Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

The skeletal finger found the husband.

  “Tell her . . . tell her you . . . tell Diane you . . . promised . . .”

  Dee whispered to Liam, “Your wife isn’t rational, you know. Her mind, it’s probably gone.”

  “This is what Melanie wants. You being here—with me—this is for her. She needs this! I’ll give you whatever you ask, okay?” He didn’t wait for Dee’s answer, instead led her to the bed where his wife lay. The stench of her rotted flesh kicked in worse than before.

  Another heavy sigh, then Dee removed her skirt. She lay naked trying to avoid looking at the woman. Liam turned off the light before removing his clothes. The bed had ample space for the three, but Melanie sprawled on half of it, what was left of her. The husband climbed into the bed, forcing Dee to slide closer to his dying woman. Dee thanked Christ for the darkness. She could do this . . .

  . . . but I’ll keep my eyes closed, closed tight. That horrible stink, I’ll manage that and I’ll perform like I always do, and I’ll be worth every penny, your best E-ticket ride ever, and you can take that to the bank, Mr. Liam. . . .

  “Have you a condom?” she asked.

  “No need.”

  “It’ll cost more. Another fifteen hundred.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  No rules of etiquette applied when a man purchased her for her services, and Liam wasted no time reaching for Dee’s tits. His hands were sweaty, but she knew the guy was nervous. She recognized the familiar moan of the man’s pleasure. It didn’t take long.

  Dee managed her own moan, well-rehearsed but believable. “I’ll make you feel good,” she whispered. Reaching for his manhood, she knew he needed a little work. “I’ll make you feel very good, Liam. In fact, give me a minute and I’ll make you feel fucking wonderful.” Lowering her head to his thighs, she took him inside her mouth. Not allowing the man’s dying wife to kill a decent hard-on, Dee put her hand and tongue to work. The man’s erection sprang to life, and she squirmed closer, squeezed out of her panties and quickly squeezed him inside her. Liam spilled himself within seconds. He grunted and rolled off her.

  Another fifteen hundred for under five minutes. Worth it at half the price. . . .

  “It’s all right. Really, Liam. We can try again in a little—”

  An icy hand stroked her shoulder. The chill took Dee out of the moment. Melanie’s bony fingers were on her, all over her.

  “Touch . . . me . . . too . . .”

  Liam whispered, “Do it. Touch her. Hold her.”

  Another fifteen hundred . . . give you whatever you ask. . . .

  Dee said nothing, took a very deep breath, and reached tentatively to the woman, uncertain where her hand ought to go. She touched the withered arm lightly. Its wilting flesh felt like she had grabbed hold of a human bone. Two skeletal arms embraced her, pulled her close. The ragged nightgown opened, and the woman’s naked cold flesh felt waxy and thin like a badly fitting garment. Dee couldn’t tell whether the woman was moaning with pleasure or gasping for air.

  “Ahhhhhh . . .”

  Dee’s gag reflex kicked in, but she managed to shove it back inside. Somehow, Liam’s wife gathered enough strength to pull her closer. For one awful moment she worried the woman’s fragile bones might snap with the slightest pressure.

  “You’re—You’re hurting me a little,” Dee said, but this only caused Melanie to hold her more firmly. “Liam, she’s hurting me . . .”

  The husband no longer lay alongside her. He stood motionless in the shadows, watching them. Dee tried to pull herself from Melanie’s grip, but the spindly arms held fast. Now she felt concern for her own bones.

  “. . . tighter . . . yes . . . tighter . . .”

  “I can’t breathe! Liam. Tell her I can’t . . .” Pressed against cold flesh Dee heard a liquid slurping sound, like water belching down a drain.

  “I’m sorry, Dee. I’m really very sorry . . .”

  (FUCK!)

  The sensation felt almost like being swallowed, but no, not like that, more like. . . .

  URP!

  . . . that sound, as if. . . .

  . . . downdowndown. . . .

  . . . it felt more like parts of her. . . .

  (Shit! Shit!)

  . . . like her own guts were being absorbed!

  URP!

  “. . . so sorry . . .”

  When consciousness returned, Dee realized she remained in bed. She had no idea how much time had passed, but it was still dark and she felt weaker than she had ever felt in her entire life. Worse, she ached as if every cell in her body had declared war. Managing to raise her head, she saw Liam standing over her.

  “You’re awake. That’s good.”

  She attempted to speak but managed only a sickening gargle. Liam shook his head. “Don’t even try. You’re very ill.”

  “Ughh—mmm . . . Ummmm”

  Dee’s face contorted. Her eyes opened wide. Liam must have known those eyes were searching for answers.

  “These ritual things can be tricky. You see, I do love my wife very much, so much that I . . . well, I’m afraid I’m not very good at explaining this.”

  Another voice, a woman’s, spoke from the other side of the bed. “Perhaps I can do that. Hello, Dee. I’m Mrs. Melanie Weston, Liam’s wife. We’ve met, quite literally, in a matter of speaking.”

  The woman was standing at Dee’s bedside. Dee stared at her until some focus returned. What she saw took a moment to comprehend.

  Here stood a significantly healthier Melanie, maybe a good ten or fifteen years older than her own twenty-four and not quite as fresh faced and firm in body, but one hell of a lot better looking than the woman she had seen in the bed she herself now occupied.

  “My Liam hates when I use these spells, but I really had no choice and—how do I put this? My husband’s seed inside you was necessary. It’s the stuff of life, you see.”

  Taking his wife’s hand, Liam bent to speak close to Dee, who lay beneath a pile of filthy bed covers. He whispered, “I am sorry, you know, but we do what we must. I mislead you, I’m afraid. You see, my wife, she never was really dying.”

  Melanie added, “You can’t die when you’re already dead, Diane.”

  Through her agony, Dee forced herself to understand.

  Liam had practically said it. He had wanted his wife to die, because. . . .

  . . . because . . .?

  [‘My Liam hates when I use these spells . . .’]

  ‘These spells.’

  And now Dee understood. There could be no other explanation.

  Mrs. Melanie Weston had not been a living woman who was dying; she was a dead woman who required a healthy young woman (like her!) to return to life. That, and something else. . . .

  ‘. . . my husband’s seed . . . the stuff of life . . .’

  Can’t die when you’re already dead. . . .

  And here she was!

  Melanie spoke low. “I suppose I should thank you for your sacrifice, Diane. Your cancer will be quick. A few days at most, I promise you that.”

  Dee pushed herself from her pillow, held her hand before her eyes. Her gnarled fingers could have belonged to someone already dead, while her chicken-skinned arms dripped crimson goo and seemed to barely contain enough rotted flesh to cover them. She could only imagine what had become of her face, but she really didn’t want to know.

  “Unnnnnghhh . . . ugggggghhhh . . .”

  Had she been able, the sickly woman sprawled on the bed would have screamed her lungs out.

  Different tavern, different part of town. Liam Weston knew he had to be careful.

  His Melanie had enjoyed a brief three months’ respite from death. But malignant cancer cells never played fair, and again she had faded fast. Those tumors were insidious little bastards, all right. Once inside you they made themselves at home, feasting away at your innards until nothing remained. Even with the most successful spells, cancer was still part of you. The black arts provided relief, of course, but they had their limits.
>
  The young woman seated at the bar was raven-haired. Blonde, brunette, ginger, it didn’t matter. She was beautiful, and Liam required little else, although that was more Melanie’s wish than his. He loved his wife, and until his own time came, he always would love her.

  The long-strapped pocketbook and the purple ass-tugging mini gave the woman on the barstool away. Here sat a working girl, no doubt about that, and her type often moved around a lot. This was good. As he watched her sip her wine, Liam could tell the woman was clearly on call. He gulped his drink and approached her.

  “My wife is very beautiful,” he said.

  “How lucky for you,” the woman answered and returned to her wine glass.

  Liam had to smile.

  “Yes, but—well, you see, I’m afraid she’s dying . . .”

  MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

  By James Harper

  Greg Emmanuel hated Christmas music. He hated it down to his reptilian brain stem. And, while he knew this made him a pariah, he couldn't help it; he was, after all, a music lover.

  Coming off the Beltway to the access road that led to the Lanham IT industrial complex, he fumed as one of the songs he hated most played in his consciousness, an incessant blather that threatened to drive him to a rooftop with a sniper scope to take out his frustration and anger on the idiots surrounding him who hummed these musical pieces of excrement during the season. He found it maddening that his XM was insufficient to locate a stronger, better tune to eradicate the melody now ensconced in his head.

  The insipid nature of the lyrics, the banality of the music and the sheer dearth of variety near about drove him insane. This created an earworm hell for him during the last six weeks of every year when the inexorable parade of dreck launched itself into his brain to take up residence with the steadfast determination of an indefatigable wood tick.

  He knew, deep down in his secret self, that he could not reveal this fact to any; the cries "Oh, how can you say that?" and "But you have no holiday spirit!" would swoop upon him like a winter eagle scooping up a late December river trout. So, his mere daily self never complained aloud, never griped at the drivel that came pumping out of the retail store PA, never showed his bottomless contempt. But he knew it, he felt it; he hated Christmas music.

  Still brooding, he pulled into his private parking space at the lab, the remnants of the abominable “Winter Wonderland” echoing through his sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated mind, the steadfast earworm attached to his cerebellum as a blood leech might host on a feral boar. Thinking to break free of the odious tether before leaving his Lexus, he switched off his dictation handheld to listen to a piece by Borodin. Perhaps that might expunge the wretched ditty to a well-deserved bubblegum doom.

  After several minutes of the March from Prince Igor, he exited, the erasure complete. He moved to cross the few short steps across the lot to the entrance of the EmmanuLabs front doors, then through the foyer to the hallway and entered the lobby. Jamika greeted him with her usual bright “Good morning, Dr. Emmanuel” before motioning for him to step closer to her.

  “Your interview is in the Potomac Conference Room,” she said, tilting the crown of her head in the direction of the room.

  Fuck, he thought. He had forgotten all about the appointment. His preoccupation with the current research coupled with the brutality of the traffic during the holiday season, along with his natural neglect to check his email for calendar alerts, had all conspired to cause him to overlook the engagement.

  Looking into the glass-walled conference room, he saw a woman, her back to him, scanning her phone. He turned to Jamika.

  “Right,” he said. “It was supposed to be 10:00; I’m only a half hour late.”

  Jamika frowned. “Doctor, it was scheduled for 9:30.”

  He stiffened. “Well, let her know I’ll be in shortly.” He marched toward his office, taking off his coat as he walked.

  (“Ase’s Death” Exquisite)

  Minutes later, he entered the Potomac with his broadest, most charming smile. He thanked his good sense to wear his best black Anderson & Sheppard that day, along with a hand-sewn silk tie. “Good morning,” he said, stretching out his hand to hers. “Gregory Emmanuel.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr. Emmanuel. I’m Jennifer Davis.” She handed him her business card.

  As he sat at the head of the conference room table, he glanced at the embossed card that read Quantum Field. Pocketing it, he said, “Sorry for the delay. I got caught up in some late developments.”

  She switched on her tablet, sliding it to a point midway between them. “I understand,” she said. “Shall we get right to it?”

  “By all means,” he said, nodding. He held out his hands to indicate his openness and welcoming manner.

  “All right.” She consulted her pad of questions. She looked up at him; her eyes smiled a wry glint. “I ask the same first science question at every interview. It’s off the record and strictly meant to break the ice.”

  He didn’t know how to react. “Um, okay,” he said.

  “So jet packs: when do you think we’ll have them?”

  Jet packs? What? Her smile broadened, letting him know she intended the question as a joke. She needs new material, he thought. He indulged it.

  “Well, as you well know this is completely out of my field. Engineering and rocket craft and the like. I know only of the fuel/weight problem that hasn’t been cracked and that, even after half a century, no one’s been able to push through it.”

  She jotted her notes. “Still, I’d say we could have them in next decade.”

  “Really? That’s very interesting.” She wrote another note.

  Looking up from her pad, she said, “Doctor, it’s no secret that your firm, the leader in the field of genetic regeneration, has come on some hard times of late with SEC filings and lawsuits for patent infringement. Do you think that your latest effort to prove dissipation-driven adaptation will put this in the past before the litigation can get a decent head of steam?” She looked up from her pad in anticipation.

  She’s pretty, he thought. Not in a classic way, not in a wow-I’d-like-to-bang-her way, but in a wholesome, Midwest upbringing sort of way.

  “I have no doubt,” he said with authority. “The nature of the important work we’re doing will have a sustained lasting impact on medicine and health for generations. It’s a completely new direction that will provide an unlimited number of subsequent breakthroughs for years.”

  “That makes it seem groundbreaking. Sounds like what you’re doing is either epic or foolhardy based on the cryptic way you’ve framed those statements.”

  “I assure you, Ms. Davis, they are more along the former lines than the latter. We here at EmmanuLabs rarely engage in the less-than-extraordinary. The work we do has always been for the greater good; always to benefit mankind.

  “What we are attempting to prove; what we’ve been calculating all these years, is the proof of a fundamental, hitherto unknown and undetected force in the universe: the hinted at, but largely unresearched, dark force.”

  “Dark force?”

  “Yes, what my partner Dr. Gorton and I have theorized, indeed, what we’ve been devoting our lives toward, has been establishing a basis for a fifth force, a dark force, if you will, that lies beyond the four we know.

  “You see, the four known forces of the universe: electromagnetism, gravity, the strong force that holds atoms together, and the weak force that governs radioactivity, all do very well at explaining the vast bulk of what we can account for in physics. But it’s that one percent, the tiny fraction that remains unexplained that we think the dark force shows. We think that, once we prove the existence, once we can show results that verify quantitatively the dark force, we will have the answers to a myriad of mysteries that have plagued physicists and scientists for decades.”

  “Centuries even.”

  He looked at her then allowed another curt grin. “Yes, indeed. We feel that the search for dark
matter and dark energy is insufficient. In fact, we think that without this research, without first establishing the existence of the dark force, the other two cannot be found. In addition, I believe its discovery will unlock a host of problems physicists, and indeed all of science, have grappled with for generations.”

  “Fascinating.” She typed on her pad with a new alacrity. He thought he had won her over. She put her finger to her lip, then asked, “But surely, Dr. Emmanuel, the research you’re conducting can’t be done in a vacuum. How is it that no papers have come out of this? Why haven’t we seen documentation on the work you’ve done to show the foundation of this project?”

  “That, too, is part of the plan. We expect that, in the next few days, perhaps within the week, we will be releasing all the work in one fell swoop.” He allowed an internal laugh at the term.

  “So, while the search for dark matter and dark energy is consuming the scientific community now, do you think that your research will crack the code, so to speak, to help open the door to the other efforts?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But, doctor, I’m still not getting why all the secrecy. I don’t understand why you’ve kept it under wraps for as long as you have.”

  “Well, part of the reason, you understand, has come out of previous experience, particularly those witnessed by Dr. Gorton.” He let the statement stand as it was. If Davis had done her homework she would know about the embarrassing debacle Gorton had suffered at his last position.

  “So help me connect the dots for my readers. What’s the link between the dark force and your goal? By that I mean, how does this fit into health research? And, in explaining that, how does one connect it to the funding you receive?”

  “Good question.” He shifted in the leather-bound chair. “We believe that, when we can find the evidence—even peripherally—of the dark force, it will affect all of science going forward.” He leaned toward her for effect. “Think about it, Ms. Davis, were you to prove the existence of gravity, would that not change the entire landscape of the discipline of science?”

  Davis returned his look. Then she went to her next question. He lowered his estimation of her intelligence. She just didn’t get it, he shrugged. She, along with the vast majority of the human race, didn’t comprehend the monumental impact his work would have. With an ironic mental smile, he realized that even his partners had no clue, really.