They Feed

by Jason Parent

  The screech the creature emitted was loud enough to burst Mark’s eardrums. Still, he kept the flashlight pointed exactly where he needed it to be. If that leech thing even had the slightest opening, Mark knew he’d be a goner.

  The monster made its move. It spiraled down Luc toward the floor, thrashing and eating trenches into Luc’s body as it went, severing his right arm at the elbow. Blood sprayed in all directions. It hit Mark, covering him in dark-red blotches that reminded him of that asshole who made millions by throwing paint at a white canvas.

  At Luc’s feet, the giant leech detached all but a narrow coil that was wrapped around his ankle. Luc’s head snapped back like a Pez dispenser, the front half of his neck no longer where it was supposed to be. He fell atop himself, dead, nearly bringing Mark down with him.

  The creature exploded like a mushroom cloud underneath the sofa bed, dragging Luc with it. Luc’s body was far too big to fit under there. It jammed up at the thigh, but the thing tugging it just kept eating Luc shorter and shorter.

  Mark hopped over his friend’s remains and slid, he hoped, out of that big fucker’s reach. His light bounced around the camper as he moved. A small leech fell from the wall above the couch and slid under it to join in the feast. Two more scurried in from somewhere in the back of the camper, inches from where he had just been.

  Startled by their sudden movement, Mark scampered like a crab on palms and heels, never looking behind him to see where he was heading or what might be waiting. Fear of the three-footer made him keep his eyes on the sofa. He could hear the creatures feeding, slurping. By then, the things had crammed most of Luc beneath it with them.

  Mark’s back hit the dividing wall between the cab and living area. The leeches could be anywhere. Those bloodsuckers could climb. They could be close—on the walls nearby, on the ceiling above.

  The flashlight shook in Mark’s hands. He chewed the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. How could he take his eyes off that thing under the sofa? He knew it was watching him. It wanted him next.

  Desperate, Mark wished someone else would save him. He didn’t want to be in control anymore. He sure as hell didn’t feel in control anymore. Why couldn’t someone show up and help him?

  With quick jerks intended to catch any slinking slugs off guard, Mark danced his flashlight’s beam across every wall. The ceiling was harder. The image of those nasty bastards hanging above him, gurgling mud-thick drool, rusted what little remained of Mark’s steel.

  But he had to look. He took in a deep breath and glanced up.

  Nothing. Mark exhaled.

  A bang came at the door, then another. More came from the outside walls. Mark covered his head with his hands. The light! I have to keep the light on them.

  It sounded like some dickheads were throwing four-pound cow patties at the camper, something he might have done under different circumstances. Only these patties didn’t slide off the walls. They crawled and scratched, digging in with their poisonous spines.

  The vehicle rocked on its axles as the pounding grew harder, more frequent. Scratching and gurgling came from above, below, and everywhere in between.

  “Come out, Mark,” a voice said from outside the camper.

  Frosh? It couldn’t be him out there. The voice was an exact match. Well, not really. Frosh didn’t have a voice. Frosh was dead.

  Maybe that bitch hearing her dead husband’s voice wasn’t crazy after all. Or maybe I’m going crazy along with her.

  Come join our fraternity, a voice not his own beckoned from inside his mind.

  Mark pushed at his temples with the flats of his palms. “Get out of my head, you fucker. You’re not Frosh. I’m not stupid enough to fall for your tricks.”

  Join us, the voice that belonged to Frosh but was not Frosh commanded.

  “You let me die, Mark,” Bo’s voice sounded from outside the camper. “Why did you let us die, Mark? All for a piece of tail?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He had enough wits left to know the creature was either taunting him or trying to provoke him. The voices were not his frat mates. His college buddies were dead, every last one of them.

  Mark was not setting foot outside that trailer.

  Was she worth all this, Mark? The voice was Luc’s this time. Though it sounded like Bo’s, Luc’s voice always had a little more swagger to it, like he thought he was the shit even though he came second. Look at me, Mark.

  Mark looked.

  All except the top three-quarters of Luc’s head had been drawn beneath the sofa bed. His upper teeth had caught against the frame of the dual-purpose furniture. Mark could see their surrounding gum area and even some cheekbone, where that big fucker had stripped off Luc’s flesh. Luc’s head tilted onto the top of his scalp. His eyes rolled back slightly in their sockets. They were cold and glassy, like marbles, and stared right at Mark.

  Mark shined the flashlight on him, and Luc’s head disappeared forever beneath the sofa bed.

  “It’s all good here, Mark,” the Bo mimic said outside. “We live forever now. Join us.”

  Join us, Luc and Frosh’s voices said in unison. Scratching amplified around Mark, and the voices in his head ramped up with it. Together, they scratched away at Mark’s sanity.

  “Join us,” the Bo thing repeated.

  “Go fuck yourself!” Mark shouted.

  A loud crash shook the door in its frame. A second thud dented the metal as if it were tin foil. A third hit came and retreated with the door itself.

  “Fuck!” Mark scurried along the wall, away from the open doorway. His hand plopped into something wet, and he screamed. Shining the light on what he had touched, he saw an overturned beer can.

  Mark turned and pointed his flashlight outside. A shadowy mass, shaped like Bo but fluid, dragged what remained of the door away with what appeared to be a twelve-foot-long human arm. As the light fell upon the Bo-like figure, it dissolved into dozens of balloon-sized teardrops splashing onto the ground. The many puzzle pieces that had once fit together into a common form—a cohesive unit, a collective—scattered, shrinking away from the light.

  “I see you, Bo,” Mark called at the fleeing creatures. He laughed hysterically. “Now, where’s the pledge?”

  “Join us.” Frosh’s voice came from off to the right. Mark turned toward it just in time to see a twisting vine of worms emerging from a humanoid dark mass, growing like that famous beanstalk. It came toward him fast, but not fast enough. Mark’s laughter turned into frantic babbling as his light hit the tentacle-like formation, whose component parts burst off like corn kernels in a popper.

  He stood and stabbed his flashlight toward the sofa bed, a warning to what hid beneath that it best not come out, then approached the doorway, waving the flashlight as if he were staging a performance and each one of those slug fucks was its star. They scattered, their shrieks a symphony to Mark’s ears.

  “You can’t have me,” he yelled. “You hear me? You can’t have—”

  “Join us.” Luc’s voice came from above, cutting short Mark’s tirade.

  The light flickered and died. No. Not the fucking battery. Mark shook the flashlight and flicked the switch, but nothing happened. His arms and legs flailed as a slimy wet worm latched onto his face and lifted him into the air. Another leech tied itself around his left arm, a third around his right. The flashlight fell from Mark’s trembling hand.

  A leech slid into his throat, stifling his screams, but he screamed anew when it slid into his stomach. Join us, the voices—Luc, Bo, Frosh, and so many others—chanted loudly, tapping directly into his brain. The creatures hoisted him up onto the camper’s roof, where the real screaming began.

  Chapter 21

  His father’s voice had been constantly in his mind since he’d left the cellar. It asked him, then told him, then begged him to destroy that light. It kept poking and prodding at his psyche, making him squirm, making him want to scream so he could drown out good ol’ Dad if only for
a moment. If Charlie hadn’t destroyed the lantern, Tyler would have done it just to make his father shut up.

  Now he knew it wouldn’t have worked. Even after they had gotten what they wanted and everyone was scrambling into the night, they pressed Tyler for more assistance, pushed him toward breaking. Yet he defied them and ignored the debt he owed them, holding steady for Dakota’s sake and for Charlie’s.

  The leech creatures had come to collect, and they would take what they wanted, with him or from him. They had started with Charlie.

  Why? You didn’t have to take him. He was my friend.

  Tyler fought with the voices in his head—so many voices, yet they all sounded like his father: quiet and full of hate. Like Tyler.

  We’re your friends, Tyler. We saved you. We cared for you. We raised you. Remember.

  Tyler felt the weight of the gun in his hands. He hadn’t held a rifle since that day he shot Dakota’s brother. The feel of its smooth wooden stock, its cold metal barrel, reminded him of all the awful things he had done.

  He did remember. How could he ever forget? Even as Merwin drove them out of the park, still futilely believing they had a chance, Tyler’s mind was sucked back to a day long before he’d shot Stevie Coogan, back when he’d first learned to shoot.

  ***

  “That’s it,” his father whispered into his ear. Hot breath sizzled down the nape of Tyler’s neck. His father’s nose tickled his hair.

  Tyler shivered. He cringed every time Daddy got that close.

  “Release your breath before you shoot. Make sure your arm is calm and still… steady. Don’t you miss, now, boy.”

  Calm and still. The deer looked calm and still as it drank from the lake. The water was calm and still, too. Tyler couldn’t be that way, not when his father stood so close. He knew too well what would happen if he missed. Daddy wouldn’t like that. Daddy wouldn’t like that one bit.

  “Aim. Breathe. Shoot,” his father instructed.

  Tyler aimed as well as a frail eight-year-old could, holding a rifle that weighed half as much as he did and stretched twice as long as his arms. The deer came in and out of his sight as the barrel swayed up and down. He would have to time the shot with the sway, the rifle dancing to the rhythm of his heart.

  “Shoot the damn thing before it runs off,” Father whispered between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t wanna kill—”

  “You kill it, or I’m gonna kill you.”

  The tears forming in Tyler’s eyes made aiming that much harder. He didn’t want to hurt the deer. It hadn’t done anything to him, but he was terrified to face what would happen if he missed the shot, or worse, failed to shoot at all. He aimed. He breathed. He fired.

  He missed.

  The recoil jarred him in the shoulder. Tyler stumbled backward and tripped, falling on his buttocks. Oh no. His body trembled. Where the deer had been, only reeds and water remained. Oh, please, no.

  “You worthless, good-for-nothing little snot.” His father’s shadow loomed over him. Tyler began to snivel. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t face the man or the punishment he knew was coming. He raised his head just high enough to see his father’s belt buckle, a fat silver rectangular depiction of the Confederate flag. He had seen it many times before.

  Too many times.

  “I oughta beat you black and blue. That buck could have fed us for a week.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Tyler stumbled over the words. His lips were quivering. Tears ran down his cheeks. Why was he always screwing up? The broken bones were bad enough. The other stuff was worse.

  “Sorry don’t put no food on the table, shit for brains.” His father unbuckled his belt. “Now, how are you gonna make it right, boy?”

  Tyler scrambled backward, dragging the rifle with him. “No, Daddy. I’ll make it right, I promise. I’ll find a new deer.” He ejected the fired cartridge case like Daddy had taught him then closed the bolt to chamber the next bullet. “Next time, I’m gonna shoot it good, I swear.”

  “It’s too late for that, boy. There’s only one way to make it right now.” Tyler’s father pulled off his belt and folded it in his hand. He unbuttoned his jeans. Tyler began to sob.

  “No, Daddy. I don’t want to,” he said between sniffles. Snot trickled from his nose. The gun trembled in his hands.

  “You don’t get to tell me ‘no,’ boy.”

  Tyler scurried backward on hands and heels. “I won’t,” he shouted, nearly hysterical. “I-I wish you were dead!”

  “What did you say to me, boy?” His father whipped his belt buckle across Tyler’s jaw. Tyler rolled with the hit but immediately tasted blood.

  “I was just gonna make you use your mouth, but now you’ve gone and made me bloody it.” His father crouched and reached for him. Tyler retreated farther. A reed tickled his ear. His hands sank into mud and water.

  “Come here.”

  “No, Daddy. Please!” Tyler kicked at his hands, but his father grabbed him by the ankle.

  “You’re only making it worse for yourself, boy.”

  Tyler flopped onto his back as his father dragged him closer. He didn’t know how, but the rifle fired.

  His father’s eyes burst open. Tyler saw pain and confusion in them.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said, gaining his feet. “I… I… I didn’t mean to.”

  His father’s face looked strained, as if he were struggling for a bowel movement that wouldn’t come. His hands covered his stomach. Dark blood seeped through his fingers. He let go with his right hand and reached for Tyler. He staggered forward, lunged at Tyler, but fell into the shallows, and his son easily scooted out of the way.

  Tyler had seen Daddy floundering like that before, usually after he drank his special drink that Tyler was never allowed to have. His father was always at his worst then but also easiest to avoid. Except when Tyler was in bed, and his father stumbled like that into his room after Mommy started snoring. Sometimes, Tyler hid under the bed or in the closet, but Daddy always found him.

  Daddy stumbled past him this time, right into the water. He was hurt. Tyler knew he was going to be in so much trouble when his father got up. He cried and cried. He would have to do so much to make it right.

  His father’s face was underwater. He sputtered, his hand twitching erratically at the surface, splashing and sending ripples across the lake. He lurched out of the water, gasping and coughing, only to fall face-first back into it. His body shook as if he were being electrocuted. The spasms slowed, then stopped.

  “Daddy?” Tyler approached cautiously. “Daddy?” he called again, poking his father’s leg with the end of the barrel. He jumped back, expecting his father to spring on him, but the man stayed down.

  “Daddy? Are you dead?” Tyler knew it was a stupid question. Dead guys don’t talk, you dummy. How many times had he wished his father would die? He had never dared to say it aloud, fearing that no matter where his father was, he’d somehow hear the curse. Now, after it finally slipped from his mouth, his father lay facedown and motionless in the water. He wished he could take it back, fearing that his father would still find a way to punish him for what he’d said and done.

  The lake began to bubble as if God were blowing into it through a giant straw. The bubbling turned into boiling. Tyler took a few hesitant steps backward, his eyes transfixed on the air pockets popping on the surface. They were coming closer.

  The water darkened. It looked as if an oil leak had sprung somewhere in the lakebed. It made the air feel heavy, taste stale, and smell foul. Something evil was in that water. Something darker than oil, gushing like a geyser from some unseen chasm, tainted the water with its corruption. The pristine lake rotted before Tyler’s feet.

  His father began to move. At first, Tyler thought he was floating, but that didn’t make any sense, not in only a few inches of water. Then the body jerked forward, skimming across the water. His father looked as though he had fallen while waterskiing and refused to let go of the rope. Something w
as pulling him out deeper. When he reached the center of the lake, whatever had hold of him dragged him under.

  The water bubbled fiercely then, as if a school of piranhas had gone on a feeding frenzy.

  “Never hurt you… again… Tyler. No one… tell. No one… ever know.”

  Tyler gasped. His body tensed, locked in fear. He only managed to turn his head, looking everywhere for the speaker, the person who had witnessed his terrible crime. No one was there. The voice seemed to rise out of the lake itself. Maybe he’d called it somehow with his wish that had come true. Was it the voice of whatever had taken his father’s body? It had told him he’d be safe—and yet it frightened him.

  Whatever it was, something had awakened in the depths of that lake. Something that knew his name.

  A shadow formed beneath the surface, spread thin through the water, then closed in on itself, concentrating into a thick black mushroom that looked as if it would sprout its way into the sky. It rose higher and took form, reminding Tyler of Jesus, who could walk on water, as his mother had told him. Was this Jesus, rising from the grave to pass judgment on the guilty?

  Tyler’s teeth chattered. He wanted so badly to run, but his legs refused to cooperate. He couldn’t look away. Jesus, or whoever the black mushroom hid, had a power over Tyler that fixed his feet to the dirt on which they stood.

  It didn’t look like any picture of Jesus that Tyler had ever seen, and it didn’t rise out of the water. It stayed just below the surface, just beyond the reach of the sunlight, in that hazy gray layer where all light died. Tyler could make out a shape, even enough details to call it a face. It resembled his father, a looming figure in the dark who wanted to hurt Tyler, to punish him for being bad. And in Daddy’s eyes, he was always bad even when he wasn’t sure how.