by Murr
"Are you alright?" Tim asked, knowing full well that no one would be alright after going through anything even close to what he had just suffered. Tim rested his hip on the countertop in an effort to take some of the pressure from his weak legs.
"Why is this happening?" she asked. The pain and confusion caused tears to well up and begin to slide down her face and fall from her cheeks.
"It had to have been whatever was in that fucking beer," Tim said, shaking his head. "We lost like three hours of time while we were up there and I don't see how that's possible. One second, the sun was right on top of me. By the time I walked from the impact area to the truck, around three hours had passed. How do you figure something like that happens with so few beers?"
"It had to be aliens. Oh God," she said, realizing what she would have to say next. "That beer bottle must have been from them. Whatever that black shit was—" she trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish forming the thought.
Tim wanted to argue that it was a ridiculous notion, but then he remembered the black egg that just shot out of his ass. Then he remembered the way that black shit had slithered out of the bottle and made its way underground. Next, his eyes went from Katie's face down to the porcelain throne upon which she sat.
"I've got to see something," he said as he offered her a helping hand to get up. His other hand remained on the counter, thinking he'd be able to support the weight of both of them.
"Trust me, Tim, there is nothing you could possibly want to see in there," she said, trying to fight back the tears.
"If your experience was anything like mine, there's probably something in there we're both going to need to see."
Katie looked up at him with confusion painted on her face. She knew something came out, but she just thought it was something that could be easily explained away. Her lip quivered as more tears fell from her face. Then came the realization that he hadn't laughed at her for mentioning aliens. She wished this was a time when someone would tell her she had lost her fucking mind—gotten heat stroke from too much beer and sun and needed to go to the hospital to have her head checked.
"Oh God," she said again through sobs as she took his hand. They both winced in pain as they tried to get her to her feet, but she was much more content to simply fall to her knees.
The inside of the toilet—as well as the front and back portions of the seat—had been painted a swirling mess of red and brown. Tim looked at his hand and saw that it was still a mess from earlier. He had no issue stuffing his hand into the hot, smelly waste that had been freshly made by his girlfriend to seek out what he knew must be in there.
It didn't take long to realize that he was actually very much not okay with feeling around in anyone's shit. As his hand touched what he already knew was on the bottom, he vomited into the bowl, coating his arm with thick potato paste and chunks of gray beef.
In utter revulsion, he ripped his arm—clutching the object that had found its way to the bottom of the bowl—from the toilet and put it straight into the sink as he blasted the faucet with his clean hand. First, he cleansed his forearm of the putrid mess before working his way to his hand and eventually the mysterious egg.
"What the hell is that?" Katie asked. At the realization that such a thing had come from her ass, she began to gag and felt like throwing up. She reached for the lever to flush down the ugly stew from their home. Once finished, she began to crawl from the small, horrible smelling room.
"It's some sort of egg, I think," he said, following her into the hall. The surprise she could see in the kitchen caused her stomach to turn, causing her to launch the fast food that remained in her stomach to the floor in front of her.
After wiping the strands of spit and vomit from her chin, she looked to Tim. "What the hell do you mean an egg?"
Tim held out the trinket he had retrieved from the toilet. "This. If this isn't some kind of an egg, I don't know what the hell else it could be. The same thing came out of me."
He walked to the kitchen to get his own egg to show her, but when he got there, all he found was the mess he had left. "What the fuck?" he asked, scratching his head with his clean hand.
"What's going on in there?"
"I-uh—I don't know," he replied. There was no trace of the egg. Not even shell fragments left behind. He had left the black ovoid on a clean surface of the counter, so there were no traces of where it could have made its way to.
Curious, Tim lifted the egg that was still in his hand. He gave it a gentle shake beside his ear, but heard no rattle or any other sound come from it. He observed the weight of it. There was no chance that it was purely from the contents drank from the beer bottle.
He had to know what was inside. He knocked it on the edge of the counter to try to crack it. Rather than giving at all, the egg bounced back without a scratch. He figured there was little chance of making too much more of a mess, so he struck the counted with it much harder, trying to smash it to bits.
The shock of the solid black egg against the counter sent a reverberation through his arm. The pain caused him to drop the egg to the floor, sending bits of shit from the puddle below splashing.
The fact that the egg was still intact was a surprise, but watching tiny tendrils sprout from it was unbelievable.
Startled, he jumped back from the thing and shouted, "Jesus Christ!"
"What's going on in there?" Katie asked, now beginning to crawl her way through the hall.
"This fucking thing is alive! It's got legs and it's moving. The other one disappeared to somewhere else."
"What is it?" Katie asked in alarm. She had made it to the kitchen, now. The vomit which now coated her legs trailed behind her like a snail trail.
The pain in his ass was excruciating as he knelt down to examine the writhing black creature. "I have no idea," he said as he reached down to pick it up.
As he wrapped his fingers around it, the tendrils also wrapped around his arm. "It's actually kind of cute, in a strange way," he said as he stood back up.
"I don't think anything that comes out of a person like that should be considered cu—" She was cut off by the screams that erupted from Tim.
As he screamed, he tried to wrap his fingertips around the tiny, seemingly delicate tendrils that were now burrowing into his vein. No blood leaked from the holes that were produced by the tiny arms that were pumping blood from him.
"What's it doing?" Katie asked. She found the answer in a way she would have rather avoided as she felt the sting of something sharp piercing into her femoral artery. Her hands swatted at her inner thigh as though she was being stung by bees, but it was of no use. Her blood was being pumped into the creature as it grew bigger and bigger.
As the two black creatures became engorged, they began to take on a new shape. At the top of the egg sprouted a round appendage which must have been a head. New tendrils reached out and attached to the host and began to pump. Arms began to protrude from the sides as well as little buds from the bottom, which would make up the legs.
Color was rapidly draining from the two hosts and the screaming died away until they lost consciousness. The pair were soon drained of blood, but the vampire-like creatures just kept sucking. While some of the tendrils sucked in, others pumped out an enzyme that had been breaking down the hosts to which they were attached. This enzyme slowly liquified them from the inside.
As the black faded, the creatures began to assume the color of their hosts. Eyes formed on the head and bones formed within the bodies. They no longer looked like eggs, but more like humans fetuses now.
After nearly half an hour, there was little more than empty bags of flesh left of the hosts and the tendrils of the strange parasites fell free of the duplicate bodies.
The invasion had begun.
DJ Tyrer
DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree), Snowpocalypse (Black Mirror Press), Ste
ampunk Cthulhu (Chaosium), Night in New Orleans (FunDead Publications), Miskatonic Dreams (Alban Lake), and Sorcery & Sanctity: A Homage to Arthur Machen (Hieroglyphics Press), and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on the Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).
SEEING THINGS by DJ Tyrer
Will’s life had taken a turn for the worse, but as his mother always said, “The sun always rises sooner or later,” and he was determined that when his luck changed, he’d take full advantage. At least he was off the crutches.
“Looking good, Will,” said the physiotherapist, Sandra, as he took his first uncertain steps without support in months. “Now,” she added, “it will take a while before you’ve got your strength and agility back, so take it easy with the ballet –”
“Very funny.” At least she wasn't making jokes about 'where there's a Will…'
“– but, you will get there as long as you keep active and do the exercises I gave you. I’ll see you once a week for the next few weeks to monitor your progress, but you should be able to resume a normal life quite shortly.”
“Thanks,” he said, shaking her hand, before leaving to make his way through the maze of hospital corridors to the outside. He was grateful to be free of the crutches; Sandra had given him a stick to lean on, but he was determined to use it as little as possible.
The fresh air was a delight to breathe after the stale air of the hospital. He pulled out his mobile and called for a cab. Will wasn’t fit to drive. Nor was his car; it had been a write-off after the crash. He nearly had been, too.
He wished he could have a smoke, but the signs were large and repetitive. He tapped his foot as he waited. Did that count as good exercise?
The taxi arrived and with a little difficulty he climbed in. He gave his address and nodded vaguely as the cabbie waffled on about the, to him, at least, surprisingly fact that summer was rather warm. Will was glad when he was finally able to extract himself from the vehicle.
As he went inside, Will became aware of movement at the very periphery of his vision, just over his right shoulder. He thought it must be the taxi driver following him up the garden path, for some reason. He turned bodily; his neck and back had suffered in the crash and he couldn’t turn his head to look over his shoulder as he once had. Will was surprised to see there was no-one there. He wondered if he’d detected the movement of a bird or insect. With a slight shrug that caused him to wince, he turned, put it from his mind and went inside.
Yes, it was good to be free of the crutches. He just hoped he’d be able to set the stick aside, soon, as well.
#
Work was his next priority. Will had been a rep and, unable to drive, wasn’t able to work. Unfortunately, he was able to walk, now, which meant a benefits downgrade: he needed a job.
“So,” asked the interviewer, “if you were a colour, what colour would you be?”
Will didn’t answer straight away, but not because he was thinking about his answer, nor because he was bemused by the question. There was movement at the fringe of his vision. He was turning his head, little by little, despite the pain, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was standing behind him, but they were always just out of sight.
“Uh, Mr Roberts, are you okay?”
Will jerked his head back to face him and gasped from the sharp pain. “Um, yeah.”
“So?”
“Sorry?”
“I asked: if you were a colour, what colour would you be?”
“Uh, blue, I guess. I like blue.”
The interviewer tutted and made a note.
More questions followed, but Will remained distracted.
“Who’s that,” he suddenly exclaimed.
“Sorry,” asked the interviewer.
“Who’s that, behind me?”
“Um, there’s nobody behind you.”
Will stood and span about, but there was no-one there. The shadow was still there at the corner of his eye. He swore.
“What’s happening,” he demanded.
Not waiting for an answer, he stormed out, confused. He pulled his phone out and booked an appointment to see his doctor. Forget the interview, he was worried something was wrong with him. He’d had a scan after his accident, but who knew what hidden injuries he might have sustained?
He pulled out a cigarette to calm his nerves. It didn’t help.
#
“I keep seeing movement behind me, from the corner of my eye, but there’s never anything there,” said Will, wringing his hands and wishing he had a cigarette. “I’m worried it’s some sort of brain injury from the accident. A bleed on the brain, or whatever you call it.”
The doctor steepled his fingers and gave a soft chuckle.
“Dear me,” he said; “we are worried aren’t we?”
“Well, I certainly am; I don’t know about you. Look, I need to know what’s wrong with me.”
“Quite probably nothing,” Dr Vannava replied, “but rest assured I shall examine you for all possibilities.” He stood and stepped around his desk. “First, let’s check your eyes, see if there’s something causing it.”
There wasn’t. “Still, I recommend you visit the optician. I’ll also book you in for some scans, just to make sure. But, if you want my opinion, it’s probably a nervous condition brought on by the accident and the stress of your current situation. Make an appointment to see me in two weeks and, if nothing has shown up, I’ll put you on antidepressants.”
#
Nothing was found. His eyes were fine and his brain was in perfect condition. There was no physical cause for his symptom, which had been growing worse.
“Have the tablets worked?” asked Mick. Will had hardly seen his former work colleague since the accident; the life of a rep was a busy one.
“Nah,” Will said with a sigh. “About the only thing they’ve achieved is put me on the orange juice. Speaking of which,” he held up his empty glass.
Mick hopped to his feet and headed over to the bar.
While he waited for him to return, Will attempted to study the movement at the corner of his eye.
“Here we go,” said Mick returning with another orange juice. “I’m going to have to go in a minute – no rest for the wicked, eh?”
“Sure.” Seeing Mick merely served to remind him how much he missed his job.
Mick swigged down the last of his beer and said “Goodbye,” before disappearing out of the pub.
Will sipped slowly at his orange juice. The movement was still there. He felt as if he were slowly going mad.
He pushed the half-full glass away and headed off to the toilets. Hardly salubrious, but he didn’t care. He went over to the cracked mirror and studied his eye.
Will was certain there was something there on the lower right side of his right eyeball, a dark blotch right in the corner.
It moved.
Will jumped back, stepped into the urinal, but barely noticed, didn’t care. Slowly, warily, he moved back towards the mirror. Scared of what he might see, he almost turned away. Then, he looked again: he had to know.
There was something small and dark moving in the corner of his eye.
Will turned and ran, stumbling through the pub in a state of terror, sending chairs flying and leaving a damp trail of footprints in his wake.
He wandered about for a while, puffing on cigarette after cigarette, not knowing what to do. Then, as he calmed down, he began to think more rationally. He had read in the paper of someone who came back from holiday with a leech up their nose. Okay, he hadn’t been on holiday swimming in dodgy water, but he had gone flying from his car into bushes. Maybe something had crawled into his eye while he was lying there unconscious.
Will decided to head to the doctor’s.
“I need to see Dr. Vannava.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” he told the receptionist, “but I need to see him immediately.”
“I can make an appointment for –”
“I need to
see him right now!”
“Sir, please, calm down.”
“I won’t calm down – I need to see Dr. Vannava right now!”
“Sir!”
He turned and walked past the reception desk.
“Hey, you can’t go in there without an appointment!”
He ignored her and headed straight for the doctor’s room, just pushed the door open and walked in. Had he been calm enough to properly register the fact, Will would have been glad to see the doctor was alone.
Dr. Vannava looked up from his computer screen as if Will bursting in was a perfectly normal occurrence.
“Ah, Mr Roberts, how may I help you?” he asked.
The receptionist appeared in the doorway, but left when he waved her away.
“I think there’s a leech in my eye – look!”
“A leech? Really?”
“Yes – look!”
“Okay.” He rose and examined Will’s eye. “Nothing there.”
“Yes, there is: I saw it moving. The dark mark. It’s right there, in the corner.”
“There’s no dark mark.”
“There is, I saw it. Maybe... maybe it’s retreated under my eyelid or something. You’ve got to find it.”
“Very well.” The doctor took a good look, pulling his lid out and examining all round his eyeball until he put down his tools and said, “Nothing.”
“But, I saw it.”
“I think you’re hallucinating as a result of stress. I’d like to book you in to see a specialist...”
#
“I’m going mad,” Will told himself. “Seeing things.”
Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, talking therapy, none of the treatments had done anything save make Will question his sanity. They might say it was a natural reaction to stress and anxiety, but from his position, there was nothing natural about it: he continued to see movement was less nebulous: it was almost as if fronds were waving in the vicinity of his shoulder.
