Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  Before agreeing to dinner, Ellie knew their final meal would be different, though she suspected most of their evening would run its usual course: Billy would blare some computerized travesty of jazz or blues; the dimmer switch would be adjusted so the chandelier above the dining room table seemed little more than the faint glow of a jack-o-lantern row, a quixotic camouflage Billy began hiding behind, she suspected, when he became aware that his long hours in the cellar had robbed him of the good features he once possessed; and the table would seem an oval ghost under that cloth she loathed—an abhorrent draping which matched Billy’s lab coat when they purchased it and had since turned a tarter yellow.

  Ellie stood on the porch, dressed in her most casual of dinner outfits, waiting for Billy to answer the door and trying not to smile at the thought of walking away from that table for the last time, leaving the wordless noise and dim room and ugly cloth behind. She made a silent vow to never forget. It would serve her better to remember the decade of marriage in which her husband grew evermore complacent, spending increasing hours in the basement. She recalled the crawling feeling she got one occasion when she went down there and discovered that he used up much of his time in the glass room not experimenting but instead ogling his specimens, his eyes bulging like two fat white grubs as ants crawled across his hand. She would hold onto the degrading experience of living with an entomologist/arachnologist who wanted to touch his bugs more than he did his wife, a thought that had wriggled in the back of her mind each time those rare moments arrived when he meant to touch her sexually.

  She was in the middle of that thought as Billy opened the door. Poised in the entrance, he remained quiet for a moment, seemingly perplexed.

  “Are you cold, Ellie?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you might be . . . the way you were shaking.”

  “I guess I’m a little cold,” she lied, hoping to spare his feelings, then wondering if he still had feelings like normal people. She often considered the possibility that too much time around his little friends had made him just like them, a shell wrapped around a complex nervous system.

  Except, in that moment, she could tell there was much more within his fleshy husk than a jamboree of firing neurons. His eyes might have been hidden behind glasses reflecting a streetlamp, but he was staring at her—into her, she thought, with those bulging white eyes of his—in a manner of almost telepathic inquiry.

  “May I come in?” she asked, playing off another shudder as if cold.

  He stepped aside.

  “Certainly. You didn’t have to knock. This is still your home, too, Ellie, or have you forgotten?”

  She entered, and there it was greeting her: the overly-condensed rhythms of what Billy considered music, electronic clots with all of the humanity stripped away. Rendered to a fine point; that was how he liked any form of art. As the tune invaded her ears, she thought, this is the same sound I would hear if I could hear a spider spinning its web.

  Ellie almost jumped when he closed and locked the door behind them. Never in their decade together had Billy ever frightened her. Given her the creeps, yes, many times. But it was like the difference between hearing a ghost story and having a supernatural experience. The first does not impose an immediate sense of danger; the latter does. She found herself leaning toward the second as he stepped around her and toddled into the kitchen with barely a nervous gleam on his balding scalp. It was a powerful inflammation of the surreal fear generated by nightmares, and it was her first time experiencing anything like it. For a woman who had been content enough to share the house with Black Widow spiders, there was something to be said about her sudden level of unease.

  How Luigi’s voice had boomed hours ago at the very idea of Ellie and Billy Goldstein reunited and alone.

  “I don’t trust you going over there!”

  Along with his slight accent, his large hands, and his full head of hair, his inability to filter emotion was one of the many things she had come to adore about her lover. The more he cared, the louder he became. He was not a rational man of science, but an impulsive man of emotion.

  “I’ve known Billy for sixteen years and lived with him for ten. He’s far more dangerous to himself than anyone else. I think that’s how he needs to heal. It’s his personality—he turns inward. If a final dinner together can help him move on, it will help me move on.” She ran her finger along the sheet clinging to Luigi’s thick forearm. “It will help us move on.”

  “And how am I to forgive myself if something happens to you?”

  “Trust me, and I mean this quite literally . . . Billy Goldstein wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  Ellie forced herself back into the air of normalcy she had felt in that very house less than two weeks prior, before she finally broke the news to Billy that she was leaving him to live with the man she had been seeing behind his back for more than a year. It further eased her nerves to recall his reaction; it had been passive rather than angry, rational rather than alarmed, and in a way, slightly relieved.

  She took a seat at the dining room table, disregarding the yellow-tinted tablecloth she hated as she tried to erase any sign of guilt from her face. Billy entered the room with two glasses of red wine and a goofy smile she had not seen since their college days. She thought that smile had been lost to his research.

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Ellie, and I’ve really come to terms with what’s happening between us.”

  Ellie accepted the drink, wondering by his chipper behavior if these were the first glasses he poured that evening.

  “What is happening between us?” she asked, afraid to approve of their current standing without first hearing his understanding of it. “I mean, in your eyes, what’s happening?”

  Those eyes, glossy and bright, wiggled in their sockets. He raised his index finger and proclaimed, “A metamorphosis, my dear.”

  She took a deep breath, released it, took a large gulp, swallowed, sighed, and tried but failed to say something, anything.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. You think I’m hysterical. That I should be happy about you cohabitating and copulating with a man who exceeds me physically—a man you chose for primal and instinctive reasons—certainly appears a blatant and painful case of denial in the eyes of lesser beings. But I am not in pain.” He thrust his arms into the air in a grand gesture. “I could even dance, because I have defied death, found a way to grant new life, and our metamorphosed relationship will do the same. We’re almost imago, Ellie. To become butterflies.”

  She could not think of a good response. He read the uncertainty on her face.

  “You must be unsure of your old friend Billy right now,” he said, calming. “I should have begun by informing you: it finally happened.”

  Curiosity replaced her unease. IT, the same IT he spoke of so often. She had thought IT a metaphor for his big break.

  “IT’s happened?”

  “Yes, not just a breakthrough but THE breakthrough. Completion. Everything I’ve been working toward since grad school is finally coming to fruition. The long hours, the sacrifices—our marriage being one of them—and the derision I received. Even when no one said anything, my peers were mocking me among themselves. Even you doubted me.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem—”

  “No! Don’t you dare apologize, Ellie. My success is where our new relationship cocoons. Your unspoken judgment allowed me to make this possible. Ridicule was the leafy goodness I needed, we needed. I have you to thank.”

  He’s just excited, Ellie told herself, and she couldn’t blame him. She was excited, too, so much that the atmosphere no longer bothered her. Though he was behaving far more eccentrically than she had ever witnessed, and though her physical passions had long since died for the man, she felt she had shared much of the sacrifice it took for him to fulfill his ambition, and she felt pride in herself for standing by him at least an overwhelming majority of the time in which he worked toward. . . .

  Suddenly, so
mething he said before began itching in her mind like a mosquito bite.

  “Billy? What did you mean when you said you defied death?”

  “First, let us eat. I will explain as much as I can before showing you.”

  He returned to the kitchen with his empty glass and began carrying silver-topped platters (which he must have purchased specifically for the occasion, because Ellie had never seen them before) two at a time to the dining room table. She offered to help, but he refused, stating that many of the covered dishes were a surprise related to his special breakthrough. There were ten platters in all: five he set on the right side, her left, and five he set on the left, her right. Then, after fetching forks and silverware and plates and apologizing for his absentmindedness, he unveiled, one at a time, the five helpings of food on the right, her left.

  It was indeed different than she expected. The meal consisted of fettuccine, salad, steamed vegetables, spaghetti, and breadsticks. Despite his excitement and declared appreciation of their “cocooning” relationship, the meal he prepared was basically saying, I heard you’re a big fan of Italian. Billy’s engineered irony was in the air, but neither chose to verbalize what would surely subtract from his momentous revelation. He seemed humble as he filled their plates and this time filled glasses with white wine, so she considered that his choice of cuisine was only subconsciously spiteful. Men like Billy Goldstein—their subconscious thoughts pupate and grow into larger things. At least the food looked appetizing, for once, under the hollow, jack-o-lantern-like glow.

  A good way into their meal, Billy began staring at the platters still covered, the ones on the left, her right. Continuing to eat small bites, he started his great divulgence.

  “Ellie, do you remember Gregor Mendel?”

  She hated to break from eating. The food was delicious, distracting from the strangeness of the scenario. She didn’t want anything to shatter her current state of peace. She wanted it to last her until she was miles removed from this dreamlike dinner, at Luigi’s place and in his solid, grounding arms.

  “Mendel was the man who cross-pollinated pea plants to discover dominant and recessive traits,” she answered. “He’s one of your earliest inspirations. You even tried to start that educational band in college. Was it Gregor and the Peapods?”

  Billy chuckled. He was a puzzle master holding the last few pieces in his hands, looking upon them as a doting father about to send his children into the bigger world, commit them to the bigger picture.

  “I find it hard to believe that a boy with such silly ideas could accomplish what I have. I guess I’ve done a fair amount of metamorphosing since then. But you have it right enough. Mendel’s experiments started me down my own path. I began toying with cross-pollinating—cross-breeding—different species of insects and arachnids. You thought I was just down there for the last ten years playing with bugs, but I was playing with something smaller. Particles, my dear. I’ve even gone as far as to clone my insects, and even that pales in comparison to the grand scheme. You remember the time you found me in the glass room with the ants out, crawling across my hand? I was marveling because they were clones. I could not tell you that, then, but it was true. Start small, make big. That’s my scientific creed.”

  “That’s all wonderful,” Ellie said, then attempted humor. “Just don’t tell me you’ve created a giant race of ants we’ll have to build sugar factories to satiate.”

  “Not yet, I haven’t,” he said, as if taking her comment seriously. “The point is . . . I could if I wanted to. I could tweak this, manipulate that. Ellie, I’ve discovered something far deeper than Higgs boson . . . I’ve discovered the true God Particle.”

  He reached for the still-covered platter closest to him and pulled off the top. Ellie saw what was beneath the silver dome and dropped her fork into a tangle of spaghetti.

  Never during their decade together in that house, no matter how pleased he was with his studies, had Billy dared to bring bugs to the dinner table. Now he had. The platter, which he moved directly before him after scooting his plate aside, contained two glass jars: one with a small, wriggling maggot inside; the other with a large, fat grub. They climbed at their glass cells with horrifying inconsequence, although Billy was watching them as if they were two, united pinnacles of existence.

  “Do you know what these are, Ellie?”

  “The lighting’s not the best, but I can see from here that one is a maggot and the other a grub worm.”

  “You’re half right. I’ll explain, and it will all make sense.”

  She doubted that, and she knew he could read her uncertainty, but his eyes gleamed—human versions of the grub in the jar—as he continued.

  “If I was going to successfully crossbreed insect species, fire ants with carpenter ants, for example, then I needed to manipulate those subatomic particles into accepting the DNA of the other. It took me several years to figure out how to grow those potential offspring in a stable environment, and even then the results were less than successful. I had discovered this small concoction, but I was lacking a filter to initiate true birth. In other words, I had to find that particular something that would spring nothing into life. A womb. Then it occurred to me. If I could tweak these un-living particles into life, then maybe I could use any piece of detached life as fodder, an incubation system— turning decay into spontaneous life”

  “And?”

  “And it worked! I used mice to grow my crossbreeds of insects. I changed them with my concoction, and the results were profound. Any piece of flesh I cut from them would transform. Do you see what I’ve done, Ellie? I have turned death into a suitable condition for life and created hundreds of new species of insects. I have defied what every true scientist dreams secretly of defying. I have found immortality.” He pointed to the smaller jar, the one with the maggot. “Guess where this came from.”

  “Do I want to know?” Ellie asked, shuddering at the thought of his mutilated test subjects.

  “It came from me, Ellie. It came from me.”

  “Bi-Billy, please don’t tell me you—”

  “Not on purpose. It didn’t occur to me that my concoction and inevitable exposure to it would cause a change in me. After all, it is not toxic in any way, so I went about my experiments with more concern that I might contaminate it than thinking it might contaminate me. I used what I thought were the necessary safeguards, but there must have been a hole in my preparations . . . or in my hazmat suit. Somewhere along the line I either inhaled or ingested the transformative agent, the one that springs life from death.

  The guilt returned to her face, undeniable. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  His grin in response made him appear even more at home under the jack-o-lantern-like lighting.

  “Far from it, my dear Ellie. I am immortal.”

  As hard to believe as his declaration was, she had known the man for sixteen years and could not recall a single lie. She hoped he was exaggerating.

  “You mean immortal because of your discovery, right? Because you’ll go down in history?”

  He finished his glass, grabbed the bottle, and poured another. “I. Mean. Immortal.”

  “Billy, maybe this isn’t the best time to talk about it. I’m sure you want to unveil your findings yourself, to a prestigious institution.”

  “Fuck prestige!” Billy yelled, which was uncharacteristic for a man who compared swear words to barbaric grunts. Also, he used to be obsessed with those great academic clubs, desiring acceptance from them. “I’m not simply immortal—I’m enlightened.” He gave the maggot-jar in his fingertips a gentle shake, sending the little white speck rolling back and forth across the glass bottom. “I asked if you knew where this fellow came from, Ellie, and I think you’re starting to realize, though it scares you as I can see that by the look on your face. When I was shaving a few days ago, I cut myself a good one.” He paused only long enough to indicate a small, white bandage just beneath his chin and on his upper neck. Ellie, until then, had not noti
ced it. “I set my razor down and patched the wound with a snip of toilet paper. Then I went to continue. I was just about to rinse my razor under the faucet when I saw it, wriggling between the blades. When I first looked, it was still a small piece of flesh. By the time I got to the basement, this sample was a smaller version of itself now. Soon it’ll be a fly. The blood was also moving. It was red, so it became chiggers.”

  This is insane! she thought. He’s insane!

  Ellie tried to stand but could not. The recent dreamlike sense she felt was more than mental. It was physical.

  “You drugged me, you bastard,” she slurred.

  “I knew you would have trouble believing,” he said in an almost apologetic tone. I just put enough in the wine to keep you still. I have no intention of tying you up, Ellie-my-dear. Trust me. Soon you will be free.”

  The music she associated with the sound of spider webs was in the background. He lifted the jar with the grub worm and eyed it lovingly as he stepped around the table and hovered above the four, silver-topped platters. If the maggot had come from the shaved-off skin of his neck, he was daring her to guess from which chunk of him the larger specimen had manifested. She did not have to guess for long. With a smile as sideways as spider fangs, he hoisted his right foot to the table, set the jar beside it, and used hands trembling with anticipation to remove his slipper.

  Ellie screamed . . . or at least she attempted to scream. What escaped her mouth was as droning as the music. She saw exactly what Billy wanted her to see: the place where his pinky toe used to be, right next to the glass-sealed grub worm.

  “I had to be certain,” he said. “I had to know that the maggot born of my flesh wasn’t an isolated incident. As you can see, Ellie, it wasn’t.”