"I thought you left," Harmon said. Sheet Kid shook its head and continued smacking its deformed lips together. Harmon thought he could see a tiny pinkish tongue in there, but the natural light was growing dim and the orange porch light threw strange shadows. It could have been an illusion.
"Are you okay, kid? I mean, do you have any... I don’t know. I don’t even know how to say it right. Is there something wrong with you?"
The Sheet Kid simply stood there, stock still, with its head cocked like a dog. Harmon was a bit confused, unsure what to do or how to approach this visitor. He dug around in the candy bowl and brought out a cinnamon disk.
"Candy?" Harmon said. "Do you know what candy is? You take off the wrapper and it’s sweet inside. You eat it."
Harmon popped the hard candy into his mouth and exaggerated his enjoyment of it. "Mmmmm," he said. "This is good! Do you want some?" Harmon dug another red hot from the candy bowl and held it out in his open palm.
The Sheet Kid looked at Harmon and its face began moving in a counterclockwise fashion. Its head didn’t move, only its face, like a lid twisting itself off a jar. There was a faint sound of sliding, something slick and mushy. It was repellent, but Harmon couldn’t stop watching.
"Are you doing this?" Harmon hoarsely asked. "Is that some kind of a trick mask?"
Soon, the Sheet Kid’s mouth was where its forehead used to be. It stared upside-down at Harmon, its scribbly eyes filling with some kind of primitive need. The hideous mouth like a ringworm scar pursed its lips, which kept growing, filling themselves out into a pulsing membranous cone which opened and closed, opened and closed, sucked and slurped.
Harmon inched away from the thing, backing towards the front door. He scrabbled around trying to find the knob, while keeping his eyes on the creature on the porch. The thing’s mouth now resembled a butterfly’s proboscis. Small drops of mucus dripped from its tip. Finally grasping the door knob, Harmon twisted it open and shuffled inside, squeezing in, cracking the door only as much as needed to fit his body in.
Once inside, he slammed the door. The porch light was still on, and Harmon ran to the window that overlooked the front stoop. "What the hell was that?" he asked himself. Should he call the sheriff? Should he try to catch that thing? Was it human? Would it count as murder to shoot the fucking thing?
The thing stood on Harmon’s front porch, bathed in orange light, with its narrow upside-down eyes, gazing at Harmon through the window.
Harmon’s went around the corner and switched off the light in the breezeway. He looked out the window again. The thing still stared directly at him, its long thin mouth almost reaching the glass. The old man stared at the alien thing outside his door, perplexed and amazed, when he noticed the porch light was still on.
Dammit, Harmon thought, and he reached around and threw that switch, too. The light clicked off outside. Both switches were on the same plate; he could have done it all at once, but he wasn’t exactly thinking straight. Harmon went back to the window. He squinted while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Was it gone? Harmon could no longer see it, but that didn’t mean it had left.
The only way to know was to turn the porch light back on, which, if Harmon was honest with himself, was something he did not want to do. Maybe it would be best to sit this one out. Just go on to bed. Lock the bedroom door, maybe inhale a couple shots of whiskey to take the edge of and just go to bed. Don’t even talk about it with the boys at The Meal Worm. Just let this one go.
Harmon scooted around the corner to turn on the porch light. The Sheet Kid was already inside. It stood on the welcome mat with its upside down face, tube-mouth twitching about in the air. Harmon yelped and backed away.
"What are you?" Harmon yelled at the intruder. "What the fuck are you?"
The Sheet Kid walked towards Harmon, as if it had been invited, its quivering elongated mouth smacking and dripping. Harmon backed up into his living room. Hidden in the drawer of one of his end tables was a pistol. Harmon kept it for situations like this. This was a home invasion now. If he could get to that gun, he could shoot first and ask questions later. Still though, what if it was just a kid? Some fucked-up kid, to be sure, but still just a child?
Off to the side, he could hear a tapping on the living room windows. He glanced over quickly, not wanting to take his eyes of the Sheet Kid for too long.
Harmon let out a small choking noise.
There were dozens of them. His yard was full of Sheet Kids. They must have come down out of the woods, up from the ground or something. They stood at the side of his house, jammed up against the window. Harmon could hear how desperately they wanted inside. All those pink wrinkled deformed mouths, pressed against the glass like lampreys at an aquarium, left saliva trails as they moved, gasping for something.
The doorbell began ringing, non-stop. From his vantage point in between rooms, Harmon could see five more of the creatures trying to peer through the window overlooking his front porch. They must be standing on each other’s shoulders, he thought.
There was no way Harmon could kill all of them. Not enough ammo. Not enough time. The creature in front of him kept moving forward, backing him into a corner. He looked back at the horde outside, only they weren’t outside anymore. As he watched, the things outside disappeared and reappeared inside his home. They were like smoke, like a fragrance on the breeze.
"What do you want?" Harmon screamed at them. "What the fuck do you want with me?"
The living room was a quivering mass of white and pink, silent except for Harmon’s breathing and the sucking sounds from the creatures, like dozens of tiny wet vacs. They stood, bobbing up and down slightly, some with their faces spinning around like hatch locks.
Harmon sighed. "What are we doing, kids?"
He dropped his chin to his chest. He came close to laughing. Of course. He knew what was happening now. He felt the familiar twinge in his lower back as he lowered himself down to the softly carpeted living room floor. Gingerly, he unbuttoned his shirt.
"Easy, kids," he said to the crowd in his living room. "I’m deddikit."
He wadded up his shirt and threw it across the room. Then he extended his arms, like a junkie waiting for an injection.
They all fell on him then, their mouths attaching to Harmon’s bare skin, burrowing inside. Their teeth spun. Blood and meat made small splatterings, like cake batter flying off a still-spinning beater. Harmon could feel his veins being sucked out of his arms like pasta. It burned. He opened his mouth to scream.
When he did, the first child who had shown up on his porch inserted its proboscis into Harmon’s. He could feel the tiny teeth making a hole. Blood flooded his mouth as the snake-like tube wriggled about inside his tongue. It was like an earthworm, digging through thick dirt.
More children came, floating through walls, drifting down the stairs, to enjoy their Halloween feast. In time, the children took off Harmon’s wrapper. He was sweet inside. It was good, and all the children wanted some.
Black Friday
I
Black Friday Rising Up
IT WAS THANKSGIVING evening. Most folks were at home with their families, watching cartoon dogs skip and dance across the television screen or quoting lines along with some Jimmy Stewart movie everyone had seen, once a year, for their entire lives. It was misty and cold, a fine night to crack open the brandy and build a fire, perhaps the first one of the year.
At The Store, the parking lot was full. Little puffs of exhaust emanated from the cars and minivans, their occupants huddled inside under homemade afghans and blankets, staring at their smartphones or tablets. They sipped from vacuum bottles filled with strong hot coffee or tea, and they waited.
The store opened at 6 a.m. the following morning for the first official day of the Christmas shopping season.
II
The Cashier
SARAH HAD SPENT the night at the store, in the back room, with the other opening shift girls. There had been no point in going home the night before w
ith the place opening so early. It had been a fitful sleep, filled with jagged dreams of teeth and eyes rolling back in lolling heads, and Sarah had woken several times in the night. The last time she snapped awake, jerking her head and driving her chin hard into her chest, she decided that sleep was not meant to be for her.
She crept out into the store proper, barely saying hello to the guys still furiously stocking shelves, up towards the front. Stopping behind an endcap, Sarah peered out around the corner and through the entrance doors. The shoppers were already starting to line up, faces, pressed against the glass like curious children at an aquarium. If they saw her, they would start knocking, banging against the doors, insisting to be let in. Sarah shrunk back and stared at them with a curious horror.
(look at them all with their coffee cups full of the blood of the American South and their mouths like grappling hooks)
Sarah pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and checked the time. 4:43 a.m. Less than two hours now.
(they have come to make their sacrifices and receive their gift receipts of absolution, slaves to traditions they don’t know how to understand, feeding their terrible hunger eat buy consume and call it love)
The staff meeting started at 5:00. She backed away from her hiding place, still watching the throng (sharks in a frenzy, people like fire, engulfing everything, the blank check holding sway over all) of people. Soon, those doors would open and they would come flooding in. Sarah held her fear, which she had to admit was growing with each passing minute, in check and hurried to the back of the store.
The manager’s name was Dick and everyone, including Dick, appreciated and understood that self-fulfilling prophecy. He had positioned himself on top of a rolling ladder while the rest of the management team, floor workers and cashiers gathered below. Sarah instinctively understood his power positioning, making sure everyone had to beta to his alpha. Dick.
"Black Friday is upon us, Team," Dick began. "And I know you’re as excited about helping the company break last year’s sales record as I am." He was able to say this without irony, as most of the team was unaware that the size of Dick’s bonus depended largely on Black Friday sales. Some of the team clapped softly, in a vain attempt to be recognized for their company loyalty and willingness to go the extra mile.
Sarah was not one of the clappers. She bit her fingernails while listening to Dick talk. Every once in a while, she would take a quick glance at her (cultist sheep mendicants worshipping at the flat-topped pyramid of credit card hearts) co-workers. They were tired and glassy-eyed, greedily sucking on energy drinks or fast-food cappuccinos, masking their own dread with fake smiles and forced joviality.
"Also," Dick continued, "despite the protests of some quite vocal demographics within our customer base, Corporate has decided to keep ‘Happy Holidays’ as our standard greeting and farewell during this quarter of the fiscal year. I realize that some of you here may be disappointed by that. Please keep in mind that this decision was made at a corporate level and not at a store level. We will, in turn, abide by that decision. While we cannot do anything about what some have labeled the War on Christmas, we can do everything in our power to win the Battle of Great Customer Service, right?"
There was more weak applause. Sarah had to piss.
"All right, everybody. Take about fifteen minutes to get yourself ready. I’m planning on opening the doors at ten till six. After all, opening the store early is what’s best for the customer. Remember, cashiers, keep an eye on your tills and don’t lose the credit or debit receipts! Janice will be in charge of all change orders. I will be in my office if anyone needs me! Go get ‘em, Team!" Dick said as he descended the ladder (the high priest returning to earth after talking to his gods, blood dripping from his sacrifice hands, speaking in tongues his people cannot understand, the lexicon of the pantheon).
The hustle and bustle of the store girls echoed off the brown tile walls in the ladies’ room, where there was rarely enough toilet paper, but there was always someone available to change the sign indicating what the company’s stock was worth that day. Sarah huddled on the toilet, listening to the loud talking and insipid chatter. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to relax enough to piss. She stared at the stall door until it seemed she could see through it, past the others and their last-minute makeup fixes, past the layaway department, through the auto parts and camping gear. She flew like a hummingbird right to the front of the store, when the shoppers had exponentially grown in number. She darted about, seeing the avarice in their eyes, a slavering bloodlust they only allowed themselves to experience one day a year. This was their Red Day, their Zero Hour. The hunt was about to begin.
"Hey!" Someone was banging on the door. "You tryin’ to shit a baby or what? Let’s go!"
Sarah wiped hurriedly and flushed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken, dark half circles beneath them. Her mouth naturally frowned and her hair refused to stay in place. She realized, with a half-chuckle, that when those front doors opened and the flood swept in, she had no idea what she would do. There was a freedom in that, that high-flying crazy that suddenly had taken place in her soul, that fear so intense it felt like being on the edge of an orgasm, one of those hard ones that make you sneeze and pee a little bit.
So this is what it’s like, Sarah thought, to lose your mind and not want it back.
III
The Sweater
VICTORIA HOLMAN WAS never called "Vicki" or "Vic," not even by her infrequent lovers or estranged ex-husband. Her bright silver hair was in a perfect bun atop her head, just as it was in the fashion photograph on all the "For Sale" signs that lived in the front yards of modest mansions in topped-out upscale subdivisions with gibberish names like Terrapin Pointe and Doe Run Creek. Her cigarettes were menthol and ultra-light. Her teeth were professionally whitened. Her lithe body was the product of yoga, desperation and the sporadic liposuction. Even now, waiting in line outside of The Store at some ungodly hour of the morning with the Great Unwashed, Victoria projected the image of a fiercely independent woman, a self-made and self-maintained creature. She wanted to be the woman other women wanted to be. Some days, she was.
Suddenly, there was a shift in the crowd. Victoria checked her watch. By God, they were opening the store early. Little miracles, eh? Maybe she could get her shopping done and still make it home to nurse a snifter through the parade on television.
She was jostled from behind and took a light elbow to the kidney. Victoria turned her head to complain, but realized quickly there was no way to place blame correctly. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of people behind her, all trying to squeeze into an entrance big enough for maybe twelve humans at a time. There was yelling now, an urging cry to "move it!" Victoria instinctively shouldered a taller man to her left who was dawdling. He didn’t even seem to notice.
This must be what sperm feel like, Victoria thought absently. So many of them trying to get into the same place and claim the same prize, so many failing. Victoria did not deal with failure well.
The temperature within the mob of people was increasing as excitement and adrenaline ramped up. Victoria thought she could hear a low growl, but couldn’t tell if it was coming from within the crowd or outside it. Nonetheless, that sound agitated her. A woman in a black shawl cut in front of her. Victoria kicked her in the back of the knee and the woman buckled, but didn’t fall. That was disappointing. Cutters shouldn’t be allowed into the store, Victoria thought. Just because the rules were unwritten didn’t mean they could be ignored. That woman should have been stepped on like a condom wrapper.
Whoa. Victoria caught herself. What was she doing? She was Victoria Holman, Realtor of the Year for three years running. She had survived the scandal when her bastard ex-husband was impeached for what she called "misappropriation of mistresses." She had stood by him at those press conferences as he denied spending the taxpayers’ money on black tar heroin. Hadn’t she looked brave and strong when both his secretary and the assi
stant city planner had gone on record as saying he had been porking the both of them, sometimes simultaneously? She was Victoria Holman. Her backbone was made of steel and her heart, ice.
She still hated that son of a bitch, and the low growl kept getting louder, and she could smell the feverish fear sweat of every single person around her. It spurred Victoria’s competitive nature. It made her angry. She stepped on a short black man’s foot, on purpose, giving it a quick little grind before removing her foot.
"Watch where you’re walking, lady," the man said.
"Keep your mouth shut, ass," Victoria said.
She was unwillingly dropping shield after shield, the tribal mob driving her on, that goddamned low throb sound reverberating like drums through her nervous system until there was nothing left but a bright black glowing, existing only to get what it wants. Victoria’s teeth were bared. Her nostrils were flared and she was sucking in as much oxygen as possible, anything to fuel this enjoyable rage she had held at bay for so long and suddenly she was inside the store.
Victoria bent slightly at the knees, placed her arms akimbo and shrieked.
At register four, Sarah heard the scream and knew, without a doubt, that the monsters were coming for her. She sneezed.
Victoria was thinking in single syllables now, commands and objects. When she saw the white sweater, she understood her sister would love it. Sweater, Victoria thought. She began making an attack plan for getting through the other women gathered around the table, tossing sweaters into the air, looking for right colors, right sizes. Weaving around two fat women with carts already half full, Victoria dashed for the sweaters, hitting the table with her hip to come to a stop. The bitches had already almost cleaned the table off. There was one white sweater left. Her trained eye told her it was the correct size. Only two dollars and fifty cents? That was a goddamned honest American bargain right there. She reached out and put a hand on the sweater, a 50/50 mix, half cotton, half rayon. She began to pull it towards her when she felt resistance.
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