickin’ out ’tween the gal’s lips, but her head— Looked like her head were growin’ out’a Tritt Balls Conner’s groin, it did! An’ he weren’t joshin’ when he said he had ta pee bad. Musta stood there five full minutes pissin’ out this gal’s mouth, he musta. ’Ventually, though, he finished, then offered the head. “Feel like takin’ a pee, Dicky?”

  “Ah, gee, no thanks, Balls.”

  “Toos bad. I say that’s the best pee I ever had!” Balls kicked the head inta the woods, then rolled the dead chick off the hood and made fer the ’Mino. “Let’s roll!”

  “Shore, Balls.”

  Dicky drove over the headless gal’s corpse whens he backed up’n pulled out the dell. He could hear her bones poppin’ under the ’Mino’s big L50 tires. A minute later, he were back cruisin’ down the Route, headin’ home. “Gittin’ late, ain’t it, Balls? An’ we’se shore had outselfs a big day, takin’ that big run’a hooch ’cross the line. Good time ta git home’n git some sleep, huh?”

  “Bad time, Dicky,” Balls countered. “It ain’t late—shee-it, it’s only past ten. We’se still got plenty’a time fer some fun.”

  “Aw, come on, Balls. We done enough fer tonight—”

  “Who you kiddin’, Dicky?” Balls were chucklin’. “You thinks that ’cos I just had me a nut down that cracker whore’s neck’n then peed out her mouth that I done fergot alls about that holy man and that blond city bitch stayin’ up the boardin’ house. Well, I ain’t. Ands that’s where we’se goin’ now, Dicky.”

  “Aw, come on, Balls!”

  Tritt Balls’ face shined that bad-news-grin’a his in the moonlight. “Just shut up an’ drive, Dicky. You drive this rod straight ta that fuckin’ boardin’ house…”

  (VII)

  Charity’s heart felt like a squirming bag fit to explode. She whisked Annie up the stairs just as footfalls akin to cinderblocks pounded through the foyer. It’s him, Charity remembered her aunt’s half-conscious words. It’s The Bighead…

  But how could that be? Even if The Bighead were more than a local legend—an inbred born into monstrosity, a monster-child—Charity had just seen its grave…

  So what was this mammoth thing suddenly walking through the house?

  “Up, up!” came Charity’s blade-sharp whisper. “Come on, Aunt Annie, up the stairs and down the hall!”
<
br />   They were halfway down the second-floor corridor, in fact, when Charity heard:

  THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

  Something—huge—coming up the stairs.

  She ducked into the first available room, dragging her lethargic aunt. She took a breath, clicked shut the door as quietly as she could. But she could still hear it:

  THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

  The footsteps getting closer.

  “Shhhhh!” Charity whispered, a finger to her lips. “Don’t say a word, don’t even make a noise…”

  “It’s him,” her aunt groggily replied.

  THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

  Now the footsteps were coming down the hall. He knows we’re in here, Charity deduced. Now she could smell something absolutely awful, like pork fat rotting in the bottom of a garbage can. The thunderous footfalls continued down, then stopped.

  Right outside the door.

  A quick glance showed her that this must be Goop’s room: overalls lain over a chair, work clothes piled on the floor, etc. But none of that mattered at all. Charity’s eyes bugged at the doorknob.

  The doorknob was turning.

  She pulled her aunt into the closet, closed the door, then nearly fainted in the realization of what she had done. I’ve trapped us both in here. There’s no way out.

  Then she heard the bedroom door squeal open, and then—

  THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

  The thing—whatever it was—was in the room now, looking for them.

  Charity, with her arm around her aunt’s bosom, stepped back in the closet’s darkness. There was nowhere to go now, no escape—

  What?

  Behind her, now, she noticed—