Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  Darkness encompasses him immediately. He can only see the faint light of the distant stars. They tell the origin of the human body.

  Show it to me. Péter’s thoughts echo in the void. Show it to me.

  The human body complies.

  It’s showing him places and times long forgotten by the cosmos, worlds created with unfathomable geometries, Promethean temples, scorching suns of dying planets, metallic graveyards, slimy waterfalls, human bodies praying to trees.

  Péter Tabán is the happiest man in the universe.

  In the following weeks, he’s breaking contact with everyone.

  At first he’s telling petty lies, coming up with small excuses. He promises his mother to visit her the next month. He tells his boss and his girlfriend that he’s ill.

  And then he doesn’t bother anymore.

  A couple of days later, Krisztina breaks up with him.

  Then he receives a call from his workplace that he’s going to get fired.

  He has no recollection of most of these events. He can remember his usual answer, though.

  I don’t care.

  There are moments when he does actually care. He wakes pondering. He could end all this. He could leave the human body behind. He could break its spell on him. He could get it all together. It’s not too late, is it?

  And then he realizes.

  Why would he do that?

  The human body has shown him that this mortal life, all this . . . this is nothing. Why would he return to it?

  And still, these ponderings come in the rare waking moments of the trance, then disappear again. Usually when he’s walking to the grocery store, collecting things for himself and the human body. If he’d walk long enough, he’d question everything. But not for long.

  After all, the human body is there for him. There’s nothing more important than this.

  Now he’s walking to the grocery store again. His phone rings. It’s that woman from the mayor’s office. He’s confused.

  “What kind of papers?” he asks.

  “You didn’t get them?”

  It’s like waking from a long dream. He squeezes the phone to his ears. In his other hand, he’s holding a grocery bag. He looks around. He’s heading home. Home to. . . .

  What the hell am I doing here?

  “Hello?”

  The phone.

  “Y-yeah. I guess I got them. I remember the . . . I remember the postman.”

  “This is great, Mr. Tabán, but I’d like you to send them back with your signature. Have you visited the land registry office?

  Land registry.

  Péter wets his lips.

  Saliva.

  “Not yet,” he confesses.

  A long, audible breath.

  “Could you come in please sometime?”

  “I don’t think so,” he whimpers.

  “What?”

  “I’ll try . . . hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me something about the former owner of the house? I mean what happened to her?”

  “Mrs. Kántor? I don’t know. Her son disappeared. He used to live with her. They were arguing all the time. I’m not sure. After his son left, the woman didn’t show herself that much. She was old and weak, natural causes, they said. The son was declared missing, therefore the next person in the succession line was his brother and your . . .”

  “Yeah, I know all that. I guess. I can understand it. What did you say, should I go to the office?”

  “That would be great, we still need to sign some of the . . .”

  “I’m coming then,” Péter says.

  He disconnects the call.

  He’s just standing there, holding the grocery bag.

  No.

  He should go home. There’s no other way. The car keys are in the condo.

  Hesitantly, he turns.

  “Or I’ll just go in this direction,” he says. “As far as possible.”

  A family passes by. They all stare at him, then walk away more promptly.

  “Ah yes, I’m talking to myself,” he mumbles. “Also, I haven’t had a shower in a couple of . . .”

  He realizes.

  “Holy shit, what the hell am I doing here?”

  No. It has to stop.

  Never again.

  “Never again,” he speaks out loud.

  He doesn’t remember how he got back to his bed. He doesn’t even care.

  He caresses the human body.

  “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  The human body looks sloppier. The skin is greyish.

  “What I give you is not enough. Far from it.”

  The tongue in its mouth is moving flaccidly around the lipless crevice.

  Time is shifting as the trance begins.

  Somebody’s been ringing the doorbell, and he can’t tell for how long, nor when this is happening.

  Péter Tabán struggles to get up. He feels the drowsiness of every human being who has ever lived in the world. He shambles to the front door.

  He opens it.

  It’s that woman from the mayor’s office. Not his boss, not his mother, not his ex-girlfriend.

  It’s just somebody whom he met only once.

  It’s all I’m worth.

  The woman is ready to greet him but suddenly she grimaces, probably noticing his smell.

  “Well what is it?” Péter groans.

  “Do you remember me? I’m Bianka Sallai. From the mayor’s office in Zalarév?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I’m telling you.”

  Peter shrugs.

  “You never told me your name, so whatever. I don’t know.”

  Bianka Sallai sighs impatiently.

  “We’re going to sign these papers right now, and we’re going to the notary immediately after that, and then to the land registry office. We have to close our quarterly paperwork in the office. We just cannot wait any longer. We don’t usually go to other people’s homes, so consider yourself lucky.”

  “Okay. You want to come in?”

  “I intend to.”

  She then goes inside and sits at the table in the kitchen.

  Péter realizes what kind of a mess has been building up in this condo. Dishes are piling up, the trashcan full.

  The woman is chattering endlessly.

  “We’re dealing with multiple towns from the region, you see, paperwork is a nightmare, and uh . . . could you please open the windows? You should let in some fresh air more often.”

  Péter stares at the woman, observing her for the first time. She’s a bit obese, probably because of her sedentary work. Her face is pretty, and her ring indicates that she’s married. She made her hair wavy somehow, but she’s not wearing any makeup.

  Péter opens the window.

  As they are signing the papers, a weird noise emerges from the bedroom, resembling the awful bleating of a dying goat.

  They both stiffen.

  “What was that?” Bianka asks.

  “Nothing,” Péter says.

  And again. Even louder than before.

  Péter closes his eyes.

  No.

  “Could I just . . .”

  “No!” With all of his strength, Péter slams his palm on the table. The woman flinches. “It’s none of your business!”

  Bianka presses her lips together, pushing herself back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry, but everything you’re doing is very suspicious.”

  She stands up, starting to walk towards the bedroom.

  Péter shakes his head, pacing in the kitchen.

  “No, no, no,” he mumbles. “It can’t be. She can’t see it!”

  Bianka steps slowly in the direction of the bedroom.

  She yells inside: “Hello? Is anybody there? I can help you! Please answer me!”

  “No,” Péter grumbles.

  He glances at the countertop. At the bread knife. The woman disappears now in
the bedroom.

  A few seconds later she speaks out loud:

  “Oh my dear God . . . good heavens . . .”

  Péter doesn’t feel like thinking too much, and time is shifting again. Now he’s standing right behind the woman, grabbing her hair while she’s screaming, holding her head back, exposing her neck right above the human body.

  It’s perfect, this is how it should be.

  Just a small motion.

  Blood covers everything.

  Everything.

  Worlds, universes.

  Multiple orifices open on the skin of the human body, on its chest, on its shoulders, on its head, everywhere. And from every small hole, fast moving tongues emerge.

  They lick.

  They feast.

  Péter lets go of the woman. He lowers the knife.

  He just stares blankly at the bed, that forest of tongues. They are ravenously licking, lapping up all the blood.

  “Oh yeah, Bianka Sallai,” Péter says. “I guess you’re right.”

  Not a single drop of blood goes wasted on the bed or the carpet. It just disappears. Drop by drop.

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Péter says. “We should go soon enough.”

  Before the bedroom disappears to reveal the most secret, hellish landscapes of the cosmos, and before the strongest trance begins, Péter Tabán says:

  “We have to go to that house!”

  The human body is screaming ghastly screeches in the backseat of the car. Like a pig getting ready to be slaughtered.

  “I don’t care!” Péter growls at it.

  That’s it! It’s shown its true nature! The bastard!

  “You won’t fool me again! Never!”

  He’s flooring it, speeding through the night, on the highway through the woods of Zala county. Péter feels rapturous with wakefulness and clarity.

  “I’ve wasted my life, and what have you given me? Nothing! It was all a lie! The whole thing, a big fucking lie!”

  That misshapen abomination on the backseat is squirming vigorously on its swollen tentacle-like tongues, its shrieking only punctuated by spasming, retching sounds.

  “Drown in your own filth!”

  Soon they’ll reach that house where it all began.

  It’s his after all. According to the papers at least, if that even matters. The house belongs to him now.

  And so does the Gate.

  The human body, or whatever it may be, is now completely turned inside out. It’s full now, gorged. It doesn’t need anything right now.

  It doesn’t need Péter Tabán.

  Now it’s the other way around.

  Péter Tabán needs the creature.

  He stops the car in front of the house, opens the door, and grabs the wallowing monstrosity by one of its tentacles, pulling it out of the car.

  It screams with thousands of mouths, likely waking everybody in the village.

  Péter drags the body to the front door, kicking it with all his strength, finally getting it inside.

  “I’ve had enough of you!” he yells. “You’re full now, aren’t you? You can’t get hold of me now, you have nothing! I’ve got you now! Show me!”

  Dogs are barking in the neighborhood.

  “SHOW IT TO ME!”

  He grabs one of the tentacles forcefully, his fingers sinking into the slimy flesh, dragging the creature deeper into the house.

  He closes the door behind him, and locks it. He wipes his hand on his clothes while flicking the light switches frantically in the house.

  “Where is it, huh? Where is it? I will find it, you disgusting lying worm!”

  He ransacks all the drawers, looks into the larder, then glimpses under the tables.

  Finally, he steps into the kitchen, pulling out the drawers there too. Suddenly he stops. He stands there with an open mouth.

  “Well, look at this.”

  He finds no utensils. Just alien, weird items. Small idols. Notebooks, papers.

  And a book. Its title can be read clearly. De Praestigiis Daemonum. And another book, but its cover is battered; so he can only make out a word: HSAN, and a Roman numeral: V.

  He grabs the books, throwing them one by one at the creature in the living room.

  “What’s this? Huh? And this? What are these? Who reads shit like this? You think normal people have anything to do with this crap?”

  Normal people.

  He can’t remember what a normal person is anymore. His mind is clear now, so he can recollect more and more memories from the last days. New memories: he realizes he met multiple times with Krisztina, his boss, even his mother.

  He remembers now what he has said to them. They weren’t his own words.

  He feels dizzy for a second and grabs the doorframe. He shambles to the living room. He gains new strength, standing before the creature. He yells at it:

  “You make me sick! You hear me? You fucking worm, you destroyed my life! I want some purpose now! SO WHERE IS IT?”

  The creature is whimpering powerlessly. Pathetic.

  The dogs are barking outside. They seem irate.

  “They’re coming for me, right?” Péter says. “They’re calling the police. I have to take responsibility.”

  He’s rubbing his temple, then he glances around, frightened.

  “I didn’t even find you in the house!” he says. “I know where the Gate is! I know where you came from! You can’t even walk!

  He drags the creature into the small toolshed. Where he found it in the first place.

  In the distance, he can hear the sirens, but he doesn’t listen. Maybe it’s just his imagination. He’s still got time.

  “Show me,” he says. “Come on now. We’re here, are we not?”

  He touches its walls, searching for the light switch. As soon as he finds it, he flicks it.

  But there’s no light. At the flick of the switch, reality is no more.

  The creature shows it to him.

  The walls of the toolshed fly away in the void. On the stark black texture of space, billions and billions of small purple symbols appear, like stars.

  “So this is the place,” Péter nods in agreement.

  He doesn’t dare to admit that he understands nothing.

  The creature suddenly rolls away from his feet, and with unexpected vigor, it runs away into the darkness on its wounded, fat tentacles.

  “Hey! HEY!”

  All those shining symbols are fading like the stars at the end of times.

  Only darkness remains. Péter is frightened, he looks around puzzled, unsure what to do now.

  There’s a single source of light in the distance in this wide darkness.

  It’s calling for Péter Tabán.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  He starts running with his hands held before him.

  But his running slows as soon as he notices that he’s knee-deep in water.

  Péter Tabán stands before the glimmering lotus, where he finally learns all the secrets of the universe.

  He sees the birth of time itself, he witnesses the end of all things, he experiences all shades of entropy, he lives the lives of billions of people, he can see civilizations rising and falling.

  He embraces time, space, their abhorrent gods, becoming one with them.

  Becoming immortal and eternal.

  He touches the lotus.

  He can feel infinite happiness.

  And then he realizes it’s all but a fraction of a second.

  A scam.

  He’d open his eyes to see where he is, but he realizes that he doesn’t have eyes anymore. Why would he need eyes after seeing everything the universe has to offer?

  He’d stand up to flee straight away, but he stumbles: he doesn’t have any legs anymore. Where would he go after travelling through the endlessness of the universe?

  He’d raise his arms to push away that horrible lotus, but he already knows: he has no arms anymore. If he’d done everything man can do, why would he need them anym
ore?

  He can feel himself falling to the floor of the tool shed, with a thud.

  Blind, silent, without limbs.

  He wants to scream.

  But all he can project is a faint moan.

  Péter Tabán is no more.

  Police officers who yell in the distance searching for him have no idea where this murderous madman is.

  One of them tells the others a lie:

  “No, there’s nothing here.”

  Minutes, hours, maybe even days go by.

  Then he feels the touch of hands. He twitches.

  Yes, he thinks. Yes, you. I’m going to tell you my secrets.

  He is now being carried away. Somebody whispers to him:

  “Easy. We can go now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  The human body relaxes with gratitude.

  FRESH FACE

  By Tarquin Ford

  Some are legion, and some are single. An individual demon hopped on the eyes of cockroaches in the mulch of the flowerbeds surrounding the house on 1387 Glen Usher Drive, a two-story suburban home on a cul-de-sac. The mulch hid rot, mildew, and natural decomposition in the beds, where small lives ended in pain and despair.

  The front door of the house opened, and a man came outside to stand in his yard and smoke a cigarette. His glassy blue eyes stared at the flat expanse of the night sky, starless because of the bright lights of a nearby automobile dealership. The end of the cigarette glowed. The demon leaped to the glow and luxuriated in the heat of the burning tobacco. The man flicked the cigarette away, but not before he inhaled the demon.

  The man so recently possessed by the demon was Ronald Bright, also known as Ronny, a man who often annoyed others with his eternal cheerfulness. Ronny hiccupped a couple times after inhaling the demon and then padded inside to wash the odor of the cigarette from his hands to avoid offending his fastidious wife at bedtime.

  To a demon, the mind of a man like Ronnie Bright appeared as a complex construction of ropes, lines, and tackle connected by knots, pulleys, and blocks, all stretched taut with optimism. The demon plucked at a rope tentatively and then began to jump up and down on some lines, attempting to work some slack into the system.

  Ronny Bright looked toward his wife, Linda Bright, who sashayed about the living room in a pink nightgown, making a show of straightening knick-knacks. She had taken her contacts out because her eyes felt scratchy, so she wore her glasses.