DOA III

by Bentley Little

  Jake scowled but ignored the insult. She didn’t get it. Not yet. He felt the baby’s head down low in her pelvis. That was good. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping through the sheets, no doubt. He chided himself for forgetting to put down plastic painters tarp. Too late for that now; time was short. The baby’s head was crowning, its rapid development apparent in the full head of hair it exhibited. A dark, wet cowlick protruded from her engorged and hairless labia. Jake had a moment to associate it with a giraffe’s tongue, and then tensed his muscles and pulled the baby free.

  “We have a son,” Jake announced. He cut and clamped the cord and stood cradling his slimy but healthy baby boy in front of the tall mirror attached to his bedroom door. “He’s the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen!”

  Behind him, Hannah only moaned in reply. The placenta and membranes from the boy were pushed from Hannah’s uterus and out of her vagina onto the towel. Transfixed by his newborn son, Jake missed this development.

  Jake could not take his eyes away from the miracle he saw reflected in the mirror. His son cried and grew. Jake forgot about Hannah for the moment, lost in the spectacle of new life unfolding in his arms. It had worked. Finally! His past failures with other women had all led to this. Hannah didn’t want to be a mother, nor did he truly want to be a father, but he craved the experience and now they could share it.

  The child howled, announcing his arrival, and continued to grow. Jake watched in rapt fascination as hair sprang from his son’s scalp. Baby teeth sprouted from his gums in two ivory horseshoes. Fingernails and toenails lengthened at a rapid pace; Jake had already decided trimming them would be a wasted endeavor.

  He hummed a lullaby but stopped after one stanza; the age for lullabies had already passed.

  The child’s bones extended and muscle fibers weaved as the body of a toddler altered to that of a lanky boy. His limbs slid through Jake’s clasping arms so he readjusted his grip. He had not expected the child to scream so! And behind him, Hannah cried out as if in response. Jake pressed his lips together. He would not give in to her attempts at distraction. Right now his son deserved his undivided attention.

  The boy grew heavier in his arms. Jake looked down and noticed his permanent teeth had begun pushing their way out. He knelt and turned his son facedown. Jake bit the wrist end of one glove and pulled his hand free. He spat the glove aside and used his free hand to pluck the baby teeth out of his son’s mouth. To have him choke on a stray tooth would be horrible.

  The boy’s terrified, uncomprehending eyes had turned brown. His hair had darkened and grown well past his shoulders. The boy alternately jabbered and shrieked.

  Jake laid his son on the floor and stood. He removed the other latex glove and let it fall. Jake gazed down, monitoring his son’s growth, and reflecting. He found the old adage to be true; life was not always perfect, but it certainly was a beautiful journey to behold. Jake wiped away a tear; he only had minutes with his son before the circle of life drew to a close.

  “The time we share together is exceedingly concentrated,” father whispered to son.

  The newborn man-child babbled and tried to stand. Jake leapt forward and caught him before he fell. Jake stood behind his son, bracing him. He kept him close, feeling the figure between him and the mirror grow. Pubic hair sprouted, then chest hair. His son’s eyes rolled in their sockets, weak and unfocused. Jake whispered reassurances and proclamations of fatherly love in his son’s ear. He focused all his efforts on keeping his son on his feet; the second stage of man in the famous riddle did not feature him flat on his back, after all.

  Jake watched his offspring mature in the mirror. Now he wished for the power to slow time down so that he could cherish this experience longer. Time spent together as a family was fleeting indeed. The sum of the days somehow took away instead of adding. A person was left with a graying spouse, a recliner, a television, and the knowledge that the world will move on when you’re gone, oblivious to your exit.

  His son, for a time taller and larger in stature than Jake, now had begun to wither. A beard that had been brown became frostlike with white strands. He slouched, his skin showing lines and wear. The man’s hair began to gray at the temples. It thinned and fell from his scalp as he gibbered and drooled. Muscles atrophied, skin sagged, and bones became brittle. His son gave a goat-like bleat, cantankerous yet frightened. Jake lowered him into a sitting position and knelt behind him to prop him up. He told his son he loved him. The figure, elderly in appearance, but still less than one hour old, sat on the floor and shivered. Tears of pain and incomprehension trickled down his cheeks. Jake felt for and grabbed another towel from the top of the dresser, covering his aged son. The old man seemed to nod off, only to jerk his head back up, startled. He coughed. It was a wet, phlegm-filled cough.

  This went on for two glorious minutes. Glorious, Jake thought, because even in sickness there is the splendor of the battle being fought within the body. And how many fathers remained in control of their health and faculties while observing their children’s twilight years? Precious few, Jake decided.

  Then the old man wheezed, shuddered, and slumped forward. Jake’s knees popped as he stood and stretched. Beneath him lay the shriveled and sunken frame of his son. A white beard curled over an immobile chest. Ribs showed through the graying flesh. Finger and toenails had curled into yellowed seashell shapes. Long strands of snarled white hair trailed from the back of his head. The old man’s bald pate reminded Jake of when the baby had crowned. That had been a lifetime ago, and yet the sun held nearly the same place in the sky, now just grazing the horizon.

  The old man’s bladder and bowels relaxed, messing the floor, and filling the room with an earthy aroma. Jake took note of his son’s first—and last—defecation and, smiling proudly, wiped away another tear.

  Jake felt for the edge of the bed, sat, and watched the gruesome splendor unfolding before him. Gasses built up and escaped. He saw his son’s limbs stiffen and then relax in the span of a few seconds. The flesh started to putrefy. Jake vowed to watch until only bones remained.

  “What a treasure, what a blessing, to be able to see our son’s entire life cycle play out in front of us like this. We didn’t miss any of it! I’ll treasure this for as long as I live. And, Hannah, thank you for sharing this with me. Now do you understand? It was all worth it, wasn’t it?”

  Hannah made no reply. Perhaps she was still angry with him. Or maybe she still ached from the trauma of the baby coming so quickly to term, and his violent birth. Jake turned, intending to unlock the handcuffs—forgotten in the thrill of the spectacle until now—and froze.

  “Hannah?” At first Jake couldn’t understand what his eyes were showing him. It took several seconds for his brain to process and catalog the information.

  He noted the crimson-drenched tangle of limbs. His lover’s internal organs had been rearranged like a child’s jumbled toy-box. An extra set of legs reposed on the bloody sheets between Hannah’s, in contrasting shades of peach and gray. And to whom did the emaciated, skeletal head bursting from beneath Hannah’s ribcage belong? It drooped like a dying mushroom, mouth thrown open in a silent shriek. Above this, Hannah’s eyes were bulging, bloodshot, and glassy, reflecting his silhouetted frame leaning in for a closer look.

  And then he understood. A vinegar-dipped stone filled his throat. Tears welled, brimmed, and fell. Jake shook as violent sobs overtook him. He’d been cheated. He’d been so absorbed in witnessing the birth, life, and death of his son that he’d completely missed the equally transcendent phenomenon unfolding behind him.

  He reached out a shaky hand to stroke Hannah’s cheek. The room grayed as his emotions threatened to physically overwhelm him. He bent to kiss Hannah’s blood-smeared lips. His heart ached with sorrow and yet pumped the drum beat of happiness. He treasured her gift, and regretted her sacrifice. Life and death, as always, proved so beautiful and heartbreaking in equal measure.

  Jake perched on the edge of the mattress and marve
led. On their first try, Hannah had blessed him with twins.

  Adrian Ludens is the author of the story collection When Bedbugs Bite. Recent publication appearances include The 4th Spectral Book of Horror Stories (Tickety Boo Press), Dark Horizons (Elder Signs Press), and the weird western novelette Bottled Spirits (Grinning Skull Press). Adrian is no stranger to Blood Bound Books, having published stories in Blood Rites, Unspeakable, and the original volume of D.O.A., among others. Adrian is a fan of hockey, music, reading, and exploring abandoned buildings. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association with Active status. Visit him at www.adrianludens.com.

  CRY THE BANSHEE by C. Cameron Rossi

  C. CAMERON ROSSI

  Granny went banshee again last nite, screaming like she was being torn limb to limb. Pa told me just to ignore her, but it’s getting impossible to sleep with all that noise. I mentioned it to Honey-gurl when she came over this morning to tend to Moma’s boils, cause I knew that she was sorta sweet on me and that Pa is sweet on her. I figured that maybe she would put the thought into Pa to do something about Granny and her wailing. It’s gettin reel hard for me to work our fields, do my work for the Bullough’s, and then come home to read and write in my diary without no sleep. Course, I guess it could be a lot worse—instead of just having the sores or the boils, they all could be full banshee.

  Boy oh boy things are sure getting strange around here. If it weren’t for Moma needing me around to help with everything, I’d head off for the Dakotas at next sun-up. I heard frum Honey-gurl they still have clean water out there, and don’t have to worry about boars eatting all their crops and killing and eatting little babies, what few are left. But I just can’t leave Moma, not at least until she gets better or dies. She’s the only Moma I got.

  I need to start focusin on the main points if I want to sharpen my writing skills so that when I get to the Dakotas I can be a writer and not stay a poor farm hand. Two nights ago, after Honey-gurl was over, Granny started in on her hollerin again just as me and Pa and Moma finished dinner. Moma got up to clean the dishes; usually Pa won’t let her because her arms are full of boils that open in the water and the dishes come out brown and smellin like ass that hasn’t been washed for days. But this time he just sat back and gave me mean sideways glances.

  Moma finally finished the dishes then shuffled slowly to the basement to sleep. Down there you could close the big storm doors and not hear Granny screaming so loud. When Pa was sure Moma was all the way down, he limped into the smokin den and called me in with him. I sat down on the hard wooden floor while Pa put his bony ass in his favorite rocking chair, got out his big pipe and stuffed it full of dreamy-weed. I don’t like dreamy-weed much cause it makes me sick to my stomach and feel like I’m floating around and dreamin even though I’m awake, but I took a few puffs anyway cause Pa always offers and tells it’s rude not to take something that’s offered to you.

  We sat for a while and my head started gettin all funny-feeling like it was floating off my shoulders. I put my hands on top of it to stop it from drifting away and Pa started laughing, showin his mouthful of brown teeth. Even though I wasn’t happy I started laughing too, and we sat and laughed until I thought I was gonna puke. It set Pa to coffin’ and he did puke but he didn’t care, just sat on the chair and played with the green and red chunky puddle on the floor with his bare feet until we both got quiet.

  “Not a real pretty sight is it, a grown old man playin with his own juices,” he finally said. I shrugged my shoulders and stayed quiet.

  “I used be a strong young buck when I was fifteen, sure as hell stronger then you,” he continued on, his voice shaky but defiant, “but that was a long fucking time ago, back when me and your Ma were just startin together, thinking maybe we could make something better for ourselves then our Ma and Pa... thinkin that maybe we all was over the time of the banshees.”

  He grew quiet again and I tried to get the thick fog out of my head from the dreamy-weed, when Granny started her screams upstairs. Me and Pa both jumped, and then he started giggling. But it wasn’t a happy sort of sound; it was one like when you’re upset and it made me nervous to hear him do it. I tried to get up and leave but his eyes got real wide and he stood up real fast.

  “Did I say you could leave, boy?” he said, his voice low and mean. I shook my head and sat back down, making sure I didn’t sit in Pa’s puke.

  “I know what you’re thinkin, that maybe your Pa is getting weak in the head, that maybe he’s cracking just like this ol’ crazy world,” he said, his scarecrow-thin figure towering over me. “Well, maybe I am and maybe I ain’t, but it don’t matter cause sometimes, a man just can takes so much and then he can’t take no more.” He then did something I never thought I’d see my Pa do. He broke down and cried. Four what seemed like forever he cried like a little child and that made me even more nervous than his gigglin.

  “I’m okay,” he said after a couple more minutes, his eyes all red and puffy. “It’s not an easy thing, this here life. Hearin your granny scream all day and night, watching your Ma fall apart, not havin a wife to couple with when the urge comes over me.” He stopped for a second and looked at me hard. “You been gettin those urges yet, boy?”

  I thought of Honey-gurl and how good it felt to have my pecker-head in her mouth, even with all the oozing sores on her tongue, and I was thinking how I would do just about anything to have her do it again. But then I remembered how I caught Pa and her in Granny’s bedroom one day when they was supposed to be changin her bedding. Instead, Honey-gurl was sittin at the head of the bed, combing what was left of Granny’s hair in one hand and pulling mightily on Pa’s little pecker with the other until he dripped his mustard-colored seed all over the floor. I didn’t think they seen me peekin, but Pa always looked at me funny from that day on.

  “No, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes down so he couldn’t see the lie in them. “I ain’t been havin those urges.”

  “You will soon enough,” he said, more quiet like now. “Soon enough to make you realize why God brought all the bad that he did on us, soon enough to make you realize that sometimes, a man has to do things that eats up his soul.” Suddenly, like she was agreein with him, Granny let out another powerful banshee wail, enough to shake the foundations of the house and make my ears hurt.

  “I can’t fuckin stand it!” Pa yelled, real loud and angry like while shaking his fist at the dirty ceiling. “What more do you want, you fucker? Didn’t we sacrifice enough for you? Didn’t enough blood spill for you? What the fuck more do you want?”

  He broke down and started crying again, and I didn’t know if he was yelling at Granny or God. I hoped it was Granny, cause we sure didn’t need any more wrath of God coming down on us. When I got up to leave, Pa just stood there and didn’t say anything, so I went into my corner room and wrapped myself up tight in my blankets, hoping I could drown out Granny’s screamin and finally get some sleep.

  I sure hope I can remember all that has happened today, cause when I finally get to the Dakotas I know these here writings will make me a lot of money if people know the whole story. I shoulda known that some mighty weird things would be happening as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning and saw brite sunlight beaming through the cracks in the ceiling. Seein as how Pa always gets me up at least an hour before sunrise I knew something was up, and it wasn’t long before I realized something else was different: Granny wasn’t screaming anymore.

  Now, I knew that meant one of two things, that either Granny had died or she had gone somewhere, and that if she had gone somewhere it meant somebody had took her. It had been weeks since she had been able to walk, her legs all puffed up and covered in sores that leaked red and black pus and smelled like rotten meat sittin in the summer sun.

  Thinking this made me feel bad, since I could remember how Granny was nice to me when I was smaller and would give me food from her plate even though she was skinnier then me back then. And I was damn skinny.

  I looked for Pa but he wasn�
�t around, so I went up the rickity stairs, and halfway up noticed Granny’s door was open. I just knew she wouldn’t be up there but I had to look anyway, so I went the rest of the way up and sure enough, no Granny, just some piles of soiled clothes on the floor along with some puddles of dark, putrid-smellin oily-looking stuff on the bed. I wundered what it was, but I knew enough to let it be, so I closed the door so the bad smells wouldn’t come downstairs. I figured that maybe Ma would know where Granny had gone cause I had already figured that it was probably Pa who had took her somewhere.

  I usually don’t go down in the basement. Ma doesn’t scream like a banshee yet but has at least a hundred boils from her head to toes that pop in the sun, causin Pa to board everything up so it’s real dark down there even in the day. I lit a lantern, then walked real slow and careful like down the stairs and stood at the bottom for a couple minutes to let my eyes adjust to what little light there was.

  Ma was in bed, illuminated by another sputtering lantern on her nightstand. She wasn’t moving at all, and I thought that maybe she was dying or even maybe dead, but then she let out a loud, wet fart and I was happy cause that meant she was still alive. I was gonna go over and try and wake her up to find out where Pa and Granny were when I felt a hand go under my legs and grab my balls. I damn near soiled my pants and screamed even though I didn’t want to. Ma just turned over and kept on sleeping. I jumped back to the foot of the stairs and put up one fist even though at first I thought it was a devil come to take Ma away and would get me instead.

  “Did I scare ya?” Honey-gurl giggled, holding her hand over her mouth, her eyes buggin out even more then usual.

  “What the hell are you doin down here?” I said, my voice cracking and full of scared.

  She took two steps closer to me. “I’m taking care of your Moma.” Even though she wasn’t very pretty with her long nose, bushy eyebrows and crooked teeth, I didn’t really mind her getting closer cause then I could see her tities better and the way they poked out from underneath her shirt.