by Anthology
Next time the teeth gripped the board just a little too hard, ready to kick it back into the soft flesh of her belly, Cassie yanked out the plug. It was harder than she'd expected. Years of arcing had near to welded the prongs in place, but the cord came out, landing Cassie smack on her backside on the woodpile. The saw ripped out a choked-up growl and then went quiet. Too quiet.
She plugged it back in and turned it on. Nothing. When Mama found out, she would finish what the woodpile started. Cassie rubbed her backside at the thought, but it was almost time for Mama to start the nightly polishing.
"Mama? Saw's gone dead," said Cassie. "Mama?"
A slow growl from behind her sent a chill through Cassie. She put a hand on the cord, ready to pull it out again if the saw misbehaved. Her stomach churned, but her body warmed, and she felt a tingle in her belly, way deep down low. Two hundred and forty volts of electricity brightened her veins, and she knew how the saw felt every time her fingers pressed the switch to turn it on.
"Mama! I feel it!" she said.
Mama Marie didn't answer.
When Cassie finally found her sitting on the back porch, Mama didn't make a sound. Her eyes were open, but there was no brightness behind them. Cassie touched her, but her face was cold.
"Oh, Mama, I'm sorry," said Cassie. "I didn't know. Guess I don't got all the brains you thought I had."
But she was smart enough to know that sometimes when the power blew out, you couldn't ever get it to come back on. She waited, and then she cried, and then she built the nicest box she could. She used good boards, and the saw didn't kick back. When she was done, she polished up the blade and brought her dinner out to the shop. She touched the saw with curious fingers, down under the table, though no one was there to see. She felt a little thrill in her stomach, only down lower, and she knew that someday she was going to let the saw touch her, too.
DISTURBING THINGS
B.J. Burrow
B.J. Burrow co-wrote the screenplay The Monster Hunter, which premiered on The Sci-Fi channel and stars David Carradine. This is his first novel. He lives in Austin, Texas with his wife, Melissa, and two daughters. He has won his fantasy football league four out of ten times. He is currently working on his second novel.
His first novel, The Changed, was released by Apex Publications in December, 2009.
B.J. has been one of the more vibrant personalities I’ve worked with, befitting of a guy who’s written one of those wild SyFy movies. Then he goes and writes disturbing stuff like the story below and my whole perspective of Burrow the ‘author’ gets shifted.
—§—
After the midnight showing of The Dark Side of the Rainbow, they argued. The chattering group of theater goers spreading around them became a battle of voices inside Jack’s head. He said, “I can’t hear myself think,” and led Maggie off the narrow street through an alleyway. An artist had used glow-in-the-dark paint to create a massive color mural on the walls of the alley. Whimsical creatures—half-frogs, half-cats—danced around a landscape of sumptuous flowers, kaleidoscope trees and a golden waterfall. The waterfall formed a river that ran beside them, along the edge of the ground.
“There are only two possible answers…” Jack began, but Maggie cut him off: “There are at least three possible answers, Mr. Negativity.” She laughed, taking his arm in hers, her feet skipping.
“Two, little Miss-Can’t-Be-Wrong. Numero uno: Pink Floyd planned the whole thing…”
“Which sounds plausible, but they’ve never owned up to it. In fact, they say…”
“Why should they?”
Emerging from the alleyway, they cut across the park. The white security lights, coupled with a full moon, caused the green of the grass to ‘pop’ in a vibrant Technicolor.
“That would cheapen the experience. Take away the mystery. Not to mention the bad marketing.”
“Or two,” she prodded.
“Two: it’s one giant coincidence…”
“You mean two or three hundred coincidences…”
“I don’t know about three hundred…”
“Even fifty…”
“Okay. Fifty coincidences—that is a stretch, to say the…”
A woman screamed, and didn’t stop screaming. Maggie gave a little yell, clutching at Jack. Jack spun around, in the direction of the woman’s voice. Her scream climbed into a shriek.
Maggie said, “What should we do?”
Jack looked at her, then back toward the alley.
Maggie whipped out her phone and dialed.
Jack took a step forward, as if in a trance, his face slack, expressionless.
Maggie spoke to someone on the line: “A woman. She’s screaming. I think she’s… yes. On Wilshire, in front of the Ritz movie theater… no, I don’t know anything else… she’s still screaming….”
Jack took another step forward, but Maggie pulled him back. He looked at her blankly. She shook her head.
Maggie said, “…just hurry,” and hung up.
The glow of light from the alleyway flickered to the accompaniment of running feet.
The shriek broke.
Silence fell.
Maggie’s grip tightened.
The singing of crickets, hidden in the grass around them, rose over the troubling silence.
Jack said, his voice a monotone, “Probably a bad trip. I wouldn’t want to drop acid and have that laid on me.”
Maggie nodded, but both of them remained unmoving, staring across the expanse of grass. They made a silent pact: if she screams again…
A tattered sheet of clouds passed over the face of the moon.
The woman did not scream again.
The next night, Jack met the priest.
On the way to the dinner for Father Harris, they came upon a motorcycle accident.
“Don’t slow,” Maggie said, but Jack slowed anyway. “Oh,” she said, turning her body in the seat, so that her back faced the accident, but she had already seen too much.
The biker had gone head first into the windshield. His legs, sticking out of the busted cobwebs of safety glass, moved slowly against the ticking hood of the wrecked car. The upper half of his body had smashed into the driver of the Hyundai, creating a broken pain beast. The driver’s right arm beat uselessly at the biker’s leather clad shoulder, as if he could pound back the thing that had destroyed him. Their cracked-open jaws worked against each other, their distended tongues rolling together, an intimate death kiss of drooling blood and shattered teeth.
Jack stepped on the brake, coming to a complete stop. He openly stared.
The paramedics had yet to arrive. A single cop, his motorcycle parked nearby, stared at the wet mess. His twisted expression asked, Do I try to pull ‘em apart? Would that make it worse?
“Yeah, buddy,” Jack said, “don’t do that.”
The driver’s moans increased in volume. His right fist beat against the biker’s torn leather jacket faster, harder.
The car behind Jack honked.
Maggie said, “For God’s sakes, please.”
“I thought I could…” he began, then eased off the brake and accelerated forward.
They drove in silence until Maggie said, “That was awful.” She hugged herself, still partially turned with her back to Jack.
“I should have done something.”
Maggie looked at him. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. I hate not doing anything. I should have tried.”
They fell back into silence. As they neared the gated suburbs her parents lived in, she took his hand. “Remember on the cruise? In Mexico?”
“You want to do that now?” he said, dropping a hand to his belt.
She jerked away from him.
“Sorry. Miss-read you.” He laughed, trying to play it off.
She turned to look out her passenger window again, at the sun bleeding out into the horizon. He tried to take her hand but she pulled away. He said, “I’m sorry, honey. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
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She turned back to him. “Remember when I told you there was something I couldn’t talk about? From when I was a child?”
He nodded.
“It’s going to come up tonight.”
The two story home sat in the middle of a cul-de-sac. They were late. A black SUV was parked in the bleached-out driveway. Dark ivy covered the house, a thick blanket of foliage that hid its true color. The ivy gave the dwelling the presence of something out of a children’s story. The vines crawled up the bricks to the gutters. They scratched at the windows. They wrapped around the trees trunks. They covered the brick mailbox by the side of the road.
Jack touched the Windsor knot at his throat, his tie a dark blue decorated with red Tabasco bottles. He said, “Your legs.”
“What about my legs?”
“Coming out of that dress. I want to wrap them around me.”
She smiled, stopping, sliding her arms around his waist. “You say the sweetest things.”
They kissed. She said, “I wish Father Harris wasn’t retiring.”
“We could still ask him to perform the wedding.”
Her eyes went far away. She gave a short shake of her head.
They entered without knocking, Maggie calling out. Her parents, in the living room, called back, all smiles, both sun-kissed from their vacation in Arizona—Phil hitting the links, Christie the spa. Phil wore his white Bahamas style shirt with ease. Christie’s skin had turned a dried out brown—too much sun, surgeries and chemicals. Phil went straight to Maggie, giving her a bear hug. Christie smiled and gave Jack a light, airy embrace. Jack’s eyes flicked to the priest, rising from the couch.
Father Harris crested over six-feet-five. Age had seeped his naturally dark skin tone into a spotty white. His silver hair rushed back from his wide forehead. The skin of his face was smooth, yet starting to sag. His head was large, an imposing block resting squarely on his thick neck, the white collar at his throat a scratched out square of bone. They shook hands, his grip strong, his voice steady: “You must be Jack.”
They sat for dinner. As the caterer placed the plates in front of them, Christie said, “It’s called a black and white dinner. I thought it was apropos—like a priest’s uniform.”
Father Harris smiled. “Marvelous.”
They ate blackened halibut, Jasmine rice, and a baked wafer of parmesan cheese topped with a goat cheese mousse. Two bottles of wine made their way around the table. Candlelight caught in the dark bottles danced like captured fairies.
Father Harris said, “I can’t recall the last time I feasted so well. This has been delightful.”
Phil said, “It’s an honor to have you.”
Father Harris waved a liver-spotted hand, brushing aside the comment.
Christie said, “When do you actually retire?”
“In two weeks. There are a few loose ends to wrap up. And they still need time planning my surprise party.”
Everyone laughed.
Maggie asked, her voice small, childlike, “Who will take over?”
Father Harris gave her a smile full of warmth. “For the past two years, I’ve had an apprentice. A good man. He’s finishing his studies in Rome. He still has a lot of ‘on the job’ learning ahead of him, but I did too, thirty years ago.” He paused, nodding, reassurance filling his eyes. “He’s going to do fine, Mags.”
Jack said, “Oh, you haven’t met the new priest yet?”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Phil laced his hands together, his elbows moving onto the table. He set his eyes upon Jack. “Father Harris isn’t our church’s priest. He isn’t our family priest.”
“Oh.” Jack looked around the table, at the faces staring back at him. He didn’t know what to say.
Father Harris lifted his wine glass and said, “I’m an exorcist.”
They moved back into the living room.
Christie knelt in front of the television, picking up a slim laptop. “I created a slide-show in your honor, Father.”
Father Harris sat on the couch, sandwiched between Phil and Maggie. He smiled, patting Maggie’s knee.
Jack sat by himself, in a hard-backed, antique chair. Its beige cloth, decorated with hand-stitched flowers and hummingbirds, scratched at his skin. Its wooden frame pressed through the thin cushion and into his flesh, a form of medieval rack.
Jack’s look lingered on Maggie. She smiled at him, but he could see the worry in her eyes.
On the television, a close-up picture of a beaming boy, maybe five years old, appeared. Phil stiffened and drank his wine. Maggie said, “Oh, Tommy.”
Christie leaned back on her haunches to stare at the picture, her hands clasped to her breast.
Jack thought, Who’s Tommy? What’s going on?
Father Harris said, “Poor little Tommy.”
Jack’s eyes moved over them.
Phil met Jack’s gaze and quickly looked away. “You did all you could, Father.”
Father Harris neither nodded nor spoke. He stared at the picture of the child.
Jack’s stomach tightened.
Christie reached a hand to the screen, her fingertips grazing the child’s face. “He still visits me.” She stared a moment longer, then shook her hands. “Tommy’s not in the slide show. I still can’t look at those pictures.”
Father Harris said, “Nor should you. Ronald, my apprentice, has studied Tommy’s case extensively.”
Jack’s flesh turned cold. He shifted in his chair. He wanted no part of this.
The slide show began. A picture of Phil and Maggie, all pigtails and smiles, standing before a Christmas tree, over which the opening strains of Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville began playing. Christie said, “I don’t know how to get the music to stop. It just automatically comes on.”
Father Harris said, “It’s fine. I’m actually something of a Parrot Head.” He smiled at Jack, but the priest’s eyes grew sharp, the warmth leaving them, as if he had been struck by a disturbing thought. He nodded and Jack turned back to the slide show.
The picture faded to reveal Maggie, a beaming girl—so proud of the swaddled baby in her arms. “Nibbling on sponge cake…”
Jack thought, I didn’t know you had a brother. I didn’t know…
“Oh, I forgot about that one,” Christie said.
“…watching the sun bake…” A picture of a crucifix on a wall, turned upside down.
“…all of these tourists covered in oil.” A shot of Maggie, naked, six, huddled in a corner, her teeth barred. Her skin was the palest Jack had ever seen, her blue veins like neon.
“Strumming my six string, on my front porch swing…” Maggie, strapped to a bed, the snot coming out of her nose frozen into icicles. Jack said, “Is this...” but he couldn’t finish his thought.
“…smell those shrimp…” Maggie, floating over the bed, her body arched, legs going one way, upper body going the other, her head a blur of movement.
“…hey, they’re beginning to boil.” A much younger Father Harris, standing over the bed, reading from a bible.
Jack felt the foundation of what he believed—about Maggie, about her family—ripped up and tossed into the air, his stomach dropping out.
“Wasted away again in Margaritaville…”
My fiancé’ had an exorcism.
Jack flipped the light switch in the bathroom. With a pop, one of the bulbs over the sink blew out, leaving a single bulb. The scrapped white of the lone bulb barely pushed the blackness away from his shoulders and cast harsh lines down his face.
Boats, lighthouses and seashells decorated the guest bathroom. In the diminished light, the decorations took on the cast of an approaching storm, one that would wipe away the beacons of safety, destroy the boats, and bury the shells.
A soft tapping of fingernails came on the closed door.
He stared at his reflection.
The tapping of fingernails came again. Jack said, “Come in.”
Maggie opened the door. He met her eyes in the mirro
r, not turning to face her. The darkness of the bathroom covered her like a diaphanous sheet, the whiteness of her skin a shimmer of muted light. She’s in the mirror, he thought. She’s not behind me. She walked in out of the cold depths of the mirror.
If I turn around, she won’t be there.
Maggie said, “I couldn’t bring it up.”
“It’s kind of a big deal, Mags.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Father Harris did.”
“He’s the only one who can call me that.”
He turned on the cold water. Maggie said, “Can we not do this now? They’re waiting for us.”
Jack bent and drank. The water was warm, not cold—warm and unpleasant. Rising up, he jerked at the stark face in the mirror, then smiled: it was his own face, giving him a start.
Maggie said, “Let’s just get through this.”
When they walked back into the living room, he felt human again. Phil still sat next to Father Harris on the sofa. Christie closed the laptop and said, “I’m sorry…”
Jack tried to give everyone a smile. “No, it’s okay…”
Christie said, in a rush of words over him, “No, no, it was my fault, totally. I had no idea that you had no idea.”
Father Harris rose, his eyes on Jack, his smile gone. “Probably not something one brings up over coffee.”
Maggie said, “I should have told you.”
Jack said, “It was just a shock.”
Father Harris took a step closer to Jack. “I can only imagine. Do you believe in God, Jack?”
Everyone fell quiet and still. Jack looked around, feeling trapped.
Father Harris said, “It’s okay, Jack. Did your parents take you to church?”
“My mom. She raised me by herself.”
“Baptist? Methodist?”
“Methodist.”
Father Harris nodded. “When did you stop going?”
“A child. A teenager.”
