Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Get Stan.

  Rosita groaned, clutching her temple. She wasn’t dead, but only just conscious. Sally moved. There was only one door that she could see, partially hidden behind a torn curtain at the back of the lobby. The floor and the door seemed to slope as Sally ran for it. Everything here was topsy-turvy and Sally was still light-headed. She steadied herself against the doorframe for a second before pushing her way in.

  It was the same workroom, but much, much larger. This time, the room seemed to go on for infinity, the chessboard floor stretching into the shadows with no walls in sight.

  There were many chairs and tables this time, all with clients stretched out on them. They weren’t in the same state as the corpses in the lobby, but not far off. They writhed in pain, backs arched, mouths open in silent screams. Their pale, naked flesh was infested, swarming in tattoos of all different shapes, colours and sizes. Each tattoo crawled over their bodies. How many entities here needed new hosts? How many demons were housed here? Or was each a fragment of one larger being? Were they all controlled by Molly Sue, like the being inside Rosita? Like the being that had been inside her?

  It all made sense – well as much as something so insane can ever hope to. They, whatever they were, must move from host to host until they were spent like the husks outside. The host only died when the parasite allowed it. Oh, with the exception of Boris and Rosita – Molly Sue must preserve and enhance them to do her dirty work. How many years, Sally wondered, until she’d have used me up and bled me dry?

  All excellent questions, but questions Sally didn’t have time to deal with, and, by the looks of it, it was way too late to save these poor souls. One of the human cages – a girl not much older than her – peered at her with sunken, glassy eyes. Despair contorted her face into something inhuman and Sally had to look away.

  Where is he? She followed the buzz of the needle. In the centre of the hall, under a single feeble lamp was Boris. He held his needle just centimetres above a clear expanse of skin: Stan, hunched over a chair, his shirt off.

  ‘NO!’ Sally screamed, her voice echoing through the chamber. Boris’s amber eyes gleamed above his mouth mask and she tore across the room, pushing past trolleys and tables. Ignoring the artist’s height and weight, she threw herself at him, grabbing for the needle. He wasn’t expecting the attack and, to even Sally’s surprise, she knocked him back. He collided with his trolley – inks and jars toppled over with a smash. An overwhelming blast of alcohol filled her nostrils. Antiseptic.

  Boris batted her away like a fly, knocking her into a cold puddle, and turned back to Stan. No. Sally pounced onto his back, tugging him away. ‘Let him go!’ she cried before biting his ear. She bit so hard she tasted blood. This time, Boris howled in pain. He threw his shoulders left and right, trying to loosen her but she only clung on tighter, wrapping her legs around his waist. ‘Stan! Run!’ she yelled, but he didn’t move, draped where he was.

  With her left hand she grabbed at Boris’s jaw and the surgical mask came away. Sally screamed and crashed to the floor, and saw his face for the first time. She couldn’t look away. It was hideous. Where there should have been a jaw was just a hole. A long, thick, pink tongue thrashed around like a fish out of water. His top teeth were normal enough but the tongue was loose, flopping around his neck with no chin or lower teeth to support it.

  All Sally could think was that Boris, the man, not the creature inside him, had tried to tell someone the truth. Only Molly Sue could have done this. Sally pressed her hand to her own mouth, knowing Boris had most likely ripped his own jaw off under the influence of his tattoos.

  Furious, his eyes burned like fire. He made a horrid, slurping moan and came for her. He would surely crush her.

  ‘Stop!’ Stan’s voice rang around the room. ‘Sally, just stop.’

  Both she and Boris turned to him. ‘Stan . . . you’re OK!’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He rose from the chair, a little woozy, but otherwise unharmed.

  Sally ran to him and examined his skin. It hadn’t been marked. ‘Oh, thank God. I got here in time.’ She reached out for his hand. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ In this place, he was the only thing that seemed real. A lifeboat in a sea of nightmares. She clung to him.

  He pushed her away. ‘Sally, I have to do this.’

  ‘What?’ She looked at him like he was insane. ‘No! No way!’

  ‘Rosita told me everything. If I take Molly Sue, you’ll be free and things can just go back to how they were.’

  Sally shook her head, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. ‘No. Stan, you don’t know what she’s like.’ The door creaked and Rosita prowled in, sticking to the outskirts of the light. Sally ignored her. ‘She’ll make you do the most terrible things. You don’t get a say in them. She’ll steal your body.’

  Stan seemed resigned to this; his eyes were dim. ‘I can feel her . . . it . . . in me. It just wants to exist.’

  ‘For ever,’ Sally spat. ‘She wants to live for ever. She’ll go on and on. When you die she’ll just keep going.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t mind. She says she just wants a home. I’ll do that if it means you can be free.’

  Rosita edged ever nearer. Sally grabbed another jar of antiseptic solution from a different trolley and hurled it at her. She side-stepped it, and it smashed into the wall behind her. ‘Stay where you are!’ Sally growled at Rosita, who cowered behind a table. She turned back to Stan. This was a trick. ‘You’re not Stan. It’s Molly Sue. You’re making him do this.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ Stan insisted. ‘She says her hosts must willingly submit.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Although I did.

  ‘It’s true! Sally, please, just let me do this for you.’

  Her hands curled into fists. ‘Stan . . . I don’t need you to save me. I need you . . . to go. I just need you to be OK. You want to free me? I can’t ever, ever be free knowing I did this to you. I would rather die.’ She took at deep breath. ‘Molly Sue, if you’re not making Stan do this, prove it! Come back into me . . . now.’ She grabbed Stan’s face and planted another kiss hard on his lips. She pulled back and Stan blinked, stunned.

  A pause and then it hit her. Once more she felt the shadow tendrils unfurling in her mind. Like tangleweed, Molly Sue wrapped herself around Sally’s thoughts. As much as she hated to admit it, she hadn’t quite felt . . . complete . . . without her.

  ‘Did ya miss me, darlin’?’

  ‘Let Stan go,’ she said aloud. Stan now slumped into the tattooist’s chair, the possession or transfer apparently draining him.

  ‘But he seems so willin’, dontchya think? And I could have a real good time with all that body. No offence, darlin’, you ain’t exactly the life and soul of the party . . .’

  Sally ignored her. ‘You have me. You don’t need him. What is it they say? Better the devil you know?’

  Molly Sue hesitated but seemed to agree. ‘They also say, there’s no place like home.’

  The ball was in Sally’s court.

  Well, this really, really sucked. This is what tomorrow was like now. Every tomorrow. Ever. Sally Feather and Molly Sue: BFFs 4eva. She felt that last dribble of hope gurgle down the plughole. ‘I guess we’re stuck with each other. I made my bed . . .’

  ‘And now we’ll get real cosy in it together. I’m not so bad, am I, sugar?’

  Sally felt her blood turning black; revulsion crawled under her flesh all the way to the bone. ‘You’re . . . a disease, Molly Sue. A plague.’

  Stan, his torso slick with sweat, examined her, no doubt looking for signs she was possessed. ‘Is she back in you? Sally, no!’

  Sally slipped her hands in his. Time to say goodbye. ‘Stan, this . . . is right. It’s how it has to be. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.’ She looked him in the eye and saw how blue they really were for the first time. They were the colour of the sky in summer, a blue you could swim in. ‘Stan, I love you. Not love like in a cheesy Valentine’s Day card o
r boy-band song . . . something bigger and better than that. You are like the scaffolding around my heart and you always have been. I need to know that you are OK.’

  ‘Mary, Jesus and Joseph, I’m a gonna hurl,’ Molly Sue muttered.

  ‘Stan, please just go.’

  The muscles in his neck tensed. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  Tell the truth or lie? Lie. ‘Yes, but I need to get some things straight first. I can’t go on like this for ever. I’ll be out in two minutes. I just want you out of here . . . I don’t trust them.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Stan, please.’ At that moment she needed Stan to understand without her even thinking about it. She looked deep, deep into his eyes, willing him to go and telling him to trust her.

  He caved, although he seemed far from pleased. ‘I will be right outside. I’m not going home without you.’ He scowled at Boris, trying to give the Stan Randall interpretation of a menacing glare. It didn’t really come off but Sally appreciated the gesture. Reluctantly, he backed towards the door to the lobby.

  Sally waited until he had left. Rosita sidled up alongside Boris. ‘We cannot let you leave the House of Skin,’ she said. ‘You’ll just go back to your friends and have the tattoo removed. We live to protect Mother.’

  Sally wondered what kind of deal with the devil Rosita and Boris had signed. Immortality in exchange for bringing in willing victims? There was every possibility they weren’t even human at all any more. Sally half smiled. ‘I wish it were that easy. It didn’t work last time. I’ll give it to Molly Sue, she’s resourceful.’

  The tattoo spoke to her children – apparently they could hear the tattoo too. ‘Stop her. She’s plannin’ somethin’. I can feel it and she’s blockin’ me out!’

  Boris stepped forward, but Sally was quicker. Her hand ducked into the pocket of the leather jacket and pulled out Kyle’s lighter. With her thumb she flicked the lid open and found the spark wheel. She pressed it hard and a healthy flame leaped from it. ‘Stay back.’

  The flame danced in their inhuman eyes. Sally looked to her feet and saw she was still standing in a thin puddle. ‘The floor is covered in alcohol. You know what’ll happen . . .’ For good measure she tipped over another trolley. More antiseptic spilled over the floor, the alcohol stench burning in the back of her throat.

  ‘How do you even know it would work?’ Rosita said. ‘Down here the rules are meaningless.’

  It was a bluff worth calling. ‘Because I can see how scared you are.’ The flame burned her fingers. ‘This has to stop. I don’t know exactly who or what you are, but it’s evil. Old-school evil.’ Sally knew Molly Sue now and she was unquestionably evil. There wasn’t a more appropriate word. Selfish, immoral, wicked, yes, but something worse than just those things. Sally could understand it now; this was how people did unspeakable things . . . they had this, even an essence of this, within them.

  ‘There is no such thing as evil, darlin’,’ said Molly Sue.

  ‘There is,’ Sally said, remembering Sister Bernadette’s sermon. ‘And it lives in the hearts of men. But so does good. If I can do a good thing, I probably should. I can end all this. I can stop you from doing this to more people, and set these ones free. Even if it means . . .’ She smiled wryly. ‘Standing back and letting evil happen is its own kind of evil.’

  ‘You don’t want to die, Sally Feather,’ Rosita purred, reaching out for the lighter.

  ‘I don’t. But it’s the right thing to do . . .’

  Molly Sue hollered over her. ‘Quit wastin’ time, Feather! We both know you don’t got the balls!’

  Sally closed her eyes. ‘Who needs them?’

  She let the lighter fall to the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Having never played with candles and matches, I never thought of fire as a physical thing, but I’m wrong. The heat’s like an eighteen-wheeler truck hitting me front on. I’m thrown clean across the room, colliding with one of the tables.

  The heat . . . the heat is unbearable. As stupid as this sounds, I’m not ready for how HOT it is. You feel it, you know, you feel it on your skin. Oh, and the smell, the smell of your own flesh burning. I don’t know what’s worse, that or Rosita’s screams. Through the flames I see their flailing bodies alight. They thrash and crash with nowhere to go.

  ‘You stupid little bitch! What have you done?’ Molly Sue is screaming.

  I’ve never heard her like this. No funny quips now, eh?

  ‘Get on your feet and run! What are you doing? Run!’

  My urge to run is strong; every cell begs me to get away from the flames. After a second, I realise I’ve been thrown clear of the inferno but the flames are spreading, chasing across the floor. Can you remember those old cartoons with the cute dancing flames? It’s like that – just not cute. Tongues lick at me.

  ‘Nowhere to go, Molly Sue,’ I tell her. ‘We’re going together.’ This time there’s no one for her to jump into either.

  The smoke’s as oppressive as the fire itself. Thick, black clouds billow and ripple, rolling over the ceiling and then back down like a tide. Yes, that’s precisely what it’s like – a sea of fire and smoke and I’m drowning.

  I have to stay. If I run it would be for nothing. I can’t get up, anyway. My clothes are on fire. I was covered in the alcohol so my jeans have gone up. I feel the denim fuse to my skin. My face is taut as the flames bluster towards me. I cover my eyes with blistered hands.

  I can feel it, I can feel it in the room. Something thick and heavy and malign. She circles the flames. I hear her ghastly, feral screams. The real Molly Sue.

  This is what all those stories warned us about. This is the dark at the heart of the forest; this is the Big Bad Wolf; this is both serpent and apple. There were warnings everywhere – in the Bible, on TV, in nursery rhymes. I always thought they were metaphors or allegories to get me to go to bed, to make me eat my vegetables. I ignored them. I think we all do.

  And now it’s too late. I was weak and now I am dead.

  Oh, it’s for the best. I hurt people every way people can be hurt. And I’d do it again.

  This is not just badness.

  This is not just wrong.

  This is evil.

  This won’t last much longer. We are devoured. I am cleansed.

  I have hope – a kind of hope I haven’t felt in a while. Now that I know all about evil, I have to give a little consideration to Good. Capital G. I’m not sure you can have one without the other, so maybe, just maybe, there’s something for me to look forward to in a couple of minutes. I cling to that and my heart lifts. There’s something, even if it’s nothing, just around the corner.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Let there be light.

  Sally first became aware of light.

  White splodges, nothing more, but there was indeed something.

  She was tired. She slept.

  Gradually, there was more light. Darker shapes moved within the light like clouds. People . . . there were people moving over her. She was still very tired, though. This sleep squashed her down, like she was caught in a riptide, being sucked under time after time. She couldn’t break the surface. She slept.

  The light grew brighter and clearer. It was a ceiling. She could see a ceiling with a strip light and those polystyrene tiles. But she was still so tired. This time she could feel her hands – they were where they had always been, but she couldn’t really move them. They felt wrong.

  She was more lucid this time. I am not dead. I survived. How? If I survived . . . Sally looked for Molly Sue inside, but was just too weak. Her head . . . it felt . . . quiet.

  That’s good enough.

  She slept.

  Sally heard a voice. At first she panicked, thinking that Molly Sue was back in her head, but after a moment, she recognised it as her mother’s. She felt warm breath on her ear. ‘Heavenly Father,’ her mother whispered. ‘I’ve only ever asked you for one thing. I asked to be blessed with a child and you se
nt this gift to me. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to take her away. It’s too soon. It’s too soon for my little girl to go. Please, God, I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything you ask, just please return her to us. Whatever I’ve done, punish me, not her.’

  I’m here, Mum! Sally tried to speak but she could not; there was something in her mouth, something plastic. Instead, she did all she could: with what little strength she had left in her hand, she squeezed her mother’s. She was wearing some sort of glove.

  ‘Sally?’ She heard her mother’s chair screech across linoleum. ‘Sally, can you hear me?’

  Sally again tried to speak, managing to gurgle.

  ‘Nurse! Nurse! I think she’s coming around! Nurse! Please!’

  Sally heard footsteps scurrying around her bed and fell back to sleep.

  ‘Sally? Can you hear me? My name is Dr McCulloch. No . . . no, don’t try to move or talk, just lie still. You’re in the hospital, my dear. Can you look into this light for me? Just follow my little light. Good girl. You’re on a lot of pain medication, that’s what’s making you so sleepy, but you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be just fine . . .’

  She had to live. She had to get better. She started to feel the pain and, oh man, did it hurt. All of her back, her arms, her legs. As soon as she was able to sit up independently, Dr McCulloch explained she’d sustained fifty-two per cent burns. Sally hadn’t seen herself yet, but she wasn’t so drugged up that she couldn’t understand that more of her body was burned than not.

  Her movement was limited, her skin felt impossibly tight, like latex around her bones. Even the slightest change in position was agony and her legs had to be suspended from the bed. While she’d been sleeping – for almost a week she’d been sinking in that quicksand sleep, according to the doctor – they’d already performed skin grafts on her back and legs, tackling the worst of her burns.