by Scott Savino
Natasha’s vision blurred behind her tears. Behind Saanvi she saw the pail of innards had been passed around, as well, and the other women were spreading the contents over their bodies. They bit into and chewed on the wolf’s intestines, groaning in pleasure Natasha would never understand.
Kay was wrapped around a woman with short dark hair, kissing and biting at her neck as the other woman giggled.
Saanvi waited.
“One bite,” she said.
Natasha’s head swam. Darkness threatened to overwhelm her and she shook from head to toe from stress, fear, and revulsion as she brought the heart closer to her mouth. She was afraid to defy their will, but the reality of biting into the meaty heart of a wolf was just too much.
“I can’t,” she whimpered, tears tumbling down her cheeks as she shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Saanvi said, cupping Natasha’s hands and guiding them forward until the heart was pressing against her mouth.
The bloody organ slid across her closed lips, leaving a crimson smear across her mouth and chin. She stumbled back with a cry of terrified protest, throwing her hands up to shield her face.
“Coward!” Saanvi growled, snatching the heart away. She bit into it like it was some kind of gruesome fruit before tilting her head back to squeeze the blood from it. It poured down her body, glimmering across her breasts to collect between her thighs until a shiver coursed through her, sending crimson beads flying. Natasha gasped when Saanvi’s gaze found her again.
Her eyes seemed larger, filled with wild lust and something dangerously hungry. Her smile sent ice down Natasha’s spine.
“What’s wrong with you all,” Natasha sobbed. “Did they give you drugs?”
Saanvi laughed. “No. It’s the power of the wolf. The change is upon us,” she said, hunching down and licking her bloodied lips. “And trust me, you don’t want to be human when the change is complete.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Lupa suddenly fell to the ground and Natasha’s eyes snapped to her. The woman writhed on the forest floor, moaning as if in pain, but clearly enjoying it as her hands eagerly explored her bloodstained body. Natasha heard more screams and groans as other women began to contort and shake.
“Drink from the bowl, Natasha,” Saanvi said, her voice somehow deeper than before.
Natasha looked at Morria. The witch’s eyes seemed more grey than white now, steady and solid, and her expression had changed to something Natasha couldn’t read.
“Looks like we’ll have two fresh treats here tonight,” the witch said, silver knife ready in her hand.
Natasha felt a scream crawl up her throat, begging for release, but Morria spoke again.
“Cry and beg for help all you want, young pup. The pack shall cull the weak.”
Natasha scrambled to her feet. “You’re crazy,” she screamed. “This is all crazy. You aren’t wolves!”
Someone barked and growled at her.
“Drink,” Kay groaned around teeth too big for her mouth as she braced herself on the ground, drenched in sweat.
“This has to be a nightmare,” Natasha whispered, backing up as she pulled her flashlight back out.
“Walk out that circle,” Morria said, “and you become prey.” She pointed her knife at Natasha then grinned.
But Natasha didn’t walk out of the circle.
She ran.
Behind her she heard the witch shout, “Oh, how I’m going to enjoy watching you get torn apart!” Morria’s cackle haunted her as she fled into the night. A roar of angry shouts followed.
Natasha sprinted with all her strength through the darkness. Branches tore at her arms and face. Her flashlight’s beam bounced off of endless trees now made into a confusing woodland maze in her terror. She couldn’t remember which way led back to safety, but she had only gotten a few yards before she heard the first guttural howl from behind her.
Natasha didn’t stop or look back.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath came ragged and short. Adrenaline kept her upright.
The brush rustled around her. Cracking twigs and branches followed her progress as shadows darted through the trees.
Natasha pressed on, no breath to spare to scream. Her lungs burned, her throat ached.
Soon, she was slowing, exhaustion sucking the strength from her limbs.
Something growled behind her just as she saw the soft press of moonlight at the edge of the woods. With a new burst of desperation, she broke past the tree line, sweaty and bleeding from a hundred small cuts. Natasha didn’t stop until she was on the well-lit highway.
As soon as she felt the pavement under her shoes she collapsed, gasping and panting as she tried to catch her breath.
She made it. She survived.
The first sob caught her off guard, but soon she was a weeping mess wrapping her arms around herself and rocking as relief and terror broke over her like waves.
Barely a minute later, she was bathed in the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Natasha whimpered, gulping down her tears as she clambered to her feet. The car pulled to a stop beside her and as she opened the door, she dared a glance back at the woods.
Movement, fast and angry.
With a startled gasp she ducked inside and locked the door.
“Go, go!” She shouted, gripping the door as if afraid the locks weren’t protection enough, but the car jumped forward at her word, pulling away from the woods as if fueled by her fear.
“What’s going on,” the driver asked as they drove away. “Are you okay? What were you doing out here so late?”
The driver’s startled questions faded into the background as Natasha settled in her seat, watching the road behind them. They had been so close. Even a moment longer and she would have been theirs.
Natasha knew this to be true, because she watched eight pairs of glowing eyes disappear into the woods as she sped away.
Seven Hand-Tied Knots
E.Z. MORGAN
MY BUBBE WAS FROM RUSSIA. An escapee from just before World War II. She never truly got over the family she lost to the Nazis, but poured herself into the family she raised in the states. For my thirteenth birthday she made me a bracelet. It was simple piece of twine hand-tied into seven knots.
Maybe it was an odd gift for a thirteen-year-old, but I thanked her anyway. She caressed my face before tying it onto my left wrist.
“To keep you safe,” she’d whispered, her voice heavy with the wintery Russian accent. “Now that you’re a woman.”
I thought maybe the bracelet was some sort of Jewish tradition I didn’t know about. My mother and I were very light on the religious part of Judaism, so Bubbe was our resident expert. I didn’t think much of it after that, honestly. I assumed it would fall off after a few weeks, but as I grew older the bracelet never came undone. It survived middle and high school. It followed me to college and lived with me as I made a life for myself in a neighborhood outside Boston. It became a part of me and was a little piece of Bubbe I got to carry with me.
A day ago, I woke up and found the bracelet torn to shreds.
I had no idea how it had happened. It had survived everything until now. The night had been calm, I didn’t do anything strenuous, and I certainly didn’t cut things in my sleep. But it was a scattered mess when I woke up.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken. Even though it was only twine, it meant so much more to me. I felt naked and vulnerable without it. I vowed to ask Bubbe for a new one when I visited next.
I tried to call her at least once a week. She didn’t live close, but hearing her speak was so soothing. Her words were angular and pointed—so unlike my flimsy American accent—while her voice was full of love and warmth. And something about the Russian-affected syllables made me feel safe.
“How is that girl you’re dating,” she asked. I could hear the sounds of cooking in the background. No matter how old she got she never stopped making her amazing food. Slowing down was definitely
not in her future.
“Ruth? We broke up a few weeks ago. I’m seeing a guy named Adam now. You’d like him—he can cook!”
She laughed, a deep, earthy sound. “You are always dating someone new. When will you settle down?”
“Maybe never. Who needs a spouse anyway?”
“Oh Rebecca, you sound so like your mother. But when you were born she finally understood.”
“Understood what?” My gaze drifted out of my apartment window. People walked the sidewalk below, some holding hands, others on their phones. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something odd. It was a busy day in Brookline—I nearly missed her—but it looked like an elderly woman was wandering around the concrete below, completely naked.
“The natural order,” Bubbe replied, unaware of the strange sight. “There is birth, life, and death. All three must be experienced in order to be free. But not necessarily in that order.”
“Bub, I have to call you back. There is something weird happening outside and I need to go—”
“Rebecca!” Her shout made me stand at attention. “Do not go outside. I feel something unnatural.” Bubbe often got “feelings” about situations. It was one of those sweet old-person things I figured was part of her growing up in Russia. Nothing ever happened, but she always felt better if I listened to her.
“I think I see someone who needs help,” I said, concerned.
“That is not a someone. Please, I beg you, stay inside.” In that single plea, I heard something from her I had never heard before.
Fear.
“But how do you …” my voice trailed off. What was the use in arguing with her? “All right, Bubbe, I’ll stay inside.”
“I love you, bubelah.” The sounds of food-making had stopped. She must have been standing still, something she rarely did.
“I love you too. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“Yes, Rebecca.” She sounded sad.
I sat for a second looking out the window. The old woman was still outside, pacing back and forth. From my apartment I couldn’t tell much about her. She was a white woman, with almost no hair on her spotted head and a slight hunch to her spine. She wore no clothing I could discern and her graying pubic hair stood out against the afternoon sun.
Bubbe’s words echoed in my mind, but I felt a strong urge to disobey her. What if this woman needed help? What if she was lost or had Alzheimer’s? What possible trouble could I get in for assisting her? All the people passing by ignored her as if she were nothing more than litter. It was infuriating.
I made up my mind then and headed down to the street.
I lived in an older building. The ground level housed a record store with my apartment as the only residential unit above it. To get to the ground floor I had to descend a staircase so small I doubted my plump Bubbe could have comfortably fit. Despite the confines, I hopped down the steps as fast as I could after closing and locking my door.
When I reached the street I looked for a hint of pale flesh or wisp of grey, widening my search the longer it took to find her. I wandered nearly half an hour, peeking down alleys and in storefronts to find her. Whether she was still alone or being helped, there were no signs of the naked woman anywhere I looked. I even pulled someone aside and asked if they had seen her. All I got back was a strange look.
It was like the woman had never existed at all.
Defeated, I walked back up the long, slender staircase to my apartment. As I reached the top of the steps a cold feeling drenched my skin. My door was open. I could have sworn I’d locked it before looking for the woman outside.
Tip-toeing closer, I peeked inside and called out.
“Hello?”
Nothing rustled. Nothing moved. I took this as a good sign and slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. Logic told me there was nothing to worry about, that I’d simply left my door open when I’d intended to close it, but something still felt wrong as I stood there. It was hard to take in a full breath and something stale was in the air.
Then my attention shifted to the hall, drawn by some unseen force I didn’t understand.
My bedroom?
I took hesitant steps toward it, an invisible thread pulling me along, my legs moving without permission. I tried to stop, tried to change course, but nothing worked. I tried to grab something to stop myself, furniture, even the wall, but my arms were dead at my sides. An urge blossomed in me to call Bubbe—she would know what this was—but my phone was in the pocket of my skirt and my arms refused to cooperate.
Before I knew it, I was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. There, I found the old woman from the street standing like a statue in the middle of the room. Somehow her presence was not a shock to me.
Something about her was almost too familiar.
She moved her head but did not meet my gaze, and a smile lifted her lips.
I couldn’t move.
Fear rose like bile in my chest.
There was something wrong about her in a way I felt in my soul.
She stood mere feet away from me, not physically threatening, but the sudden appearance of her naked form left me in terror. She stood straighter in my room than she had on the street, the hunch gone from her back, and her legs seemed to grow before my eyes. They were so thin and rickety I thought they might snap at any moment.
Her eyes were reflectionless white pools.
Grasping for words, I spat out, “How?”
It wasn’t much, but I didn’t know what else to say and the solitary word felt only appropriate.
“Baht,” she said, sneering. “You have evaded me for so long. But I have found you, now.”
“I don’t understand.” The feeling was hollow and deliberate.
She squatted slightly, a mocking smile on her face accompanied by the sickening sound of something wet moving within her. Then, from between her legs came a glistening red mass. It splattered against the hardwood, its fleshy tether twisting and dancing, making the object look like some sort of disgusting puppet. Blood and other fluids caked the floor. The woman grabbed the cord and slung it over her shoulder.
I realized what I was seeing as the fetus bounced against her breast.
I wanted to scream but nothing came out.
“Do you understand now, Baht?”
I still couldn’t move, fully entranced by the terrifying sight. My thoughts ran wild.
“Who are you?”
“I have many names.” She grabbed the fetus and stuffed its arm in her mouth, ripping it off and swallowing it whole. “Perhaps the most famous is Baba Yaga. But you shall call me Eema. I am your mother now. A mother brings forth life, and she can extinguish that flame just as quickly.”
That was when the words made sense.
Baht.
Hebrew for daughter.
And Eema.
Mother.
This creature, whatever she was, was a part of my heritage.
I was still sorting all of this out in my head when I noticed she was still growing. Her stick-legs stretched upward as her breasts plunged to the ground, warts sprouting over her skin like ticks. The fetus that was once near her mouth was gone. I presumed she ate it entirely. The umbilical cord still swung from her open legs.