by Joslyn Chase
“Arthur,” she moaned, snatching at her husband’s nightclothes. “Arthur! Someone’s broken a window in the house.”
Arthur stirred and, sensing her fear, heaved himself from the bed. He crept to the bedroom door, grabbing a long-handled wooden backscratcher which he clutched, two-handed, over his shoulder like Casey at the bat. He stood at the threshold, peering out and breathing heavily. After a moment of silence, he came back to the bed and whispered, “Which direction? The living room?”
Irene, wide-eyed, shook her head and jabbed a finger at the ceiling. Arthur grunted and tossed his flimsy weapon onto the bed. “Not likely a burglar or rapist would break in up there. Probably the wind or a bird. I’ll check it in the morning.”
“But Arthur, what if—“
“The morning, I said.” He glanced at the book on the bedsheets, taking in the fantastical cover, and gave a snort. “Stop reading that nonsense and go to sleep. You probably just imagined it.”
He climbed back under the covers and wriggled down, huffing. After a moment, Irene switched off the lamp and lay staring into the inky expanse, straining her ears until sleep brushed her eyelids and she fell into darkness.
~~~~
It was late afternoon before Arthur drew back the bolt on the attic door and strode into the grimy space. Irene floated on a wave of uneasiness behind him. Man and wife stared down at the jumbled mass beneath the shattered window.
“A bat,” Arthur announced.
“I’ve never seen any bat that looked like that.” Irene countered.
“And how many bats have you seen, Madam Zoologist?”
Irene gave an irritated cluck. “But, Arthur, it’s huge! And bats have ears, don’t they? Not…feelers.”
“I reckon those are specialized ears. And the size is incredible. It’s no ordinary bat, that’s for certain.” Arthur stooped down and began to lift a wing with two pincered fingers.
“Don’t touch it!” Irene shrieked. “Oh, Arthur, don’t touch it. Get a trash bag and a broom.”
“Not sure it would fit in a trash bag. Maybe we should call the University and they—“
“Now, Arthur. This instant. Get it out now!”
Irene’s voice had risen to the pitch of a taut string. In grim silence they swept and prodded the dead thing into a large yard bag and Arthur trundled it, thumping down the stairs and out to the curb. He returned to the attic to patch the window and found Irene rummaging through a cardboard carton of children’s toys.
“We should have a yard sale and get rid of this junk,” she said, throwing out an arm to include the array of discarded items. “Aren’t these Beanie Babies? They’re vintage. Might be valuable.”
Arthur scooped up a bean bag lion and scrutinized the fabric and stitching with his superior eyesight. “Nah, these are homemade knock-offs, go for a quarter each. A dollar if we’re lucky.”
“Well, this stuff is no use to anyone up here. Plan on Saturday, if it doesn’t rain. I’ll print up some posters and we’ll make hot cocoa. It’ll be fun.”
“I can’t wait,” said Arthur.
Irene closed up the box and they went down to supper. Under the carton’s cardboard flaps, lolled a collection of homemade animals stuffed with dried beans and inside the toys, larvae like black maggots fed upon the beans with tiny needle-like fangs, and slept.
~~~~
The weather was clear and cold, the chocolate hot and creamy, and at the end of the day, Irene and Arthur counted one hundred sixty-seven dollars and eighty-five cents.
“Not bad for a roomful of junk, eh?” Arthur chortled.
“True enough,” agreed Irene, “but you were right about the bean bag toys. A dollar each was all we got.”
Around the corner, at 411 Cedar Circle, Emily Robbins snuggled into bed. The plush pink pig Daddy had gotten for her lay soft against her cheek. All around the neighborhood, children were tucked in for the night, nestling their new toys. Bedtime stories were read, kisses dispensed. Lights were turned out and doors left open, just a crack.
And inside six bean bag babies, miniscule grubs sensed new warmth and awoke.
~~~~
Dear Parents,
The faculty and staff of Pine Hollow Elementary share your concern for the welfare of your children. For this reason, we are sending this information bulletin home with your student. While we feel there is no cause for alarm, you should be aware that there has been a rash of spider bites among our students. Be assured that the bites do NOT appear to be from venomous spiders and no ill effects have been observed beyond the itching and redness ordinarily associated with insect bites.
However, the school will be closed this Friday for complete fumigation, as a preventative measure. We recommend you inspect your housing and take whatever actions you deem necessary. At Pine Hollow, we want the very best for our children.
Sincerely,
Cordelia Gerhardt, Principal
~~~~
Mark Peebles closed his eyes and put his foot on the can. The small park at the corner of Juniper and Ponderosa was growing dark and he wanted his turn. He began counting out loud, peeking through one slit eyelid to follow Brian Turley’s movements. He made it as far as twenty-one when Jamie’s mother whistled dinnertime and kids began drifting homeward.
“Ahh,” Mark whined. “Why does this always happen on my turn?”
“Last time it was Sarah’s turn,” Adam remarked, flipping to the relevant page in his notebook and adding Mark’s name to the current record.
“Why is everything a science with you?” Mark asked.
Adam shrugged. “It just is. You can learn a lot from patterns and if you don’t keep records, you’re probably missing the pattern. Look at this graph for Kick The Can. See how the counter line correlates with the—“
“Are you serious?” Mark guffawed. “Geez. Where’s Donnie?”
“He’s probably still hiding. He’s a bit slow catching on.”
“Hey,” Mark growled, brandishing a fist. The three boys remaining in the park began calling for Mark’s little brother, peering behind bush and bench. Streetlights winked on with a nebulous glow which gradually strengthened to a sentinel blaze, and still no Donnie.
“Maybe he went home already,” Adam ventured. “I should scoot, too.”
“No, man, help me out. I’ve got to find my brother or my mom will chap my hide.”
From the far side of the park, Brian Turley’s voice wavered on a note of alarm. “Hey, guys, he’s over here!”
Mark and Adam hurried down the pathway and across the stiffening grass. Brian stood over a shadowed mound of withered leaves, a double handful clutched in his gloved fingers.
“I heard some noises. Coming from under there.” He gestured to the leaf pile. The lamp light painted shadows under the curl of his lip, giving him a fiendish-looking goatee. “He was eating them. The leaves—he was stuffing them in and chewing them up. Like a machine.”
The boys gawked at Donnie and he stared back, dark smears of earth across his mouth. For a long moment there was silence. Then Donnie chewed down twice and his neck convulsed in a long, noisy swallow.
Adam got out his notebook.
~~~~
“Oh, sure, it happens. I’ve heard of pregnant women drinking laundry starch right out of the bottle. But kids get pica, too. Eat the most revolting things…you wouldn’t believe.”
Margaret Turley was a pediatrician. She didn’t mind that these early morning walking sessions often became informal consultations. In fact, she felt slighted if a day or two went by without her friends seeking her opinion and she gave it freely.
Mrs. Robbins held up a hand, reserving herself a spot in the conversation. As soon as she could muster the breath for it, she piped out, “I got one for you. I found Emily sitting on the kitchen floor last night eating beans right out of the garbage can. I’d cleaned out the refrigerator and dumped a container of left-over chili. The girl suddenly cannot get enough beans. She’s eaten every can out of the pantry.
What’s that, do you suppose? Some kind of protein deficiency?”
Before Dr. Turley could respond, Celia Sherwood squealed, “Have mercy! It’s the same with Joey. Beans, beans, day and night. You can’t imagine what his room smells like!“
Joyce Smithers pitched her voice over the hoots and groans. “My Becky fell out of bed last night and just laid there like a slug until I pulled her off the floor this morning. Like a handful of cooked spaghetti, she was. I don’t know how I got her off to school this morning. Oh dear. Maybe I should have kept her home?” She looked to Margaret, whose mouth opened, but the gasping cry which rang forth came not from the pediatrician, but from Susan Carson. She had fallen a few steps behind and stood, hunched and sobbing, in the middle of Evergreen Lane.
“Susan, what is it? Are you hurt?”
“It’s James,” she shrieked. “He can’t see. I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m so terrified. Sam’s taken him to a specialist in Denver, but his eyes have gone all filmy. He’s blind as a bat.”
~~~~
The grade school grapevine kept step with the ladies’ walking group, and by lunchtime Adam had entered several items of anecdotal evidence into his notebook. He hurried home after school, skipped his snack, and went straight to the garage, carrying his microscope. From under the tool bench, he retrieved the large waste bag, sealed with a twist tie. He’d seen old Mr. Benjamin drag it to the curb and noticed that the attic window was broken. Taken together with the sounds he’d heard outside his window the night before, he’d formed a hypothesis regarding the contents of the bag which he’d examined carefully.
He arranged the corpse on the cement floor and beside it he stretched the odd husk-like thing he’d found in Pine Hollow forest. He took samples from each and scrutinized them under the microscope, noting several similarities. He concluded that the husk was a sort of cocoon from which the creature had emerged. He was no lepidopterist, but he judged that the creature was some kind of undocumented bat-like moth of unheard proportions.
His excitement grew as he pondered over what to name the unknown specimen, for surely that would be his privilege. He’d have to consider the genus and the species and for that, he’d need a little help. He thought about arranging a meeting with Dr. Blanding, but he remembered the awful things he’d heard about his classmates and was filled with sudden misgivings.
He wanted to ignore the anecdotal evidence. It could be unrelated, it could mean nothing, but he couldn’t keep his scientific mind from analyzing patterns of behavior and extrapolating the data. He arrived at a horrifying conclusion and decided more observation was in order.
That night, after moonrise, Adam crept from his bed and reconnoitered the neighborhood. He found six slime trails, glistening in the moonlight, tracing lines from six snug houses into the Pine Hollow woods. He crouched beneath the hedge in front of Mark and Donnie’s house, shivering in the night breeze that pricked the hairs on his scalp and put a sting into the single tear that shimmered on his right cheek.
It was too late for his friends.
Adam struggled with his conscience. He’d made a momentous discovery, and six live specimens, in addition to the corpse and shrouded cocoon, would bring him fame and enough fortune to buy a hundred cameras. He thought of the labs and the testing—biopsies, dissection, injections, and a myriad of privations—and swallowed the wave of nausea which pushed up from his stomach.
He was too late to save his friends, but there was one mercy he could still extend them. It was clear what he must do.
Swallowing his dread, he ran to the garage, stuffed his pockets full of baggies, and grabbed a shovel. He’d sharpened the blade to a wicked edge and he tested it carefully with his finger. It would do.
He made a date and time entry in his notebook and headed into the woods.
NOTES
You guessed it, another magazine prompt. This time, I was writing for the Toasted Cheese Literary Journal’s Dead of Winter contest, which is always horror-themed. The prompt was:
Toys in the attic.
Lots of creepy things came to mind. I revisited the brainstorming notes I made before I wrote the story. Here are some of the ideas I noted down:
Parasites inside dolls in a department store attic, waiting their chance to attach to an innocent human host.
Enormous warehouse-like attic in a museum where bacteria from mummy remains infect toys which will soon go on display.
Dying flying creature crash lands in attic, sends forth spores which infect toys and, subsequently, children, causing them to do odd and disturbing things and eventually sending them into hiding to spin their sac and transform into adult monsters.
Basically, toys in the attic is a really evil idea. In writing the story, I aimed to infuse some humor and humanity into a horrific and chilling tale. I ended up rather liking my character, Adam Stirling. I may use him again someday.
Rachmaninoff’s Peasant
____________
So much talent. So much drive.
So much competition.
It’s a high-stakes world, and Georgia’s playing
for keeps. Not even the death of her
best mentor will slow her down.
Music school can be a cutthroat enterprise.
The first scream rose and lingered on a high G sharp before gliding down the chromatic scale to land and sputter out an octave lower. Georgia didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a quarter of a beat. Scales flowed beneath her fingers with a ticking as regular as any Rolex. The gentle hiss of warm air from the vent made little headway in the frigid cube of a room, yet Georgia’s coat lay tossed aside, her cheeks rosy from the morning’s exercise.
A clatter of footsteps echoed in the cement stairwell. Shouts and more screams. Someone opened the door of her practice room, letting in the smell of coffee and panic. Georgia played on, ignoring the intrusion, heavy into Hanon now. The door slammed shut. Georgia’s fingers never faltered. Focus and discipline—this is how you win piano competitions. Eye on the prize.
The prize, in this case, was the Gold medal at the Gina Bachauer International Artists Piano Competition, a $30,000 purse, concert engagements, recording contracts. Here on a music scholarship, Georgia had applied four years of intense training and preparation to rising above and leaving behind. The small town mentality, the hillbilly accent, the lingering taste of cabbage and cornbread; she’d left all of it behind. All of it, except for Jake.
Finished with the technical exercises, Georgia began her Baroque study, a Bach Prelude and Fugue. She mentally threw Jake against the wall and concentrated on fingering an intricate trill, digging into the second hour of her morning practice.
Much later, as the final chords of Rachmaninoff soaked into the gray-padded walls, Georgia tossed her books into a satchel, shrugged into her coat, and stepped into the hallway.
Into chaos.
Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off Professor Renault’s office, one jagged end flapping in listless sympathy, stirred by heedless people rushing by. A girl in a purple poncho slumped against the wall, sobbing softly into a wadded Kleenex. A trio of chairs in the alcove was occupied by a man in uniform, filling out forms on a clipboard as he spoke with two male students.
A hand lightly gripped her shoulder and she turned to look into Matthew’s solemn face.
“What’s happened?” she asked. Matthew, with his job in Campus Security, would know something about it. Matthew, who’d pursued her with placid determination, would break the news gently, offer his support, finally get a toehold into her life.
“It’s Professor Renault, Georgia. He’s dead.” He led her to a chair, took her bag, patted her hand. “It looks like he’s been murdered.”
Bowing her head, she allowed it to wash over her, the realization that Stefan was dead. Her greatest mentor, her best connection in the music world, her most intuitive teacher. She gripped Matthew’s hand. He squeezed back.
“Georgia, the police will want to speak with you. Wait here a moment, wi
ll you?”
Answering their questions, her voice felt small and tinny, like sound forced through faulty speakers. They asked about her movements the night before. Had she noticed anything unusual or seen anyone who didn’t belong in the building? What was her relationship with the Professor? Georgia suffered their prodding; they were looking for Stefan’s killer.
When they finished with her, Matthew appeared again, leading her away, slightly awkward in his officialdom, like a toddler clunking around in daddy’s shoes. Georgia pressed her trembling lips tightly together, smothering a jumble of smiles and sobs, and went to breakfast at the student union.
The smell of overcooked omelets sent her stomach into a slow roll as she joined her friend, Ruthie, at a table by a window overlooking the quad. Georgia sliced a banana into cherry yogurt and took a bite. The tartness matched her mood and she shot a sour look at the trombone player who was propositioning Ruthie, describing in detail the feats he could perform with his tongue. He left with a wistful backward glance.
“Bummer about the Maestro,” Ruthie said through a bite of bagel. “Kind of exciting, though. A murder on campus.”
“Don’t forget, that leaves a murderer on campus, as well.”
“It could have been a crazed serial killer just passing through.”
Georgia licked her spoon, considering. “No, the killer is here. Someone from the campus.”
“Okay, Ellery Queen. Thanks for shattering my illusions of safety.”
“Ruthie, a man is dead. A man I cared for and who meant a great deal to my future.”
“I’m sorry. Were you and he…?”
“For pity’s sake, of course not, but he was my ticket into certain circles, and he was an excellent instructor. Nobody can take you through Chopin like he could. I’ll miss that.” The spoon slipped from Georgia’s fingers and dropped to the floor with a twang like a tuning fork. “I’ll miss him.”