by Ed Kurtz
As its features developed and the head separated from the stringy red mass on the ceiling, the creature’s voice softened and its vocabulary improved. It learned Walt’s name and called to him frequently. It made macabre jokes and grinned like Mr. Sardonicus from that old William Castle movie. Or Hugo’s Gwynplaine from The Man Who Laughs.
Never had apparition more frightful grinned in nightmare, he thought grimly.
The time had come for Walt to start asking questions.
“What are you?” It was the most basic question, the question from which all future determinations would be based, he supposed.
“I am me.”
“And what is that?”
“Hungry.”
Always it spoke in circles, avoiding answering any question in a direct manner. Always it came back to the matter of blood.
“Where did you come from?”
“Here.”
Never an answer.
“What is your name?”
“No name.”
“You haven’t got one?”
“Give me.”
“Give you what? A name?”
“Yesss.”
And so Walt began thinking of the smiling monstrosity in his house as Gwynplaine.
***
“Margaret. Margaret, wake up, dear.”
She cracked her eyes open, peered through the sleep gunk and saw only indistinct colors mixing together in the vague shape of a face. But she knew who it was.
“You’ve got to take this,” he said.
A cool glass touched her limp hand. Cool and dripping with condensation.
“What’s—”
“It’s medicine. Good for you.”
“Don’t drink that, Margaret!” Amanda shouted from someplace near. She sounded as though she was in a tunnel. But everything usually did anymore.
“Shut up, it’s just water.”
“Don’t drink it. Don’t.”
He gently brushed her cheek with his fingers.
“Here, sit up,” he said. “It’s only sleeping pills.”
“You woke me up for sleeping pills?”
“You weren’t sleeping, just dozing in and out. You’re not very well.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s okay. I just want to help you rest. Get better.”
Margaret propped herself up on an elbow, but it buckled and she crashed back down on the panel. He reached down and lifted her up, giving a little grunt. He leaned her up against the support beam he had chained her to. Then he took her hand, uncurled the fingers and laid a handful of pills on her palm.
“Pills?”
“They’re hers. Amanda’s. They’re safe. You’re only going to sleep for a while. A nice, long sleep—wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Hmm.”
“If it’s mine, you can’t take more than two,” Amanda called out from her tunnel. “Much more than that is really dangerous, Margaret. He’s probably trying to kill you.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, will you be quiet? Why would I kill her now? It’s been five weeks! I’m trying to help her!”
“You’re a liar!” Amanda squealed. “A liar and a murderer and a piece of dog shit!”
“I’ve never lied to either of you, nor have I killed anyone.” He turned in Amanda’s direction. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Jesus, I haven’t even bled you. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you? Thanking you?”
“Yeah, all right. Maybe not. But please, be quiet.”
Margaret swayed a little, feeling the weight of the pills in her palm and trying to guess at how many were there. Eight? Twelve? She couldn’t tell. The shouting match he was having with Amanda was too distracting.
“It’s okay, Margaret.”
He returned to face her. “Ignore it, she’s just upset. Take your medicine.”
Without giving the issue another thought she popped the entire handful into her mouth. He quickly pressed the wet glass in her hand, helped her raise it to her lips. She drank greedily, gulping the clean, cool water and letting it wash the pills down her throat.
“There you go,” he cooed. “That’s a good girl.”
“Margaret, no!” Amanda cried.
“S’okay,” Margaret answered her after a satisfied gasp. “M’gunna sleep now.”
“That’s right,” he said, stroking the back of her head. It felt nice.
“Sleep now,” she murmured again.
She closed her eyes and felt the floor go soft, breaking apart into gentle waves that rolled beneath her. Floating on top of them, she let them rock her to sleep. As consciousness evaded her, Margaret tried to remember who he was, this nice man who took such good care of her.
22
First she saw the blue sign on the roadside: gas food lodging. Under the headers gas and food appeared the same name: Bert’s Café. Lodging was curiously vacant. The sign was stippled with buckshot.
Sarah hated the country.
She noted the exit number and, when the off-ramp loomed on the horizon, flipped on her turn signal. It was time to refuel both the car and herself.
The building stood alone and looked abandoned. From the shape and color of the structure, it was obvious to Sarah that it had once been a fast food joint. In front of the dingy restaurant, a cracked and greasy parking lot stretched out to the service road. Two ancient fuel pumps were erected in the middle of it, the kind with the scrolling numbers. She pulled up to the closer of the two and jammed the nozzle into her gas tank. While the numbers slowly rolled off with an irritating series of clicks, she gazed at the field surrounding the property. It was nothing more than patches of brown and yellow glass that was occasionally interrupted by a copse of stubby, diseased hickories. Their naked branches clawed at the gray sky and looked like veins. Far beyond that stood a reddish-brown farmhouse, its roof caved in.
The pump sputtered and clicked for the last time. Sarah tapped the nozzle and returned it to the pump. The gas smelled astringent in the cool October air.
After moving the car to a parking space directly in front of the restaurant, Sarah went inside. Country music squawked tinnily from a pair of banged up speakers suspended from the ceiling. With the exception of the few green silk faunas placed strategically throughout the dining area, everything in the place was either brown, yellow or orange. Cracked plastic booths, aging Formica tabletops, and even the once-white walls subscribed to the motif.
Sarah scowled.
A hefty middle-aged woman in a wrinkled waitress uniform (yellow and brown, of course) looked up from the table she was wiping down.
“Take a seat,” she drawled. “Any one you want.”
“I got some gas,” Sarah said.
“I’ll put it on your ticket,” the waitress said, sounding annoyed.
Sarah strode past her and quickly located the cleanest looking booth, which was not particularly clean. She scooted into it anyway, nudging her purse between the wall and her hip. A greasy laminated menu was propped up against the adjacent window that looked out over the dead field. She picked it up and frowned when her thumb slid across its oily surface.
“What’ll you have?”
Sarah glanced up at the waitress, who had her ticket book open and ready. She did not smile; her face was like granite.
Aren’t service people supposed to be polite?
“Coffee,” Sarah said. “Aaaand….the club, I suppose.”
“Coffee and a club,” the waitress mumbled as she waddled off. She didn’t bother to write it down.
Sarah guessed that when you’re the only game for miles and miles, you can afford to be undiplomatic.
Placing the menu back on the window, she wiped her greasy fingertips on her skirt and scanned the grimy environment. An older guy with a bushy white mustache and a mesh trucker’s cap sipped coffee at a table by the restrooms. He was reading a dog-eared paperback Western. Blood River. Sarah blew a puff of air through her nostrils. Funny, she thought. Doesn’t look literate.
/> The song changed—another warbling country tune—as the trucker closed his book and stood up from his chair. He dropped a few crumpled bills on the table and moseyed on out.
Now Sarah was alone. It felt eerie to her. She didn’t think she’d ever been all by herself in a restaurant before.
Momentarily the surly waitress came around with a mug of coffee. She set it on the table without a word and wandered back to the kitchen. No sugar, no creamer. Sarah sighed. She started sipping at it anyway.
She was in mid-sip when a steel serving basket clanged against the tabletop in front of her. Sarah jumped, spilling a dollop of hot coffee on her blouse. She gaped at the basket; it was full of sugar packets and little plastic cups of creamer. Then she glanced up at the stubble-faced man who put it there.
He was short and stocky, with pale gray eyes and a greasy brown pompadour. When her eyes met his, he smiled, displaying crooked, yellow teeth. Smoker’s teeth. She could smell the nicotine all over him. He was like a living ashtray.
“Here you are,” he boomed. “Service with a smile.”
Raising one eyebrow, Sarah said, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She expected him to go away then, back to wherever he came from. Instead, he slid into the booth across the table from her. Sarah rolled her eyes.
“I’m married,” she said sternly.
“That a fact? A great institution, or so I’ve heard tell. Never got hitched myself. Always on the move, don’t make for a good marriage.”
“That’s very interesting, but if you don’t mind…?”
The man lifted his brow, waiting for Sarah to complete her request. She sighed again.
“Don’t mind what?” he asked.
“Are you serious?”
“Not usually. Got me a great sense a humor. I got ‘em laughin’ all the time.”
Astonished with his audacity, she shook her head at him. This guy just couldn’t buy a clue.
“Look,” she growled. “I don’t particularly feel like making any new friends today, all right?”
“Aw, that’s too bad.” Once more, he flashed his tar-stained grin at her.
“Which means I’d rather be alone.”
“You mean to tell me a pretty lady like you ain’t waiting on somebody to join her? Now that’s a damn crime.”
“That’s right,” she barked before the gravity of the man’s question hit her.
Was he just fishing to find out if she was traveling alone?
And did she just walk right into his little trap?
Shit.
“What a shame,” the man went on. “Good thing I came along then, ain’t it?”
“I sure wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
“Hell no.”
“How come?” He pouted dramatically.
“Because I know an asshole creep when I see one, and you just so happen to be an asshole creep.”
In an instant, the man’s playful face contracted into a savage glower. Icy needles danced up Sarah’s spine. He took in a deep breath, like he was about to lay into her. Here?
The kitchen door swung open and the waitress came waddling out with a brown plastic tray balanced on one hand. Atop the tray was a single plate, and on the plate was Sarah’s club sandwich.
She didn’t suppose anybody in the history of the world had ever been so happy to see a roadside lunch.
“Club,” the waitress said as she transferred the plate from the tray to the table.
Sarah looked up at her helplessly, her eyes wide and pleading. The waitress twisted her mouth up and turned to face the man.“King, you buggin’ this lady?”
“Who’s bugged?” King pleaded. “We’re just talking.”
“He’s talking,” Sarah cut in. “I’m bugged.”
“Crissakes, King. Leave her be. You’re such a dumb shit sometimes.”
For a second King looked genuinely offended. But then he held up his hands, palms out, and a smile spread across his hairy face.
“Just being friendly, ladies. No harm done.”
With that, he scooted out of the booth, flattened out his flannel shirt, and crossed the dining area to another table where he sat down. Sarah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.
“He don’t mean nothing,” the waitress assured her as she ripped off the ticket and dropped it on the table. “King’s a piece of work—he’s an asshole—but he don’t mean nothing.”
“Thanks for rescuing me,” Sarah said softly.
The waitress smiled for the first time since Sarah came in.
“No charge,” she said.
After that, the waitress tottered out the front door, extracting a pack of cigarettes from her apron pocket along the way. Sarah watched her go. Then she looked over at King. He was looking back at her. And still grinning. Sarah sneered at him and turned back to her lunch.
And while she ate, King stared at her.
***
Five or six miles further down the road, Sarah gave up on trying to find a tolerable radio station and turned it off. The sandwich felt good in her belly but the coffee was making her a little jittery. She wished she had a good book on tape, something to calm her mind.
She was nervous and upset from the incident at Bert’s Café, still angry with her brother, and tired of being on the road. And now, looking up at the rearview mirror and seeing a pickup truck barreling down on her with its high beams on, she felt scared, as well.
King. What a ridiculous name.
The ridiculous name of the guy who is going to rape me and murder me.
She blasted past a stop sign without so much as slowing down. The red octagon only registered in her peripheral vision in the instant before she passed it. There was a sharp intake of breath that accompanied the quickening of her heartbeat. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, a cop would count himself fortunate for the opportunity to pull over some city woman just passing through; anything to interrupt the monotony of small town police work. She considered whether or not it would be a boon to get pulled over with the truck catching up to her. She was undecided. For all Sarah knew, King was a cop. Or was in with them. Fishing buddies or some dumb hick shit like that. Out there in the middle of damn nowhere, where no one was really accountable for anything they did, anything could happen.
Sarah swallowed hard and glanced up at the rearview mirror again. There was no truck; only vacant road stretching on forever behind her. It probably hadn’t been King at all. Just some redneck kids out for a thrill ride. Never even noticed her.
And luckily for her, the transgression with the stop sign went unseen. After five minutes passed without the alarming presence of flashing bubblegum lights or threatening high beams in her rearview mirror, her breathing and heartbeat began slowing to relatively normal rates.
Only fifty miles left, she reminded herself. Less than an hour before she expected to be pulling into Walt’s driveway (if he had one). It was about time to start preparing what she was going to say to him, and how she was going to say it.
You were never around so you shouldn’t get a dime from her.
Sounded fair enough to Sarah, but hardly the right foot to start out on. Besides, Walt wouldn’t even know that his mother was ill, much less on death’s doorstep. He should have known, he should have been aware of all pertinent goings-on in his own family, but he had long ago made his choices and stuck to them. Walt was never the black sheep by nature, but by self-design. Sarah found that disgraceful, and it was the subject of many an argument between her and Momma. She loved her boy, as mothers are wont to do, and so she consistently failed to see what a perpetual prick he was. She would always cry a little when Walt missed Mother’s Day or went three years in a row failing to remember her birthday, but she always forgave him. Not that the bastard ever apologized. The forgiveness was implicit.
Now that she was on a roll recalling every sordid detail of her unpleasant experiences with her brother, she tried to remember e
xactly how long it had been since the last time they spoke. She decided it had been thirteen months, on the phone. She hadn’t actually seen him in more than four years. Over the course of Walt’s twenty-some years, they’d never gotten along. And not getting along very often amounted to violence and anger. He would never expect so serious an enemy to darken his doorstep unannounced.
He was in for a surprise.
23
Even with the strip of duct tape firmly affixed over her mouth, Amanda managed to scream. She watched with bulging eyes as Walt dragged Margaret’s inanimate body across the attic floor and down the stairs.
Walt’s skin felt hot, too tight. Amanda knew the house was miles from the nearest neighbor, and so her carrying on could accomplish nothing apart from annoying him. He was on the verge of scampering back up to the attic where he would threaten her with the same fate should she continue making such a scene. But Gwynplaine could not wait.
“Hurry,” it rasped. “Quick, Walt. Quick.”
Its mouth hung open, its fingers wiggling with eager anticipation.
“She’s here,” he said.
“Meat, Walt. Quick—the meat!”
He blanched. He never expected to do much more than bring Margaret to Gwynplaine.
“I—I can’t,” he stammered.
“You must. I’ll die.”
“It’s murder!”
“No! It is meat! Only meat!”
“But what if I’m found out? What if I’m caught?”
“You won’t be,” it said matter-of-factly.
“You don’t know that!”
“I will protect you. Always.”
Once again, its mouth spread into a ghastly grin, the origin of its apt name. It was a sardonic grin, appropriately. Ricus sardonicus. The Hippocratic smile.
“Sure you will,” he replied.
“Please.”
He looked at Margaret, stared at her open mouth and sleeping eyes. She already looked dead.
“Pleeeeeease,” Gwynplaine begged.
Walt slowly filled his lungs and held it for a moment before letting it out just as gradually.
