by A. P. Fuchs
"What---What is this?" he asked.
"I don't know. I can't bloody see you. Come closer."
Hesitantly, Gary came over to the face and showed it the clothes that bled off his skin, as though he had cut his arms, body, legs, and the blood was oozing off him.
I don't belong here. Sure I do. You do, Gary, and you know it. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
The face on the floor studied the clothes. "There's no telling what precisely that is. I've only seen faces about this room, those like me who don't know where their body is. There was one on the wall just over there." The face's eyes cast down, pointing to the wall of soil ahead of Gary. "There was another above, too, like yourself, before you fell through. They were all over this room at one point or another. Then the Benders came. That's my name for them, Benders. In all truth, I don't think they have a name, at least not in any language we would know." He paused, then, "My name's James, by the way."
"Gary," he replied. "Wait. You said . . . you said I was . . . I was dead."
"What else would you be? You found yourself buried alive up there, right?" The eyes stared at the ceiling again.
The clothes on Gary's skin felt like a heavy wet towel.
"I don't belong here," Gary finally said. He felt a little bit better after saying it, too.
"Neither do I," James said. "That's all our stories. But it's our fault we're here. We didn't believe in Him and so we're here."
"Believe in who?"
Before James could answer, a low howl was heard behind one of the soil walls.
"Benders," James said. "They do that from time to time. They're hungry." James's pale gray face looked up at him. His red lips spread thin into a smile. "They'll come for me one day, just like they did the others. They eat us, you see, wait until we're nice and ripe and then remove us from the dirt like potatoes or carrots. They're saving me for last. I was the first one here and, like aged wine, I'll be the last to leave because I'll taste the best. I reckon I would have been gone before you showed up. You were probably the new me, come to think of it. I was told I'd be eaten shortly, but they were waiting for someone to replace me---a new stock, as it were---first. Now you're free. I couldn't get out when I found myself buried alive. I didn't know what to do. I slept most of the time. Now I don't know where my body is and all I have is this face and a window into the same room for the past two thousand years, give or take a century."
Two thousand years! Is he crazy? Then Gary realized James wasn't. He finally realized where he was.
He was in Hell.
Hell. The reality of it wouldn't set in.
"I still can't believe you got out," James said.
"Why are they called Benders?" Gary asked.
James sniffed. "Because they can make a person do whatever they want them to---bend their will. I've seen it before, when they come to eat you. The screams, Gary, the screams. They pull you out of the dirt and, with just one look, you succumb to them and stop struggling. Even when they take their first bite, you have a smile on your face, as if what they're doing is normal. As if you want them to eat you."
Gary shivered despite the damp heat of the place around him. Benders.
A low rumble filled the room and bits of dirt sprinkled down from the ceiling and off the walls.
"They're coming," James said. "If they see you loose . . ."
When Gary looked around for a way out, he couldn't find any, just four walls made of damp soil, nothing more. "How do I get out of here?"
"You can't. We're in a sealed room, in case you haven't noticed."
"The ceiling. Can I get back in there?"
"How am I supposed to know? You're the first one who has fallen through. You haven't aged properly. They might not even want to eat you. The again, they probably don't care. They eat a lot. This room was full of faces a short while ago. Wait a sec, that was six years ago, that's when it was. Man, time flies."
"But . . ."
The rumbling grew louder. Then all was still. The dirt of the wall to Gary's right burst open in a black spray and a Bender stepped through. It stood less than four feet tall, its shoulders wide, its waist small. The Bender's body was humanoid. Sort of. It was naked, sexless, the skin appearing tanned in the dimly lit room. Its muscles rippled even though it stood still. Its arms hung to the floor like an ape's and it had only two toes, two fat toes as thick as three fingers each with dull gray nails at their ends. Its jaw was long and it reached its chest. It had no neck. Long hair draped down to its shoulders, parted in the middle, revealing a flat face with a hooked nose. The Bender snarled, big, block-like teeth as fat as Chiclets that looked to be as hard as stone.
Immediately the Bender set its gaze on Gary. The creature stalked toward him, slow at first, as if in disbelief that Gary had ripened before his time. Soon the Bender's pace picked up. Gary darted to the side and rounded the creature and went for the hole in the wall. On the other side of the hole was a long tunnel with soil walls just like the room James was in. The lighting in the tunnel was dim, too, and, like the room, its source could not be seen.
I don't belong here. Then, another voice in his head: Sure you do. You stopped going to church when you were eighteen. Did you forget? If you don't believe in the big J.C. then you wind up here. You're in Hell, Gary! There's no getting out.
Gary ran down the tunnel. Groans filled his ears, seeming to come from all around. He heard someone say "Ow!" and realized he must have stepped on a face on the floor.
He glanced over his shoulder as often as he could while finding his way down the tunnel. To where it would take him, he didn't know. A low rumbling far behind him sporadically grew louder before dying off again. He rounded a bend in the tunnel.
There was a muffled "Hey!" from somewhere above him. It didn't sound like a Bender. But Gary also didn't know what a Bender sounded like. But it's human, isn't it, the one who just shouted? No rumbling.
Gary stopped running. He looked up and spittle caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. Up against the soil ceiling was a man, shirtless, only his upper torso showing, and only his forehead and eyes. The rest of his face and the rest of his body were concealed in the dirt.
He's breaking through, Gary thought absentmindedly. Like me. Maybe he, like me, knows he doesn't belong here.
"Leth mphe dowmph . . ." the man said through the layer of dirt.
The rumbling grew louder and a bead of sweat stung Gary's eyes. He wiped it away. He shook his head. The rumbling grew louder yet. He had to get moving. He looked at the man. "I can't. I'm sorry."
Gary glanced over his shoulder. Against the golden-gray soil wall of the tunnel was the Bender's shadow. "They're coming. I'm sorry." He took off down the tunnel.
The further he ran, the more he saw people and faces partially covered in dirt in the walls and floor and ceiling. So many, he thought. The rumbling died off again. Then it picked up immediately and a loud grunt echoed behind him. The Bender. The moment Gary turned around to check how far behind him the Bender was, the creature was already on him and wrestled him to the ground. There were more Benders behind this one.
Don't look at the eyes, Gary reminded himself.
"No . . ." he said. He struggled with the creature, keeping his eyes closed. The Bender's fat fingers pawed at Gary's eyelids, trying to get them open. The Bender was heavy and sat on Gary's lungs. It was difficult to breathe.
Gary swung madly at the creature, his fists connecting as if pounding a slab of raw meat. They didn't have an effect on the Bender. Soon his arms felt like they were filled with lead and each swing at the creature grew more and more futile.
The Bender forced Gary's eyes open. Gary tried to squeeze them shut but it was too late. The Bender already had him.
The creature's gaze was soft and reassuring, reaffirming in Gary's mind that eating him was the right thing to do.
"But . . ." Gary began. "But I don't belong here. I don't . . . please put me back. I'm not ready yet. Let me age. Jesus, I'm
sorry."
He thought of James, there, alone in the room down the tunnel.
The Bender's gaze continued to turn Gary's mind to jelly.
"Okay, you're right," Gary said. "I deserve this. Eat me. It's okay. Please?"
I belong here.
The moment the hot pain from the Bender's bite stung his shoulder, Gary woke up.
Thank God. It was just a dream. Sweat dripped off his brow. I'm so sorry, Lord. I believe in you, Jesus.
Heat flowed over his skin.
His heart jumped when he spat out what felt like sponge coated in breadcrumbs.
His fingers dug at the soil.
* * * *
Below
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No, not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because it isn't there."
"Then you haven't looked hard enough."
* * * *
If only they would bite. The fish were out there, Carry knew. He caught hundreds since he began fishing at the newly-named Bedright Lake each evening ten years ago. But tonight . . . tonight they all seemed to be asleep.
The sky was gray and there was a chill on the air. The wind, which seemed to pick up speed about an hour ago, folded the brownish-gray water over itself as it rolled into shore. He wouldn't mind if it rained. He'd stay out all evening and into tomorrow if he had to, if only to catch one fish.
When he and his wife, Fae, took up residence in their cabin on a fulltime basis twenty-three years ago instead of keeping their small home in town, she told him she'd lose him to Bedright Lake (then, Lake Marman) and that he'd spend all his time there like he did when he was young.
But he never did. Not until she died ten years ago last April. And he didn't fish because he loved it or because he found it relaxing. He just needed to pass the time. He was seventy-one when she died, eighty-one now, and death wasn't that far off. Carry thought fishing to kill the hours might speed up getting to the end and he'd see her sooner because of it. Even still, that wasn't the real reason he dragged his old lawn chair to the shore each evening, baited a hook and flung a line out onto the lake.
Philip was the reason---his son, dead long before in a life he could barely recall.
The two had gone out on canoe one fall, long before him and Fae bought the cabin. Carry had wanted to show Philip the lake, take him across to the other side and along the foresty-shore where the branches hung over the water like fingers dipping into a pot. You could canoe under those fingers and for a moment believe you were in a secret tunnel of wood and bark and darkness.
Philip had been seven at the time. Carry had been twenty-nine, and the sky had been overcast like it was this evening, all cool and gray.
The water had been calm.
They paddled beneath the branches, Carry all the while enjoying the look on his young son's face as he knew his boy was feeling the same sense of security he felt when traveling beneath the branches. In there, you were safe from the world and from a mother who was always telling you to clean up your room.
"Can we go back, Dad?" Philip asked once they emerged from the wood-like tunnel.
"Back through?" Carry said.
"Yeah." Philip's wide eyes never left the branches.
"Sure." Carry turned the canoe around; they entered the tunnel once more.
Not near a quarter of the way in, Philip got on his haunches.
"Careful," Carry said as he felt the canoe start to rock.
Philip slowly sat back down. "How did you find this place, Dad?"
"By accident. I found it when I was a kid, actually. Bobby, um, I can't remember his last name---anyway, his dad took us out here but, see, the tunnel wasn't here then. At least not like it is now. It was starting up a little though. The branches were already leaning toward the water. I just liked the forest."
Philip seemed to have lost interest and stood up in the canoe, reaching for the middle of one of the branches hanging over them.
"Phil, I said sit down," Carry said calmly. The boy got enough "stern talk" from his mother.
The boy didn't listen and grabbed hold of the branch. For some reason, he didn't let go and as the canoe continued moving forward, his body stayed where it was and was soon in his father's lap.
Carry dropped the paddle in the water.
* * * *
Was that a bite? There had been a tug at the end of line, Carry was sure. He reeled his line in. The line came in slower now that he was an old man, he noticed. When it finally reached the end of the pole, he brought its tip close to his face so he could see it more clearly. A glistening brown lump of rolled-up worm remained on the hook.
No fish.
"Darn," he said quietly.
The breeze picked up and swept between the buttons of his flannel shirt. He shivered and considered calling it quits.
I won't give them the pleasure, he thought and, not bothering to adjust his shirt so it covered his chest more evenly, he stood, his knees cracking, and made his way to the shore. He hated this part. Ever since getting arthritis in his joints a few years before Fae died, anything that involved moving his elbows was torture. He took a breath, rotated his hips, and extended the rod behind him. A dull, achy pain shot through his elbow and wrist. He made a face and cast his line out. Back slightly aching, he went near his chair and tightened the line. When he sat back down, the weight being lifted off his bones felt like Heaven.
"They'll bite," he said.
Carry waited.
* * * *
Carry never came home the night Philip and him had gone canoeing. He didn't come home the following morning either. It wasn't until early afternoon when Fae drove to meet them at Bill's---a small hamburger joint on the edge of town---and Carry and Philip weren't there, that she had gone to the lake to look for them.
Carry sat on the shore, legs crossed, staring out onto the lake.
Fae came up behind him. "Carry?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he bowed his head, steepled his fingers, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that she knew he had tears in his eyes.
"Carry!" she said and came down beside him, holding him.
"He . . . he fell," was all he said.
The two stayed there by the shore, the sun glimmering off the waves.
* * * *
For the second time Carry's head dipped toward his chest. He checked his watch. It was 2:13 a.m. Not a single fish had nibbled on his hook.
Not wanting to give in but not wanting to stay and catch a chill either, he reluctantly stood, reeled in his line, packed up his tackle and grabbed his chair.
"Tomorrow," he said. Tomorrow. If I don't die first.
He headed for the cabin.
The key stuck in the lock like it always did and, like always, took four quick jiggles to pry it loose. He entered, kept one hand on the doorknob, leaned his pole up against the corner behind the door, and set his tackle down.
Though he'd done it thousands of times, he relished in taking off his cap and flannel over-shirt and hanging them on the coat hooks by the door. There was something "I'm home" about removing your outerwear when entering your place. It was as though you were stripping away the person everyone saw and revealing the person you truly were to a place where you could genuinely be yourself.
He closed the door, locked it, and flicked on the light. He went in to the kitchen that ran off the landing and also opened up onto the living room. The inside smelled musty, like most cabins, and Carry liked it just fine. It was old like him and he blended right in, thank you. The previous owners of the cabin had sold it to him and Fae after an episode there involving their son. They never said what occurred.
He squinted after he opened the refrigerator door, the bright interior light making everything seem white for a moment.
"Ah, I see you," he said and removed a jar of pickles.
He set the jar on the counter, popped it open and, not bothering to use a fork---the utensil drawer was all the way over on the other side of
the kitchen---pulled out a pickle. As he chewed, he looked out the front window over the sink. Outside the night was as black as pitch. You couldn't even see the road not twenty-five feet away. The street lamp across the property had burnt out long before and no one ever bothered to come by and fix it.
One more, he thought and grabbed another pickle. Its sourness sent a shiver down his back. Just how he liked it.
He replaced the lid on the jar and set it back in the fridge. When he straightened, there was a knock at the door. His insides jumped as the hollow wooden sound filled his flesh. Carry peered out the window. He made a face when he realized the small lamp hanging outside the front door, like the one across the way, had burnt out long ago. He kept meaning to get around to replacing the bulb but a drive into town seemed like too much of a chore.
He couldn't see anyone.
Running his hand over his bald head, he placed a hand on his hip. The moments ticked away. The knock hadn't occurred again. It was time for bed. Tomorrow he could think about what that "knock" had been. Maybe some kids had thrown a few rocks at the door? Nah. There hadn't been any kids around here for a long time.
About to pass through the landing to the bedroom just on the other side, he stopped his steps when the knock returned. Two raps and that was all.
"Okay," he breathed. "Could be some poor soul who's lost." Didn't see a car in the drive, though, but then again, can't see anything out there.
Two more knocks.
Just go to bed. They'll go away. And he moved toward the bedroom.
There was another knock, this time only one.
"Okay," he said quietly.
When he looked down, he saw his hand was already on the doorknob though he couldn't remember walking toward the front door.
Two more knocks.
"Yes, yes," he said, unlocking the bolt and pulling the door open.
Carry's jaw went slack when he saw the silhouette of a man in a suit, wearing a fedora with a feather sticking out from it.
