by Pete Kahle
I figured I'd just get the old lady talking and see if I could calm her down. She's bound to have a heart attack if she kept carrying on like she was. Social services should send someone, if Deke didn't act like an ass when he called them. I'd say the odds on that are fifty-fifty.
# # #
Ivy Souci
Michigan State Police Annex
January 1st
3:45pm
“Detective, I’m here to confess the terrible things I've done—what I've allowed to happen. The guilt, MY guilt… it’s too much to bear.” I had to make them believe me this time. I had to. I adjusted my glasses and stared into him, willing him to take me seriously. He was my last hope, my only hope. Surely a strong man like this, strapping and blond with a broad chest and all the power of the police behind him, surely he could help me. He'd be strong enough to take Raja on directly, get him out of my home once and for all. It had to be possible. It just had to.
“I see. So you’ve done something terrible… again?” He didn’t bother hiding his mockery. Foolishness! Desperately, I told him every odious detail. Oliver had told the police all about… the first time, every horrible detail about that boy. The screams, the struggle, that horrible sucking sound; they knew everything. But my husband couldn’t show them a body. By the time Oliver had the courage to talk to police, the body was long gone. They sent us home to fend for ourselves. By that time, even Oliver was frightened of Raja. If only he'd listened to me. But Oliver never really listened to me—not since we got back from the jungle.
"It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long," I told him. "With Oliver gone, he never listened to me like he did when—are you still listening to me? Detective?" The policeman sighed with his head in his hands. Thorn was already bored with me. He leaned in with utter condescension.
"Why don't you try to tell me everything that happened." This Detective Thorn was miles away, it seemed. He gave me a look that made me feel like a petulant child rather than the educated woman I was. I'd written three books, one on the New York Times bestseller list. And he insisted on talking to me like—but this wasn't about me. It was about Raja, and stopping him before he hurt anyone else. If I could only get this detective to listen, I might even save my own life.
“I’m telling you I killed them. Well, Raja did, and I let him. I couldn't stop him. I swear it’s true—they're all dead. Oliver was sure he couldn't do anything to him. I told him not to… told him to keep his distance. But Raja wanted more than rats. They say once an animal like a lion or a bear tastes human flesh, they have to put it down because it won't eat anything else. Apparently…” I reached across the table and took his hand in a last, futile gesture. "Apparently humans are more delicious than any other animal."
He raised an eyebrow at me.
I shook my head, "So when Oliver screamed, I knew it had him. It was like…I don't even know what it was like. He was upside-down, his feet going back and forth like he was trying to run. But Raja had him. He had him. There was nothing either of us could do then. Raja had grown so… so strong. We didn't realize. He was just so powerful." Surely Thorn had to understand. How could he not? I had told him everything. Every vile detail. How could anyone hear that and not act?
"Okay, let me just…" Detective Thorn trailed off. He got up and left the room, refusing even to look at me as he did. "I'll be back, okay?"
The door closed itself with a quiet thud. I could feel them all behind the glass, no doubt discussing what’s to be done with me. I sat in that hard folding chair for what felt like a very long time. The classical music on my iPod was my only company. Modern technology isn't really for me, but these little music players were wonderful. I thrive on classical music-- something Raja and I have in common. Mozart’s Requiem was his favorite too.
# # #
Detective Perry Thorn
Michigan State Police Annex
January 1st
8:50pm
“So you don’t believe her?” The shyster lawyer interrupted me.
Damn public defenders.
“If you don't believe she killed her husband, what’s she doing in there?”
This lady needed a shrink, not a lawyer. Why would social services send this jerk? Slick backed hair, shit-eating grin, and the ugliest goddamn bow tie I'd ever seen. Plaid? I wouldn't trust this guy to mow my lawn. It needs it too. This shyster couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground—and he clearly knew nothing about this case.
“Did you know the husband’s mistress also left town the same day he supposedly disappeared? Car missing. Flights booked in her name. Yeah, they laid low for a week or so; then we started getting hits on his credit cards again. Cleaned out the accounts. Greece, I think, then France. He’s well off. No wonder the Missus would rather say she killed him. Can’t say I blame her for that.” The shyster's eyes got wide and excited—like Deke’s did that time we had a stripper come to the station for his birthday.
“You really think she’s innocent?” he slavered. His smile floated above that hideous tie like an even more insane Cheshire Cat. I couldn't remember the last time I had met a more objectionable human being. Still, if he was really here to help the old lady, I could make the effort to help him do that.
“Hell, I don’t even think anyone’s dead. This isn’t the first time she’s confessed to killing people—people we can’t even prove are missing.” The shyster pulled a yellow pad and an expensive-looking pen from his bag. He started writing, clumsily at first while he shuffled his many belongings in his arms.
“But the neighbors, they say their pets have disappeared. They think she cooked and ate them, and—”
I stopped him. That was sheer lunacy. Cooking and eating pets? What kind of degenerate would accuse a dotty old woman of such a thing? Even Deke wouldn't find that funny.
“You know, when I was a kid, there was a lady down the street—Mrs. Eglee, Lithuanian woman. We’d got it into our heads that she was a witch. You know, like kids do. Before long, every time something went amiss in that town, everyone—parents, kids, cops even—they all blamed it on old, ugly Mrs. Eglee. Made that poor woman’s life hell. They broke her windows, sprayed nasty graffiti on her house, her car—just for being old, for being a hermit. Neighbors don’t always know so much. Now this lady, this Ivy Souci, used to be some kind of tree-hugging missionary or some crap. She and her husband, the guy she's talking about killing, traveled to Asia, Africa, all over, even the rainforest. It's no wonder she's got crazy ideas about man-eating plants and vanishing husbands.”
The shyster was scribbling madly now. He knew nothing about the old woman when he took the case. These guys don't always have a lot of choice on which cases they take. Still, they ought to know something.
“The neighbors did accuse her of kidnapping pets, and we handled it.”
The shyster gave me a disbelieving look. Ass.
“It was all by the book. We took a look around her place, questioned her and the husband both, made sure nothing was amiss. Nothing to find, just an old couple in a house full of plants and books. No decorative bone wind chimes, no skinned cats hanging up to dry. All kinds of crazy plants, made the place stink something awful, kept it hotter than an oven in there too. Don’t know how they could stand it. Wasn't till a year or so later that the husband took off. Now she’s just a pitiful old woman left alone by a cheating husband. Went a little stir crazy. Can you blame her?”
“What about her kids? What do they say? Should we call—”
“Never had any kids, she didn’t even have a cat, or a bird.”
The shyster looked surprised.
“I know, whoever heard of an old lady living alone without even a pet to keep her company?”
He nodded. His ugly plaid bow tie was crooked now. I half expected it to spin around comically. How could anyone live with being such a cliché?
This shyster wasn’t going to do a thing for her. What a total waste of time. I could have been home with my own family, with Maggie. I’d call socia
l services myself tomorrow; get a real social worker out to the old lady's house. I should probably go too. The two of us could check things out, at least make sure the old lady’s all right in the head if she’s gonna be living in that house all alone. Damn shame the way people go soft like that. Old age. I almost hope I never live to see it.
# # #
Ivy Souci
Souci Residence
January 2nd
2:30am
The detective sent me away like a ten dollar strumpet, broken and hopeless. I would never find respite—not from Raja, not from the guilt. It climbed the walls of my home. It threaded itself around my every possession, strangling my hope of any happiness at all. Poor, poor Oliver, and then that woman… it was just so sad. Still, that home-wrecking whore shouldn't have been anywhere near my house in the first place. It was Oliver's audacity that did her in. Giving her a key to my home? She had the nerve to accuse me, tell me I was keeping my husband away from her. Of all the arrogant…
The heat hit me hard in the face when I opened the front door. Sure enough, I could see tiny tendrils curled around the thermostat. No kind of plant should be that smart. I hadn’t taught Raja that. Maybe Oliver did. He always trusted Raja, long after it became obvious that we shouldn’t—after that nosy boy from Ridgemont came by selling candy bars. He just wanted to raise money for his little league team, poor boy. Still, don't they teach children not to go waltzing into stranger's homes? If that boy had any manners, Raja couldn't have gotten near him. Not then at least…
Nepenthes Raja was its formal name. Oliver was the one who wanted to bring it home. It had been tiny then. In the wild rajas had thin, pillar-shaped pitchers that drew in diminutive prey. Sticky droplets adhered to insect wings, feet, antennae. Once trapped inside, the prey could struggle, move a little. Soon enough, the plant's chemicals put it to sleep so it could be slowly digested over the next few days. Fascinating, we thought then. Our little Raja was a lovely specimen with bright red patterns in the leaves like engorged blood vessels. He seemed so fragile and petite. Oliver loved to watch it eat tiny gnats, then ants, and flies… even when it was big enough to mice from the pet shop, we didn’t think it would be a problem. Mice are pests after all. A single mouse would satiate it for a month or more. There was no harm in it, not then. But that was years ago. Before that puppy, and the cat, and the other cat—the one the neighbor girl came looking for. Oliver didn't tell me about that until later.
Its bulbous pitcher pulsated now. The stalks communicated through subtle sounds and intoxicating scents that poisoned the air, thick with mist from the vaporizer. Raja had taken over the entire house. Vines scaled the walls, the ceiling. I swear one tried to trip me on purpose when I left to see Detective Thorn. Oliver said I was senile, but I know I've seen it move. Raja never listened to me like he did Oliver. Until the end, I mean. I'm still not sure why Raja decided to… do what he did to my husband. I'd like to think killing that woman was Raja's gift to me.
The heat made me slow, sick. I felt surer than ever that this was the end. That policeman, Thorn, he'd been my last hope. I wasn't sure what I expected from him. How could a policeman possibly understand this?
Oliver's favorite hat lay beside the big planter. World's Best Fisherman indeed. He'd been a reasonably good husband for the first 30 years. After that though… does any couple ever stay in love for longer than that? I don't see how. That woman was a bad choice. I never knew what Ollie saw in her. I don't think Raja did either. In the end, Raja agreed with me.
Raja’s metabolism was faster than ever now. He would want to feed again soon. I wanted to live, to stay here in my home, to trust that thing not to strangle me in my sleep. None of that was possible now. It was only a matter of time before it would trap me in its cavernous pitcher, full of drugs meant to paralyze insects, keeping me comfortably still like I was right now in Oliver’s worn recliner.
I wouldn’t be complicit in feeding it. Not ever again. Once I was gone, no one would come here… no one would look for me until long after Raja was dead—starved and brittle and alone with no one to feed or water him. They’d turn the heat off, and Raja would never survive. It wasn’t as if he could walk out of here. Dear God, at least I hoped not. We brought this on ourselves, Oliver and me. No one else should suffer for it.
Sleeping pills, pain pills, heart pills—I poured a glass of Oliver's most expensive bottle of wine. He'd been saving it, probably for that woman. That made it taste extra sweet. I took the pills, all of them, a few at a time. When Raja did finally consume me, the pills would take him too. So long as there was no one here for him to… so long as there was no one here for him, Raja could not continue.
Raja’s favorite version of Requiem was from the Bavarian Radio Symphony. Since it would be our last time hearing it together, I let him choose. It would be a kind of swan song for Raja. For me, it would be like turning in after a very long and stressful day… the first notes washed over me, lulling me into a final sleep.
Goodbye Raja. If you have a soul, may it burn in the fiery pit.
# # #
Detective Perry Thorn
Souci Residence
January 2nd
10:45am
The social worker was late, a nice enough lady named Lily. Lily seemed like one of those spunky girls, short dark hair and a bit of chunk to her. She was determined to be cheerful despite what she knew was ahead of her. Sick old people could be damn depressing, and this Lily probably knew that even better than I did. We knocked, but no one answered.
“Mrs. Souci?" I called. “It's Detective Thorn. We spoke yesterday about… about your husband. I'm here with a social worker and we'd like to—Mrs. Souci?”
I looked at Lily, who shrugged. Breaking in didn't seem appropriate. We had no official reason. A devious look came over the social worker. She held up her index finger, making me think she had a sudden stroke of inspiration. Actually, she was pointing above the door. Of course! She reached up to the ledge and pulled down a key. I would never be so foolish as to keep a key someplace where any random stranger could pick it up. Case in point.
“I know you shouldn't come in with me,” Lily said. “Just give me some time with her and I'll call you when or if I need you, okay?”
That sounded fair enough, I told her. She went in, shutting the door tight behind her. I heard a light commotion and was glad to know that the old lady was moving around inside. She and Lily would soon be talking things out. I sat down on the porch swing and waited. It was nice out today. Sunny for this time of year, and it was warmer than it should have been. They say that global warming or climate change or whatever—they say it would eventually change everything. The oceans would be different, colder I think, and animals would die off. When big predators died, little animals would breed like crazy. They said it would decimate insect and plant populations. Suddenly the idea of a man-eating plant wasn't so silly if you thought about it that way—eventually, I mean. Not now.
I checked my watch. Lily had been inside for just over an hour. I listened, straining to hear over the breeze, birds, traffic. Nothing. Not a sound. I didn't even hear any talking. It was probably time for me to go inside and see what they had decided to do. I reached up for the key, which was back on the doorjamb, and let myself inside.
# # #
From Carl Liche’s 1881 account of a sacrifice he witnessed in Madagascar:
"The hulking raja, with its slender delicate palpi, and the fury of starved serpents quivered a moment over her head, then as if instinct with demoniac intelligence fastened upon her in sudden coils round and round her neck and arms; then while her awful screams and yet more awful laughter rose wildly to be instantly strangled down again into a gurgling moan, the tendrils one after another, like great green serpents, with brutal energy and infernal rapidity, rose, retracted themselves, and wrapped her about in fold after fold, ever tightening with cruel swiftness and savage tenacity of anacondas fastening upon their prey."
Wednesday Lee Friday li
ves in Ann Arbor, Michigan with some carnivorous plants, a few cats, and her husband. She has a wide range of interests including (but not limited to) abnormal psychology, cooking, linguistic anthropology, loom knitting, the theremin, The Simpsons, Alfred Hitchcock movies, crafty things, quality horror of all kinds, and tart dried cherries. Wednesday Lee Friday believes that no human being is truly evil, and that no subject in the world should be off limits to comedy. You can follow Wednesday on Twitter, Facebook, Dreamwidth, Pinterest, G+, LinkedIn, and Livejournal.
BRISTLES
by Meryl Stenhouse
Fog and Dust
He came looking for work, jackarooing, through one of those working holiday companies. It wasn't the usual way I picked up my seasonal stockhands. I preferred local boys, experienced with the dust and the flies and the scrub, not soft white Europeans who complained about everything.
But more and more of the local boys were leaving town for the city, to go to university or get a job with the mines, on wages I couldn't hope to match.
I glanced at the form in my hands, though I'd read it plenty of times already. Matt Eberhardt, nineteen, references supplied. The boy stood on the porch in the slightly defensive stance of young men everywhere. Thin shoulders, thin arms, a patchwork of freckles, a scraggly goatee of fuzz on his chin but a chest like a barrel. It gave him an odd appearance, like he hadn't grown into his body.
