Wake the Wicked

by Christian Baloga

  "How did you get back?"

  "I walked. Violet needed me."

  "She doesn't need you. I’m taking care of her. You're going back to the hospital after your bath. And—" He smashed the locket against the stone tile floor with a tight fist. It emitted a cracking noise, breaking Ivy's heart. "Never lay a hand on me again, you hear?"

  Tears swallowed Ivy's blue eyes and they turned white, as Violet's had earlier. He lifted himself up and hovered over the gilded heart. The two pieces lay separately on top of each other—he'd cracked it open! It was an immediate reaction to flip the top half over.

  Inside was an inlaid black and white photograph of two naked infants attached at the spine. He picked up the other half and looked closer. A reflection of an old hag stared back at him. He dropped the locket. It hit the floor with a clang, louder than any sound should make with a pendant-sized object.

  The moment Eligio looked up, he saw the backside of a hammer swooping at his forehead. There was no time to move. As it dug into his skull, his vision turned red.

  Violet took out the prongs from his skull and hammered him again and again. Great strength wasn’t needed for a gruesome outcome.

  Ivy splashed putrid water at him as if it were a game. She slithered over the tub. Her bony fingers clasped each half of the gilded heart together. She struggled to piece it back together, but her hands were too slippery. "Sir," Ivy spoke to Eligio, who was sprawled out on the tile floor. A pool of blood trickled out from under his head like spaghetti sauce. "Can you help me fix my heart?"

  END

  Flesh Boots

  I slap down a wet mop and begin mauling the hell out of a wooden floor. Although Mr. Stringer has the TV up loud enough to scare away rattlesnake, I'm able to hear the floorboards squeak and groan under my weight, as if I'm hurting it. I give the floor a quick once over, slosh the ratty mop between the furniture, and I'm done. No use spending too much time cleaning it. Deep claw marks from two dopy Shepherd dogs romping around for seven plus years made it impossible for the wood to ever shine again.

  A quick whiff of wood cleaner and the scent of apple-cinnamon air freshener I’d fumigated the cabin with earlier has dissipated. And now, the dank stench of stale cigarettes, wet dogs, and oniony body odor moistens the air.

  I stand on a rickety wooden chair and balance my hands on a wood paneled wall. Dust piles fall to the floor as I sweep a dry cloth over a mounted deer head. It reeks of decay and reminds me of the first day I cleaned it. Thick cobwebs and dirt had made it unrecognizable. It had looked like a prop from a horror movie. It was surprising, though, what a sponge, a bucket of cold water from a garden hose, and an hour could do. It made the Twenty-year-old thing look like fresh kill. The bath could also be the reason it stinks. But to be honest, I don't even think Mr. Stringer notices.

  "I'd sure love to stuff and mount your head on my wall sweetie," Mr. Stringer yells over a quacking duck commercial. Moments later, I feel a light hand on my waist. "You're much prettier than a 10-pointer."

  "How sweet of you. What can I say, my husband's a lucky guy," I say, polishing the deer's glass eye. Dry eyelash loosens and falls to the damp floor. I hear a click and clack of dog nails nearing, then I catch one of the dogs, Blümchen, or Flöhchen, neither of which I can tell apart, giving a few sniffs, then a quick lick to the fallen debris.

  Mr. Stringer jerks away and begins hacking and gargling thick mucus from his throat. It sounds painful. It gets worse each time I visit. I'm afraid he may not have too many days left.

  "Get that checked out, will you?" I plead. This is the first time I bring the matter up. I hope he doesn't take it the wrong way, but he sounds awful.

  Mr. Stringer spits somewhere on the clean floor and shuffles off to the kitchen. I don't know if he didn't hear me or chose not to, but I feel a need to do something about his dwindling health. Moments later, he responds, "Nope, I'm fine. Those bastards will make me quit smoking. I know it’s what’ll happen. No way am I going."

  I don't respond to his stubbornness. Alright, since he won't go to a doctor, I'll have one come to him; an unwanted surprise for sure, but it might be the only way to keep him alive. House calls with a doctor are rare and expensive, especially living as far away from civilization as we do, but I don't mind paying for it. It's the least I can do for the guy.

  I continue dusting the deer and whisper into its filthy ear, "If he don't get help, he won't be around much longer, deer. Get a good look at him while you can."

  "Hier," Mr. Stringer says. At once, the two dogs follow him into the kitchen. Moments later, I hear a click. I know the sound is from the release of a lock securing a huge metal trunk filled with dog kibble. The food must be kept locked up. If it weren’t, the two beasts would eat till their stomachs rupture.

  "Apple cinnamon. Smells great, sweetie," he yells from the kitchen.

  I finish cleaning the severed head and move to the bedroom. The first things I notice are bloody tissues. A couple were wet and torn up on the floor, the rest thrown across scruffy bed sheets.

  Minutes later, I hear a trampling of nails against the wooden floor. From the corner of my eye, I see the two dogs pounce on the bed and begin devouring the bloody wads for dessert.

  "Down," I yell, fanning the bed sheets up and down, trying to shoo them away. It doesn't work. They only respond to German commands and none are coming to mind.

  In the other room, I hear Mr. Stringer spit up something vile and then scream, "Nein. Hier. Hier."

  At that instant, both dogs jump off the bed and stampede into the living room. “I've got to learn those commands.” I've been listening to Mr. Stringer shout them for the past couple months. I'm surprised I haven't picked up more of it by now. In a soft voice, I repeat the words yelled by Mr. Stringer, "Nein. Hier. Hier," which I think means, Bad dog. Here. Here.

  "What's it mean again?" I ask, sweeping filthy nail clippings and cigarette ash off a dresser into my cupped hand.

  "Means, here," he says, sitting on the couch. Both dogs lie beside him, one on each leg. He caresses them and continues watching TV. "Hey Gracie. Sweetie, how 'bout you come in here and give me a good foot rubdown?" He chuckles through a phlegmy cough.

  "That ain't in my job description. Sorry, Stringy." I throw a handful of debris into a small trashcan beside the bed. And after I clean the place to where I’m not shuffling up dust bunnies every time I move, I say my goodbyes, first to the dogs. They both pounce on my shoulders. I raise my head and after a few desperate attempts to lick my face, they settle for my neck.

  "Platz." Mr. Stringer points to the floor. And at that instant, the two furry lugs jump off.

  "Down?" I guess.

  He nods and reaches a chubby hand into his pocket and slips out two one hundred dollar bills. It’s one hundred more than usual. He puts it into my hand, leans in, and gives me a peck on the mouth. I grin like a jack-o'-lantern, not because I like his withered lips against mine, but because this was the easiest two hundred dollars I've ever made. I often wonder, how can this feeble man living in a small cabin at the lake afford to pay me even fifty dollars a visit, which was the amount given to me twice a month. But I think I understand. There ain't nobody else but those dogs to keep him company. I'm the only human chatterbox he's got. I feel like the granddaughter he never had.

  I shut the flimsy screen door and trek up a desolate stretch of dirt road, toward my house. And about a half mile later, I reach a rocky driveway aligned with wilted plants. My house isn’t much bigger than Mr. Stringer's, but it feels a lot smaller when there’s three kids and a husband romping around by early afternoon.

  I hear Blümchen and Flöhchen barking for me in the distance.

  Before my little devils jump off the school bus at four, I make haste to finish all my chores. Number one on the list is to call the doctor. I search the web on a clunky computer and call the first one I spot doing house visits.

  "Visiting physicians house call request, how may I help you?" a woman on the other line asks.


  "I’d like to request a house call for my sick neighbor. He's coughing up blood. I think it's from smokin' all these years."

  "Ma'am, it's important to take him to the hospital if he's coughing up blood."

  "No, tried. He won't. I want to surprise him with a doctor's visit. That's why I'm calling."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, if the patient doesn't want to seek treatment, we’re unable to help you."

  "But I think he's got the lung cancer," I interrupt.

  "I'm sorry, we can't do anything if the patient doesn’t want help. We don’t make surprise visits. If you believe he’s in immediate danger, get him to the hospital or call 911 for an ambulance."

  "Thanks a lot. Sorry I wasted your time," I say, ending the call and throwing the phone onto a stack of old newspapers on the kitchen table. I lean against the window, looking out at the trees swaying in the wind, thinking about what to do. Should I call 911? Can they even help him? What if he gets mad at me? My family depends on the extra income I get from cleaning the cabin. Do I risk it for his health?

  I reach for my cell and dial 911.

  A male operator picks up at once. "Nine one one, where is your emergency?"

  "At my neighbor's cabin. His address is RR 1, Lockhart Lake. He's coughing up blood. I'm afraid for his life."

  "Okay, is he breathing?"

  "Yes, he's fine. No, he's not fine. He's coughing up blood, but he's breathing, yes. I ain’t with him right now." I pause. "I went to get help. He has no phone," I lie.

  "How old is he?"

  "Sixty-nine."

  "Okay, the paramedics are on the way."

  Fifteen minutes or so later I hear the cry of an ambulance siren coming up the road, then silence. They must be at Mr. Stringer's.

  Fifteen more minutes pass. I didn't hear the sirens start up again. Did Mr. Stringer dismiss the ambulance? Maybe he sicced Blümchen and Flöhchen after the paramedics. This sort of thing might piss him off. I want to help.

  At that moment, my house phone rings.

  "Hello?" I answer.

  I hear a scratchy cough from the other line and an angry voice yells, "Now why'd you do that?"

  It's Mr. Stringer. I feel an uneasy quiver tightening around my stomach. Before I can answer, he starts back up.

  "I should have you locked up for lying like I'm in danger."

  I cringe at his heartless words. I'd never heard him this upset before. "I'm sorry, I wanted to help and—"

  "Don't do it again," he interrupts, and I hear a click on the other end. He hung up.

  * * *

  It’s been four and a half weeks and I haven't heard from Mr. Stringer. Is he still upset? Is he really going to hold a grudge on me for trying to help him?

  The cabin must be a garbage dump by now. I can imagine the spiders hard at work rebuilding their sticky traps, the dog fur dust bunnies collecting in every corner of every room, and the dirty dishes piled to the ceiling with flies buzzing all around them. It must smell awful.

  On the sixth week, I start to worry. I haven't been by the cabin since the day I called the ambulance. The concern in my face must be more than usual because my husband keeps looking up at me every few seconds.

  "I can see it in your eyes. You're gettin' yourself sick," my husband says, clearing plates off the dinner table. "I go by there twice a day. Once in the morning and once after work, and he's got those lights burning in the living room. He’s fine."

  "He’s fine," my five-year-old girl, Annabelle, repeats.

  "I think I'm going to take a walk. To be sure," I say to my husband. I gather my keys.

  "Mr. Stringy smells funny. I wanna go and pet Blümchen and Flöhchen," Annabelle says, fingering spaghetti between her fingers.

  "No, you stay here and finish your dinner."

  "If I finish, then can I come? Please, I want to see the doggies." Annabelle gobbles down the rest of her spaghetti. "My birthday is tomorrow. Remember, you promised I can have a puppy for my birthday?"

  "I don't remember saying that," I tell her, exiting the front door.

  "You're a liar," Annabelle says, pretending to cry. A second later, her whimpering stills and she asks her father, "Will you get me a puppy for my birthday?" I don't wait around to hear what he tells her. A puppy is the least thing on my mind right now.

  I tread down the dirt road. The sun sets, flickering deep orange light in and out of the swaying treetops like fire. And the nearer I get to the lonely cabin at the lake, the darker the night sky grows. I walk through dense mist and part the overhanging willows hiding Mr. Stringer's cabin from the rest of the world. I walk through a cloud of buzzing gnats. One of them gets lodged in the back of my throat. An involuntary swallow suffocates them.

  I move forward, tiptoeing up the front steps to the main door. It's open. The screen door, however, is closed, as usual.

  I hear a faint rhythm of grinding coming from inside. I peek in. With a raised voice I yell, "Mr. Stringer?"

  The dark screen and waning sun constricts my vision. I can, however, spot a ghostly light and a sea of movement coming from within. I turn the handle. It's unlocked. "Mr. Stringy, I'm coming in. I'm worried about you."

  I still get no response. He must be mad at me if he won't even answer. I wait for a moment and try again, "Mr. Stringer, can I come in? I'm worried about you. That's all. I haven't heard from you in weeks."

  The grinding noise gets louder, making my eardrums throb. I turn the knob and open the door. An overbearing stench takes hold of my nose and makes me gag. I nearly run back out the door, but instead, I close my nose and breathe through my mouth. "Time for another cleaning," I singsong.

  The nearer I get to the dim light in the kitchen, the more my eyes water. I trip over something. I hit the couch. I follow it forward, toward the light.

  I hear a low snarl coming from the kitchen. The closer I get, the louder it becomes. It multiplies the moment I take a step onto the tile floor. Then I see it.

  A shocking chill races through my entire body like a bolt and I fear today is my last. Mr. Stringer, or should I say, what’s left of Mr. Stringer, lies sprawled out on the tiled floor like a gutted deer.

  The two Shepherd dogs gnaw and tear away at the partially eaten man like two ravenous wolves. Their quivering muzzles and starving jaws anxiously jerk meat off his bones. They growl and shift their gaze from me to the meat, from me to the meat. And I know what they’re thinking, How dare you disturb our feast, you fucking cunt.

  Mr. Stringer's two feet, wrapped in dingy wool socks up to his ankles and his chubby head, which had liquefied by time to an unrecognizable state, are the only pieces of him left unscathed. They must have been tearing the guy up for days, maybe even a week or two. He was a big man, but now he's dog kibble, held together only by ligaments and bits of rotting flesh. A phrase my mom always said comes to mind, "Eat all your meat or you won't get a treat!"

  Disgusted, I hold my hand over my mouth and tread backward. "Nein," I say to the feasting barbarians, barely above a whisper. Their heads flinch a bit, but continue eating the irresistible rotting flesh.

  "Nein," I say it louder. And finally, I scream out, "NEIN! HIER! HIER!"

  At once, Blümchen and Flöhchen charge toward me. What have I done? The sound of nails scratching against the floor turns my heart to stone. I catch myself fainting. I tip back and land on the couch.

  All of a sudden, the two dogs jump on top of me and begin a game of licking. I lie there, frozen. Their warm tongues tickle my neck and I can't help it. I start laughing.

  * * *

  Blümchen and Flöhchen return to the kitchen after giving me love and I watch them tear away at the fleshy feast. I look around the kitchen. Despite the slimy brown residue below the carcass, the floor is clean. Dirty utensils cover the countertops, dishes tainted with dried food, and mold fills the kitchen sink. The scent apple-cinnamon air freshener has been taken over by the stench of rotting flesh, shit, and piss.

  I see nothing out of the ordinary, t
hough; Nothing that leads me to think he was attacked by the dogs. No, they'd never harm a living Mr. Stringer. The kibble had been locked away for who knows how long. They're just hungry. He died from natural causes, I'm sure of it!

  I let the two lugs eat the rest of Mr. Stringer until their mouths tire.

  "Finish up," I command, pushing at each of their behinds. They both make nonthreatening growls and each chooses a bone. Blümchen tears away at the fibula from the right leg and Flöhchen lifts the radius from the left arm. They carry them off to the living room.

  I mop the floor one last time and toss the bones into a garbage bag. Boy, he’s much lighter without all the skin and beef.

  I latch Blümchen and Flöhchen to two leashes, grab the garbage bag, and light one of Mr. Stringer's last cigarettes I find on the floor. It's been a while since I had a drag, so it feels good. Halfway through, I toss the burning thing to the couch and the three of us march up the dirt road.

  As we reach the front yard, I turn around. Black smoke billows in the distance. Blümchen and Flöhchen give a quick cry, but are interrupted by screeching from behind where three kids surge out of the front door and greet us on the grassy front lawn.

  "Happy birthday, Annabelle," I say, handing over the two leashes.

  "Blümchen! Flöhchen!" Annabelle yells. Although her arms spread for a loving embrace, they knock her down. She giggles as they slop her face up with bloody kisses.

  I open the garbage bag and give each kid a bone. "Now, remember to say, braver hund. Good dog!"

  END

  Unraveling the Nest

  Despite having all four windows down and sticking my head out the window like a panting dog, I don't know if I'm going to be able to take the heat much longer. Even the gas station receipts from the middle console seem to fly out the windows in an attempt to escape the roasting temperature. My dress, sleeveless with a low scoop neck, sticks to my skin like a wet bathing suit. Pools of sweat blot my protruding stomach and my swollen tits. I unbuckle my seatbelt and begin yanking up my dress. The air beats over my sweaty skin and cools me.