The blood began to trickle a little at first. It ran down Shane's wrists and then his forearms, over his faded snake tattoo, beading on hairs and blooming against his shirt and pants like bright red paint.
Al said his brother's name several times before finally rushing to lurch him away from the door. Blood ran down Shane's pants and into his shoes and down the sides of them onto the carpet where the rich stains disappeared in moments, as if they were never there. When he got to the deeper strands, the hinged fangs slipped into him like surgeon's needles, biting through his flesh and muscle. He didn't stop, as if he couldn't, his will hijacked by some outside and foreign determination. Blood dashed over the door, streamed down to the threshold, pooling on the carpet where Al thought he heard something like a sucking sound, like someone using a straw in a deep, emptying cup.
Then Al was on his knees too, and then over his brother and what was left of his brother's arms and hands. Flesh hanging like torn, wet paper, tendons like wet black cables, muscle and white fat stripped apart; a few of the strands had caught in the torn fat and muscle and hung there, but other strands were twisting in the air and over his ruined body. They were squirming like they were alive, tiny furry things with their ends moving back and forth like the heads of worms. Some wiggled into the lacerations on Shane's arms, disappearing into them.
It was Shane who spoke what Al knew by then. It was Shane who put it together, but too late.
Not just the carpet stranding to the pizza crust in the TV room, not the strange kids watching the house from the lot, not just the kids keeping away, far away from the house, knowing something. There had been more, and it had come when they had seen Rachel in her doped rant about the house. About something bad with the house. The house has him! The house has my Eddie, and it won't let him go!
"It got Eddie, it got me too, brother," Shane said, his eyes already death-sheen glassy. "It let us in because it was hungry, it wanted more. Now that it's got us, it ain't going to let us out. I couldn't help tearing at it. Something about it got in me to make me keep cutting myself, making myself bleed. Feeding it with myself." He spat blood over his chin. "Call 911 on your cell."
Al screamed, "I didn't bring it! Christ, I didn't think to bring it!"
But Shane went on, not listening, his voice fading. He said, "It grew out of itself, brother. Eddie always had those bloody noses. Fuckin' rug got a taste of blood. No rats left here. No cockroaches, no crickets. No Eddie, and now nothing left to eat but us."
After Al shut his brother's eyes, he had moved off the carpet to stand on the tiny linoleum area by the door. Against the far wall of the TV room, something hissed, and when he looked, he saw that the sliced-open section around what had once been his nephew in the floor had gotten smaller. Gray fibers had run across the hole like threads trying to stitch together a gaping wound. The hissing came again right next to him, and when he turned he saw that several strands had run themselves over Shane like tiny ropes pinning down a giant.
He remembered the window in the bedroom, knew he could break the glass out, and beg the staring kids for help. Please help me! Please, please get someone…
And what would that help be? To summon someone—the police? Never, not down here, not in this neighborhood. Some kid's dad with a blowtorch to cut the goddamn bars away? No one would venture toward this house; he knew it in his bones. By the look of the kids across the street, they'd seen or heard things down here that would make even grown men like Al go pale. And things from this house too. It wasn't the fire that had kept them away. Maybe they had heard what happened to Eddie. Maybe they heard Eddied screaming as the carpet strands wrestled him to the floor; furry, sharp tendrils snaking into his bleeding nose and mouth, into his ears, up his asshole. Or maybe, Al thought, maybe it had gotten Eddie as he slept. Maybe Eddie had never woken up.
He needed to get out of the living room. There was only one place that had no carpet: the kitchen.
It was watching him as he was trapped in the kitchen, sitting on the counter. The sun faded low, the house succumbing into dimness. The sun's light changed orange and purple in the window across the room. He could hear the hissing sound come more and more and from every side so that eventually no moment was silent. It came from the attic and from inside the walls.
And now the kitchen was no longer a safe haven. Out of the corner of his eye, Al saw the linoleum floor below him move. So it was spreading. It wasn't just the carpet anymore.
Al pushed himself into the corner on the counter and held himself, his muscles cramping. He no longer smelled stale fire; now he sensed new decay, sweet and bitter as the hissing went on into the black night, his eyes finally adjusting to see shapes moving from the floor. The hissing pierced him like talons so that soon—sweat beading down his face and back—it became just white noise, familiar, like a fan. It lulled him to sleep, letting him nod off, only to snap him awake, his heart drubbing in his throat.
Nodding off, then waking, over and over; clinging to the countertop, thinking of Eddie. Dreaming of Eddie. Eddie on his first day of school. Eddie's first birthday. Fatherless Eddie. Drug-addict mom. We should have been there for you more, Eddie. We should've knocked your mom's teeth out a long time ago, taken you with us. Raised you ourselves. Raised you right and good and with a chance in this hell of a world. Gave you what you needed. Sorry, Eddie, sorry.
He felt his cheeks wet. Tears, hot and thick. Wiping them away, but with the sting of salt like a stab in his eyes, and then his hand snagging into the fabric of his shirt collar and then another stab and another in his hand and up his nose and inside both eyeballs, exploding him awake so that he fell and his face met the floor with a painful, furious slam.
The police came shortly after the house was condemned, but the search for the two men and the boy ended quickly and quietly. What was strange, the police decided, was that it was the only house on Smith Street that wasn't a haven for rats and snakes. Even cockroaches were absent, which was okay. Just a bit peculiar. Just like the things left behind—the Xbox, an iPhone, and the charred remains of several marijuana plants. The woman who owned the place was supposed to be strung up and crazy, but not so crazy she couldn't vanish sometime in the night from the friend's trailer she'd been staying at. Vanished, someone thought, to head out West. California maybe, or Mexico even.
They razed the two-room house in the grassy lot with a bulldozer and backhoe and dump trucks that came and went only twice in a span of two hours.
The demolition crew had pushed soil vaguely over the house's crumbling foundation. Bits of wood lath and plaster and remnants of carpet had mixed into the earth and brick. Eventually, under the sun and rain and wind, new weeds sprouted wild, accompanied by tiny bits of grayish strands of carpet that twirled over timothy and ragweed. In some places, whole mats of carpet had stretched over patches of barren soil, clinging in bland colors like the soil itself. It was moving across the lot toward the other crumbling houses; moving away for the distant hilltop apartments, toward young wives with toddlers, toward men grilling on their balconies in late summer-wear and sunglasses, who were sipping their final cold beer.
About Stephen M. Dare
Stephen M. Dare lives with his wife and three children in Delavan, Illinois, which is a small town founded by H.P. Lovecraft's uncle. He has a master's degree in English and teaches at a private school.
Stephen has been writing horror since the eighth grade, but he has been reading it and watching movies in that genre for much longer. He appreciates good, deep horror fiction and has a passion for Algernon Blackwood's novella The Willows, which achieves a profound level of horror rarely seen in contemporary fiction, and that is unfortunate.
Besides horror, Stephen's other passion is gardening, and he is attracted to carnivorous plants. He has actually created a carnivorous plant bog in his front yard.
GNAW
by Lala Drona
3:20 AM
The movement in the second-floor apartment rocked and swayed the rest of t
he decaying building like gelatin. The oven alarm blared from the adjacent room, burning their ears. The TV added to the noise; an old western shooting-scene seemed to shake the cheap apartment, forcing the two lovers to compete with the televised battle. Broken dishes laid in pieces on the living room floor next to a lamp lying on its side; the bulb flickered in the static-charged air.
He didn't deserve this love. She slapped him in the face.
Pounding from broomsticks, smacking from hands, and thuds from fists on the other sides of the walls shook the apartment as neighbors futilely protested the noise. He held his jaw, looking up and down the black trails of makeup on her cheeks. He said, "I love you."
The room quit spinning when she squeezed his face between each of her palms and whispered, "Now you can taste the ache I feel every day." She released him and turned away. The televised battle transitioned into a clamoring word from the program's sponsors, and the flickering bulb finally went out. He caught her wrist and secured her back in. The light flickered back on, but just for a moment, then off for the final time.
His chest was to her back while he turned her face and delicately kissed her until her body went soft. He didn't know her. Their relationship was like a one-night-stand that never ended, and he felt as if he had only just met her, even though he had been staying with her for a while. His iron-flavored kiss went deep, and before it had ended, he pulled away. "Now you can taste mine too," he breathed.
7:05 AM
Dieter didn't have to open his eyes to know it was morning. The light shone hard on his eyelids, causing him to see a pink hue. His skin burned and ached from the night before. His jaw swelled from Renee's blow. The sheets and mattress were unmoving beside him, so either she had left the night before, or she was still next to him, sleeping. Dieter found it was the latter as he rolled over to the other side of the bed and bulldozed over a tiny body.
"Eh!" Renee protested, struggling from under him. "What's the big idea? Can't a girl sleep past seven o'clock these days?" Dieter reverse-rolled over, taking the blanket back with him. She frowned through crusty black make-up, her eyes puffy and sleepy. The black trails still ran down her face.
"I swear, you're a machine. A robot. Robots don't need sleep, y'know." Her fingers wrapped around the yellowed sheet and she pulled it over her shoulder while rolling onto her side. She looked back at him, frowning, but then a smile broke loose, so she hid her face in the lumpy orange pillow. Dieter pulled the blanket off her shoulders and watched the skin move across her back while she breathed. His fingers walked up her back, skipping, using freckles like stepping-stones.
Dieter pulled himself close by her ear. "Hey, Bird…" Her back began to jump up and down as if she were attempting to fly away. Then, Dieter heard the giggles follow. Her back stopped moving and she yelled into the orange pillow, but the sound was not muffled. One of the neighbors thudded against the wall in response.
"Okay, okay!" Renee called to the unseen neighbor, then flipped over and put her hands behind her head as Dieter laid his head on her chest.
The ceiling fan stopped, the television went black, and a car alarm blared outdoors. "This building," Dieter complained. "It should be condemned."
Dieter felt Renee's hand tap his cheek, hard enough to create yet another welt on him. "Hey now…" she said, wrinkling the white skin on her forehead.
Before Dieter could say a word to apologize about his building remark, a loud crash hit the room. Dieter and Renee didn't move, didn't open their eyes, as the sizzling noise of dust from the shifting building entered their ears. They waited.
Finally, Dieter opened his eyes and saw Renee's eyes flashing back at him. His head jerked up at the sound of the wall behind them cracking, splitting further up to the ceiling. Dieter saw the lines form and fold on Renee's forehead while she pinched her eyes closed. The bed began to shake and the building stirred, echoing the sound of bowling balls rolling on wooden floors. Renee slapped her other hand across Dieter's head and squeezed his scalp skin between her fingers. The shaking ceased and the noise dwindled; the room became still.
The pressure on Dieter's scalp decreased. Renee's shoulders lifted and fell quickly with every breath, but slowed with the passing seconds. Her eyes started flashing again, blinking between her black mascara, but ending in small slits.
"Earthquake?" Dieter asked, reaching up to feel her hand on his scalp. He brought his hand down, peeking at his fingers, expecting to see blood. Dieter struggled to sit up, begging Renee to loosen her painful grip on his hair. He looked around the room and lightly stepped off the bed, taking two steps toward the window before he looked back to Renee.
"Earthquakes in Germany?" Renee scoffed. She untangled the sheets from around her legs and stepped onto the floor behind him. Dieter felt her light body wrap around his arm, and they walked toward the window together.
Outside, car alarms blared and dust filled the air between the buildings. Neighbors stumbled out from their apartment buildings dazed. The sounds of their voices quickly went from a low hum to a jarring rattle. More bodies spilled onto the street. The dust began to clear, revealing buildings that stood shorter, closer to the ground than before. Renee's fingers tightened around Dieter's hand and elbow. They looked out into the street from their second floor room, now almost level with the swarming bodies in bathrobes and nightclothes.
Renee loosened her hold on Dieter, but then grabbed him again and pulled him in the direction of the front door. The yellowed walls were cracked and the dust was beginning to settle. Dieter put his hand on her freckled shoulder. "Wait," he said. He walked up to the door and noticed the floor had pushed up from under it. His eyes traced the wood and above he saw the top jammed into the ceiling. Dieter gripped the side of the door and tried to force it open, the wood whined, but did not budge an inch. Dieter wiped his hands on his thighs and looked to Renee standing with her arms crossed in front of her, rubbing the skin up and down. He shook his head and shrugged.
Renee looked around again and sighed. "Well, it's a good thing I like you, because it looks like we're in it for the long haul." She laughed and tapped him on the elbow playfully. Dieter smiled and rushed her, taking her over his shoulder and throwing her on the bed. He considered following her, but stopped first to take a light bulb from the closet and replace the damaged one. Then he jumped back into bed.
10:47AM
They were standing now. Tears slipped past her eyelids and trailed down the salty black paths etched in her cheeks. Lying chest to chest, she punched her lips to his again. Her arms reached back, behind his neck to pull his kiss deeper; the iron taste now washed with tears. He pulled her closer in order to feel her chest rise and fall against his, and then squeezed the skin on her back. His hands outlined the sides of her body and he rested his palms on the back of her neck and shoulders, pulling his mouth off hers, holding a knuckleful of short, feathery hair. She raked her fingernails across his bare back, digging deep.
The new light bulb behaved like the old one; flickering off and on. She kissed his body until she felt her back hit up against the wall next to the bed. He pressed himself up against her and started to slow his motions as she continued to consume him frantically. His hips pressed against her again, making her skin squeak against the wall that vibrated from a new frenzy of thudding brooms, knocking fists and slapping palms. The light was still flickering, and the oven alarm began buzzing once again while the television began another shoot-'em-up Western.
Suddenly the room broke into a quiver and the floor began to crack. Sounds similar to trains and bowling balls invaded their ears. "Not again," Renee said, reaching for him. Dieter pushed Renee onto the bed, feeling the floor drop from under him as soon as his toes pushed his body off the wooden surface. Dieter and Renee held each other while each drop of the floor brought more debris down onto them. Large pieces of plaster and cement, wood and metal shards, fell from the collapsing building. They held the copper bedposts and coughed from the air thickening with dust. They attempted to
shield their heads with their arms. Dieter could barely focus enough in the chaos to see the window being covered by dirt and cement. He saw the light on Renee's face dim; the shadows were winning over her closed eyes and wrinkling forehead. The building had dropped into the ground possibly an entire foot.
The vibrations began to die down, and it all stood still again.
The room was dark, foggy, and coated in the smell of soil and rotting wood. Renee's body started jerking slightly, and she let out a guttural scream. The scream bounced off every flat surface perpendicular to what should have been the floor. The sounds pounded into Dieter's skull. Dieter felt as if the screaming exhale went on forever, but then recognized pauses in between. His head ached and his vision was blurred; the whites and blacks blended into inconsistent grays. The light peeked in from the top of the window, but the dust in the air made it impossible to see. The smell of metal and cold dirt came and went with the pounding of his head.
Dieter shook himself into lucidity and then blindly began to feel around Renee's body. "Are you okay?" he asked her.
She didn't reply. Her breaths accelerated into high-pitched heaving, in then out in one-second intervals.
His fingers patted the skin on her face lightly, but as soon as he touched her, the room shook for another moment and Dieter recoiled from her. Immediately the room was still again. A sob built up in his chest and escaped through his teeth, causing saliva to blow onto his chin. The room stood still, but Dieter heard a sound similar to the low buzz of a weed whacker in the room. When the buzzing started, Renee's breaths stopped.
What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine Page 6
