Flyblown and Blood-Spattered

by Jarred Martin

  I awoke to the smell of smoke. I immediate rushed to Jeffery’s room and found it completely engulfed in flames. It was so loud, the sound of fire. The sound it made devouring the house. I tried to check my parents' room, too, but the smoke was so thick I barely made it out of the house. I stumbled out the door, gasping for breath and collapsed on the lawn. I was devastated. In just a few moments I had lost nearly my entire family. And then I saw him. Jeffrey. He was sitting in the back of our car, strapped in his car seat, just watching the house burn. I ran to him and I held him. And all he said was, 'Mommy, I don't like it here, it's too hot. can we go now?'

  “Oh my, that is an absolutely dreadful story.” Said Mr Satyr, shaking his head.

  Joyce pulled a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eye. “Well it's all in the the past now. And I don't want you to get the wrong impression of Jeffrey. He's been as difficult as any child, but I've never considered him to be deliberately malevolent”

  “Of course not.” Satyr couldn’t help but notice the way she wouldn't allow her eyes to meet his when she said that last part. “You say it's in the past but I don't see how something like that could ever move too far away from you. It seems like it would linger like a fog always around you.”

  “But he's my son,” said Joyce. "He was just a little boy; it was an accident."

  "You misunderstand me," Said Mr. Satyr. "I didn't mean to accuse the boy. I was only empathizing. Perhaps you'd better tell me a little more about the item you desire before I bludgeon you any more with my clumsy sensitivity."

  "It was big," Said Joyce, "and it was stained very dark. I think the wood was oak but I'm not sure."

  Mr. Satyr paused for a moment in thought and then snapped his fingers,“I think I have just the thing you're looking for, come with me," he said, leading her to the rear of the shop.

  Halfway back she passed Jeffrey pulling the heads off a display of ornate wooden dolls. She grabbed him by the wrist and whispered at him to come with her and stay put.

  Satyr led her to a massive timepiece over six feet high. “This is a lovely piece from Freiburg. It is over two-hundred years old.”

  “Wow, that's a giant clock," said Jeffrey.

  “It looks just like the one Grandma and Grandpa had. Do you remember?” Joyce asked.

  Jeffrey didn't reply.

  Satyr turned to Joyce, “Aren't clocks wondrous things? Just imagine this one, ticking away the hours and minutes for centuries. Every stroke of the hands marking another moment in time. I sometimes wonder if, somewhere, there are clocks that run backwards. And every time the hands move it gives us another second, another minute, another hour, a day... to go back and do over again.”

  Joyce stared longingly into the face of the clock. She never noticed that Mr Satyr was looking directly at Jeffrey while he made his little speech. He extended one finger, the bulbous knuckle knotted like pine, and moved it back and forth. Tick, Tock, Jeffrey.

  “I could sell you a clock like that, I think, if that is what you wanted.” He pulled his lips back over his shark's teeth again.

  Joyce stood mesmerized by the clock, and in a dreamy voice, as if from far away, she said, “Yes, I think I might like a clock like that...”

  And before Mr Satyr could answer, Jeffrey interjected. “Mo-o-om, I don't like this store! Everything is old and it smells like dookie! I want to go to the game store!”

  Satyr knelt down in front of Jeffrey. “Do you like Games, Jeffrey? I like to play games too. In fact, I'm playing one right now with your mother, and she doesn't know it, but you're part of the game as well. Isn't that exciting? I've been playing games longer than I care to remember, or you would care to believe.” And for a small instant, Mr Satyr looked very old indeed.

  Jeffrey looked up at Mr Satyr, “Do you have Slaughterville 6? You know, the one where you can blow people's heads off, and run them over with trucks n stuff?”

  Mr Satyr shook his head, 'I'm afraid we don't have that game, but if you'll take a look here.” He pointed to the back wall of the shop, and as he did, Jeffrey saw a square of filthy wallpaper drift off the wall and curl onto the floor. In its place was a little child-sized door. “Now, little Jeffrey, if you'll just step through that door, I think you'll find exactly what you need.”

  Jeffrey reached out to take the knob, “What's back there?”

  “Oh, lots of things. Among others there are little boys just like you, bad boys, but they play lots and lots of games. So many games, Jeffrey, and they never get tired. They'll play with you for a long time.”

  Jeffrey looked back at his mother. She was still staring into the face of the big clock; watching the stopped hands, waiting to see if they would tick backwards.

  Jeffrey opened the door and hesitated. He couldn't see anything inside. There was a faint flicker of red light that danced along the walls, and, if he listened closely, he thought he could hear voices, far off, the voices of children.

  “Go on now, don't be shy,” Mr satyr urged.

  A faint scent of sulfur wafted from behind the open door. “It smells in there.”

  “You'll get used to it. Everyone's waiting for you, off you go.”

  Jeffrey stepped through the threshold and as the door closed behind him he couldn't help but notice how those far away voices sounded a lot more like screams.

  As soon as the door slammed shut, Joyce snapped out of her daze to find Mr Satyr waiting on her, rubbing one hand over his rheumy knuckles. He stood patiently, like he could wait forever.

  Joyce flushed. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  “That's quite all right. I myself have lost untold hours pondering over these many curios. Do you remember what we were discussing?”

  Joyce looked at her reflection in the clock face. “You were going to sell me this clock.”

  Mr Satyr gave a short laugh, more like a bark. “I don't think I will be able to sell you that clock after all. You see, I only sell people what they need. That clock is for people who need time, and I think you have plenty of time. Actually, more time than you'll probably want”

  “But I need it.” Joyce was barely able to contain the disappointment in her voice. “I could go back. Back before...” She trailed off.

  Mr Satyr gave another shrill bark of laughter and smiled. In the dying afternoon light his smile grew uglier. The teeth looked darker... longer, like crooked little fangs. Joyce noticed how the fading sunlight cast long shadows over the myriad items in the shop. How long have I been here? She wondered.

  “No.” A pensive look came to Mr satyr's face, “No, it was a mistake to suggest the clock to you, my apologies.” Mr Satyr didn't look sorry at all. He looked almost thrilled to entice her with her heart's desire only to yank it away again as if it were a piece of string dangled in front of a cat.“I do, however, have something that should interest you quite a lot.”

  Joyce took one last look at the clock. “You have something else for me? What is it?”

  “This,” Mr Satyr made a grand sweeping gesture with his arm in the direction of the east wall.

  It was filled with dozens of framed canvasses. “Aren't they all just lovely? I have oils, and watercolors, landscapes, and still lifes. All were painted by masters, some known, but most quite obscure.”

  “I don't really know anything about art.” Joyce said, eying the different sized rectangles, the splashes of color.

  “What's to know? Just find one that calls to you. There is a portrait here that I think might be just the thing you're looking for.” He pointed to a massive oil canvas the size of a door, hanging off to the side.

  The sight of it made Joyce sick. It depicted a young boy; maybe five years old, his face turned upward beneath a darkening sky, his mouth contorted into a sinister shape as he cackled at the gathering blackness. She could hear echos of that horrible laugh in every brush stroke. The boy held his hands up to her proudly. They were covered in blood, thick crimson smears that dripped from his fingers to the bottom of the painting. And ju
st beneath him, almost incomprehensible, something smaller than himself, a dark shape, blotches of obsidian and dark blue, punctuated by drips of deep crimson. It was unmistakable, his victim. Only victim wasn't the right word. Sacrifice. She knew that was the boy's word for it. His sacrifice.

  Joyce closed her eyes.

  “Look.” Mr Satyr said.

  “I can't. It's too horrible.” Joyce Moaned

  “Look.” He Repeated

  As she opened her eyes she saw the painting change. The clouds grew blacker, into one dark shade like night and the boy’s face changed. It aged. As it aged, the blood grew heavier, it didn't drip now, it flowed from his hands, and all around him his victims (sacrifices) multiplied. They were no longer just indecipherable lumps of blue, black, and red. They had faces and they screamed, they howled in agony, they cried out. And still the blood flowed from his hands. It pooled and gathered at the bottom of the frame until it spilled over and dripped down the wall in long, ugly streaks.

  “Enough,” Mr Satyr called out, and the boy in the picture didn't age. It didn't drip blood while bodies piled up. It was just an ugly picture of a boy laughing beneath a dark sky. “Is this what you want? I could wrap it up for you,” asked Mr. Satyr.

  “No,” Joyce whispered. “It's horrible. The boy looks just like... Where is Jeffrey?”

  “You don't have to worry about Jeffrey anymore. He's where he belongs now. He's part of my collection.”

  “Your collection? I don't understand.”

  “I think you understand well enough. I collect a little more than antiques, you realize that much at least.”

  “I'm done playing this game. I want my son and I want to leave.”

  “Well, at least you're right about the first part. We are very nearly done with our little game.”

  “I this a joke? I don't appreciate it one bit. What kind of monster would take away a woman's son?”

  “I'm a monster? It seems I've done you a great favor.”

  “He was a good boy.” A serpent’s tooth . “He was my son.”

  “No. He wasn't. He was something sharper. Something you loved. Something you watched turn a little darker every day. Something that scared you. A boy that you loved a little less as he grew; as you found out what he really was. And that scared you; turning into a mother that hates her own child. So you ignored it. And now you find yourself here, unable to say it, but I will. I gave you what you want.”

  “You haven't given me anything. All you've done is taken away my child.” Joyce said. She began to cry.

  Mr. Satyr sighed, “I suppose you're right. I have one more item to show you.”

  Joyce wiped her eyes, "I don't want to see anything else in here.”

  “I think you'll want to see this. Don't be so hasty to leave. Let me pour you a cup of tea.” And Mr. Satyr vanished behind the counter. Joyce heard the tinkling of porcelain and Mr satyr appeared again with a saucer and cup. He pressed it into Joyce's hands in a way that suggested if she didn't take it he would let it fall to the floor.”

  She found herself standing before the paintings once more, staring at one of a dying man in a hospital bed. The hospital room was being devoured by shadows. The man held a grim look of determination on his face as he brandished a lantern to combat the growing darkness. And it seemed to be working. Bright shafts of light penetrated the swarm of inky blackness.

  “That one is called hope,” Said Mr. Satyr, standing behind her. Every item in my shop is for a specific person,” he explained. “And as long as they are willing to pay, I am willing to sell them what they need.” He pointed to another portrait. “This is for you.”

  It was smaller than the other one. It hung at eye-level. The painting was of a new mother holding her baby, wrapped in swaddling, only its peaceful, pink face could be seen, emerging from the folds of blanket. The mother looked down upon the child with a serene joy of contentment. She radiated it. She had exactly what she wanted: A baby she could love.

  “What do you think?” Asked Mr. Satyr, the shark's grin split the bottom of his face.

  Joyce's eyes welled with tears. “It's beautiful. But it's also terrible.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Satyr, “It is all those things. But is it what you want?”

  Joyce looked at Mr. Satyr's grinning face, looked back at the painting. She spoke one word. In a thin voice, barely a whisper, one word that would haunt her whenever she would see her child's smiling face. “Yes.”

  “Then you shall have it,” said Mr Satyr.

  “What is your price?”

  “You've already paid. You need only drink your tea and our business is finished.”

  Joyce raised the steaming cup to her face with shaking hands, but Mr. satyr put his own twisted manacle on top of hers.

  “One last thing,” he told her. “Only a small thing.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out something tiny, and hard, like a stone. Do you know what this is?”

  Joyce shook her head.

  “It's a seed. And what do seeds do?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “They grow, dear child, they grow.” He smiled and held the seed over her cup before dropping it in. As soon as it fell into the cup the tea started to roil and smoke in her hands. His ancient gaze met her red, blurry stare. “Be careful when you drink it. It's-”

  “Sharp.” Joyce finished his thought. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”

  Mr. Satyr laughed. “Very good, you're beginning to catch on.”

  Joyce pulled the teacup to her lips and drank. The hot liquid filled her mouth and she swallowed. It had a dark, earthy taste that wasn't entirely unpleasant. She looked over the rim of the cup as Mr. Satyr mimed drinking a teacup of his own; ring finger and thumb together in a circle, his pinky extended, the yellow nail like a claw. Drink it up, every last drop. As she drank she began to feel woozy. She felt the stone sliding across the porcelain and into her mouth. She swallowed.

  And for just a brief instance, like a flash of lightning, or the flicker of a television with bad reception, she saw the shop clearly. She found herself in a grimy place, the windows were coated with a thick layer of scum that allowed very little light to penetrate it. Some shelves were piled high with jumbles of broken junk covered with dust. And still other shelves were littered with human bones, some stripped clean and bleached, mixed with others with flesh, some rotting, and some so fresh they still dripped blood. All the shelves were crusted with viscous layers of a rust-like build-up of vermillion dried blood and dirt mixed together. The stench was foul and it built to an overwhelming crescendo of miasma. And all around her the walls were a pale pink flesh that dripped translucent slime, like a giant mouth from the inside. But most horrible was the reflection she saw in the brackish sludge that remained in her cup. The reflection that stared back was a grim shade of her own, except twisted and emaciated; the skin hung from her harrowed, haggard face and looked back at her with eyeless sockets, smiling with rotted teeth.

  And just like that she was standing in an ordinary antique shop again, holding an empty cup while motes of dust swirled in the last light of the afternoon. She looked around to find Mr. Satyr standing behind his counter. He was waiting for her with her painting all wrapped up in brown paper.

  He showed her those sharp, jagged teeth, yellow and piled together in his mouth one last time. “I'm so glad I could help you find what you wanted.”

  She took one quick glance at the rear of the shop as she backed out the door, looking for that empty patch of wallpaper, a little door. Of course it wasn't there.

  She burned his things. All of them. They crackled and smoked in a huge pile in her backyard and she stood close so the blaze would dry the tears on her face. She hung the portrait on the freshly painted walls of the empty room. She would stare at it for hours, listening to the creek of her rocking chair, her hands folded over the burgeoning swell of her belly.

  It was disturbing how little she thought of him in the following mont
hs. And no one ever asked about him; probably the way no one ever asks why they don't have a toothache, or wonders what happens to cancer when it goes into remission. But when she finally started to show, she didn't get quite so many congratulations from her coworkers and acquaintances. Her Friends didn't throw her a shower. Calls from her family stopped happening so frequently, and eventually they stopped coming by all together. But none of that mattered because soon she would have a perfect little baby to love.

  And she did. She gave birth to a little girl. She was a completely normal child. And as she grew, Dana didn't have to worry about keeping all the sharp objects in a drawer that locked; she didn't worry that if she bought her a dog, she would find it dying a slow, agonizing death after it had been fed cleaning products or nails wrapped in lunch meat. She didn’t have to worry about keeping her out of school, away from other children, because she finally had a good girl: a happy smiling child.

  A happy smiling child.

  A happy smiling child.

  Her teeth were beginning to come in. Long and crooked. Little yellow slivers that overlapped like a copse of diseased saplings.

  IT CAME FROM PEACH ISLAND

  Daniel knew they must be getting close. He could smell the salt in the air, and if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he though he could even hear the ocean. He had never seen the ocean, or heard it for that matter, but to a small boy, the very idea of the sea held him captive in endless fascination. He struggled against his seat belt in the back of the tortuously hot family station wagon, for that defining glimpse of cerulean blue. His only view was of his brother's hand pushing his face away from the window.

  “Dad, Cameron won't let me see out the window!” He whined from the back seat.

  “There's nothing to see anyway, just a bunch of dirt and rocks.” His brother, Cameron Said. Cameron was three years older, a bully to his brother, it was an instinct that came to him naturally.

  Daniel had been wedged between his older brother and his little sister, he called her Sissy, for the past six hours on the drive from Pennsylvania to Ellison Beach, where his family had rented a small bungalow for the week. It had been his father's idea, which he referred to as a “family tradition” not necessarily a tradition for their family, but a tradition of families, that they should take part it. Anyone not in the boiling-hot car might have been amused to see how quickly Daniel's father's ideals of familial pursuit eroded when they were forced to share the same confined space for hours at a time.