“I had a terrible dream last night, there were monsters and you were in it, and I . . .” my voice trailed off and I looked down at the ground. She came over to me and sat in my lap. She caressed me, running her fingers through my hair.
“There, there. It’s all right, I’m here now and no monsters will get us. It was only a dream, no doubt brought on by fatigue, you’ve been working too hard,” she said.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said.
“When can we start on the next part of the tattoo?” Aryn said. She kissed me and looked into my soul with eyes that held a need for something beyond my control. How could I say no to her? How could I possibly say no?
The next two weeks brought the same schedule. I worked in the shop by day and at night designed and implemented the tattoo on Aryn’s leg. I feverishly labored to make every detail stand out. There were more symbols and a tentacled creature that wrapped the full of her calf. The text itself was printed in a way that started from top to bottom. I didn’t understand the writings, but the design held true; a flawless structure of artistic achievement, laid out on that perfect leg. The canvas always makes the difference.
“I think I know what that says,” Aryn said one time. “It says: To play with death is a way to invite Hell. I saw that in one of my Wiccan textbooks.”
“You surely don’t believe such nonsense, do you?” I said.
“No, don’t be silly. I just love the design of the whole thing. Once it’s done, I can tell everyone about that,” she said.
After every new application, Aryn would make love to me with a new fervor. I responded in kind. But then, wouldn’t DaVinci do the same? Is that why Mona Lisa smiled; anticipation or annoyance from waiting? Though Aryn proved to be a patient subject, she bent her fair share of frustration toward me.
All seemed right, until that fateful night. I should have held her tighter, I know that now. But life doesn’t give second chances and what we sow can be reaped by the most unlikely benefactors. I should not have let her go, I know that now.
The tattoo was finished and my labors had proved extensive, but well worth it. We lay in my bed after an exhaustive sex-capade; Kama Sutra and forms of geisha. Things I never knew, but felt enriched to understand better. Aryn never seemed to tire, but this night she gave in to sleep. Perhaps some wine made that easier. I held her, closer than I ever thought possible, and felt her push her hips and buttocks close to me. There we were, a tangle of flesh that seemed endless; if only that were the way of it.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt a tug. At first I thought Aryn had another burst of energy and I would do my best to take her again. I would hope my stamina made a miraculous comeback. But this was something else; something entirely different.
“Why are you pulling at me?” she said groggily.
“I’m not, my love. I thought you wanted another go,” I said.
Then she screamed; a bloodcurdling cry. I pulled back the blankets and couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. My creation had come to life! In every form of evil entity that existed in this and other realities! The flayed man chomped at her thigh and Aryn renewed her anguish. The tentacled creature rose from the picture on the leg to form as a three dimensional being before me. I reached for Aryn, but the tentacles pushed me back and set me into the floor. I landed on my backside and hit my head on the nightstand.
Aryn screamed again and though my head reeled against the pain and near blackout, I found my feet. I jumped back up to the bed and saw the dragon figure swirling furiously on her leg. Aryn was being dragged into her own skin. The flayed man gnawed on tender flesh and the tentacle creature pulled toward the inner part of her thigh. The monstrosity’s appendages flailed about all around him, but three of the tentacles held Aryn tight and had no plans to release her. I grabbed hold of her.
“Darling, please hold me, don’t let them take me!” Aryn cried. I held her and had no intentions of releasing. I then heard something, which caused my stomach to turn. Her flesh, that tender, flawless skin; the canvas I used and caressed over countless nights, was tearing, separating from the pelvis. Aryn wailed in pain. I held her though, and still held no thought of letting go.
“Don’t let them take me!” Aryn howled with tears streaming down her face. “No matter what, don’t let go!” she screamed.
I held her at the waist, but felt my grip slipping, as the leg continued to rip, making an unholy sound. All of the creatures were angrily agitating in the air around Aryn’s leg. I tightened my hold, but to no avail; I was losing. I considered Aryn’s eyes; full of fear and regret, much like my own. Why did we play with something neither of us understood? My fingers raked her side and dug into the flesh, drawing blood. My hands slipped to her arm. I tried to renew my grip, but lost it. I looked into those eyes, as I grasped her hand. Never had I wanted to hold something more. I needed her, but something from beyond desired her body. Aryn sobbed uncontrollably; her eyes pleaded with me, but I had no power in this struggle. I kissed her and lost the grip on her hand.
“No!” Aryn protested, and then began to disappear into the ball of ink that used to be her leg, her body up to her waist, completely swallowed; the dragon encircled her form. She clawed at the bed taking the sheets with her. I lunged for her again, but fire shot out of the dragon’s mouth, preventing me from going any further. She disappeared into the vortex of dragon and ink-created monsters. The room spun with a spiraling force; several items floated in the air and vanished into the oblivion. Then a loud pop and it was gone.
There is nothing now; my canvas and muse forlorn and forgotten; the pain of her skin ripping, more horrifying than I could ever have imagined. I contemplated calling the police, but what would I tell them? This story is too fantastic; I would be locked up right away if I mentioned one part of it. I only have the sadness and realization that I let go. Aryn talked of inviting Hell, but neither she nor I believed that possible. I feel she may have gone there.
I’ve sat here for a week, trying to consider what to do. I’ve read and studied the prints, but can’t figure out why they turned on her. I guess I know only one way to find her. I’ve known it all along, but was too afraid to admit. My Hell is hers and I accept it willingly. I place this gun to my head to take my life, feeling the regret that has haunted me. I will see you soon, my darling, in this you can be assured.
CONDITIONED APOCALYPSE
By Aric Sundquist
The police officer tells me to stay in my apartment. He’s tall and muscular and grips a mean-looking tactical shotgun. He gives off an aura of entitlement, like all men in uniform do, and stares at my breasts as if they’re a crime in progress. But I don’t hide them. Actually, I do quite the opposite.
I lean against the doorway and stick my chest out and ask him if I can leave to go and run a few simple errands. He frowns and tells me that I can’t go outside because the visitors are extremely dangerous. That’s what he calls them—the visitors. I tell him that I call them slithering alien shitheads and he smirks a little at this. Then he says they’re downright hostile and I should stay indoors for the time being.
I’m not really afraid of the visitors, so I feign some emotion and begin sobbing. It works beautifully. He takes a step closer and reassures me that I have nothing to worry about, that they will all die by the end of the week. Then he insists I keep out of sight and he’ll check up on me later.
I tell him that would be great. And then I ask about his wedding ring.
He is startled, just long enough to cue me in on a lie forming on his lips. He says his wife died of cancer, just recently, and he wears his ring in her memory. Then he puts his hand on my shoulder and asks if I’m alone and if I have any weapons in the house. I tell him that I’m alone, that I don’t like guns, but I do have a protector named Max. But all he does is take naps on the rug and beg for table scraps.
The policeman grins, because I’m an attractive young woman in need of rescuing. I bite my top lip and he gives me a weird look, so I sw
itch to the bottom lip and play with my blonde hair and this time it works beautifully. I can tell I’m getting his blood pumping. I tell him to make sure to come back and we’ll have a nice time together.
He agrees. He wants more.
The officer moves to the next apartment, a little flustered, he still eyes me up good. He knocks on my neighbor’s door. Nobody answers. He moves to the next apartment and repeats the procedure, but this time he is greeted by an elderly woman wearing dark sunglasses and holding a potted plant that looks dead. I don’t know her, and I don’t care to know her, so I shut the door and try not to laugh.
Men.
Max comes to my side, unsure of what to do. Eventually he nuzzles my hand and licks my fingers. I hate being licked, but I keep my hand completely still. Licking is a sign of affection. That’s what I want in a new pet.
I make sure to lock the door and wedge my desk in front of it for an added level of security. The desk holds my mother’s antique sewing machine. It’s heavy as hell and makes a good doorstop. Then I sit at my kitchen table and begin sorting through my remaining food.
This is what I have left: a couple boxes of corn flakes, four cans of expired tomato soup, a box of rice, and a half jar of crunchy peanut butter. That’s it. Not great.
The electricity went out two weeks ago. And all of my perishable food went with it. That’s when I discovered a set of empty canning jars while scrounging through the cupboards. At one point during my early college years I had wanted to make raspberry jam, but never got around to it.
So here they are—the empty jars. I use them to collect rainwater out on the fire escape. But what I really want to do is sneak outside and pilfer some of the untended gardens around town and do some canning. Or maybe set up some snares and catch a squirrel or rabbit to cook for dinner.
Thinking about food makes my stomach grumble, so I pour out a handful of corn flakes into a bowl and nibble on a few. I place some of the corn flakes on the floor and Max slinks over and gobbles them up in a second. I pet him behind the ear and he curls up on the floor and falls asleep. At least he pretends to fall asleep.
I dump out a second helping of corn flakes into the bowl right when gunshots go off outside. I hustle to the front window and peer through the shutters.
In the street below, a military unit weaves through a series of abandoned vehicles. They move on foot, with handguns and rifles and tactical vests. It reminds me of one of those ant farms—the kind with interconnected paths and tunnels. I cheer them on in silence, but I know what’s going to happen.
I whistle to Max to come over and watch, but he doesn’t move, just pretends to sleep on the rug. He hasn’t been feeling good of late.
Outside, something happens. Figures slithering out of an abandoned garbage truck. They’re not human anymore; they’re in the process of changing. Tentacles swarm from craterous slits in their stomachs and resemble sea lamprey. It looks pretty weird, but it’s actually kinda neat.
I watch the military men fire their weapons. They’re winning at first, but the gunfire only attracts more of the creatures and the men begin suffering heavy losses. They retreat. A few survivors left behind start bleeding out. The others flee to a parking lot. Then more gunfire. And more screaming and dying.
By this time my eyelids are getting heavy and my stomach is doing cartwheels, so I lie on the couch and Max settles down next to me, more out of habit than anything else. I clasp his leash around my wrist so he’ll wake me up if he moves, then I close my eyes and slip into the world of dreams.
When I wake up, it’s dark, and Max’s collar is on the ground, unclasped. I light a few candles and eventually find him trying to get out through the bathroom window. The window is nailed shut and won’t budge. His bandages are bloody from pawing at the sill. He sees me and curls up into a fetal position and pisses on the floor.
It’s useless. He just won’t work.
I clasp the collar back around his neck and tighten it up. The spikes underneath the leather clamp down into his skin. I lead him from the bathroom to the living room and his whole body begins to shake, so I sit him back down on the floor and rub his back and try to calm him down, but he isn’t having it. He lashes out and bites my hand. I take no offense at this; he’s scared and the only thing he can do is retaliate.
Luckily, his bite isn’t serious. I pulled out all of his teeth with a pair of pliers two weeks ago, when he first tried to bite me in my sleep. Shortly after, as just an extra precaution, I had him declawed, cutting off the first joint of his fingers and toes. Then I sliced his vocal cords with a razor. It’s called debarking, in case you didn’t know. I read about it online before the power went out. There was lots of blood. It drew ants.
Thinking back, maybe I should have done the procedures sooner. Maybe I should have done them when he first kicked his way into my apartment, full of lust and rage and his breath reeking of cheap whiskey. He was a wild dog back then. But not anymore.
I tased him and tied him up with an Ethernet cord, then with a pair of sewing shears, I snipped off his balls and fried them in olive oil. They made a strange popping sound in the pan, but didn’t taste half bad. After that, he calmed down a bit. All pets are captors until they learn how to love you back.
That was also the day the lights first appeared in the sky.
Earlier that morning, a bunch of us climbed up on top of the roof and watched those strange yellow orbs swirl through the atmosphere. They looked like dying comets. I didn’t know what they were—spirits maybe? People online kept saying the lights were possessing people and making them go crazy. But of course, we didn’t believe them. And then we all went crazy thereafter. The whole world did.
We started killing each other off in record numbers. Cities burned. Everything reduced to rubble and ash within weeks. Then the change started with a select few. Supposedly, they were believers in some old god, and had given up their bodies as vessels for the yellow lights to possess. I thought it was all bullshit at first, until I saw for myself. Then I became a believer, too.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it all—all the violence and the lights and everything else. Maybe it’s how we’ve always been, how we’ve always treated each other. I don’t really know for sure, and I can’t think too clearly anymore. My mind is slipping away. All I can do is think about food. All I can do is react.
As for Max—I’m going to give him a handful of sleeping pills. When he finally slips under, I’ll place him in the bathtub and slit his throat. Once he’s drained of blood, I’ll cut off the pieces I can eat. I have plenty of canning jars left so it won’t be a problem storing the leftovers.
The lights didn’t possess him. They only drove him mad.
As for myself. . . .
Something stirs inside me, like a snake uncurling in the pit of my stomach. But it doesn’t feel like one snake—it feels like a whole pit of them. Maybe they need to come out? Maybe I need to perform another procedure, but this time myself? One long incision down the length of my stomach should do the trick.
I ponder this and rub Max’s head until he eventually stops whimpering. He pretends to go to sleep, but his trembling gives him away. Then I think of the policeman; he’ll be stopping by soon, no doubt. It remains to be seen how a man of the law will fare on his knees and bound in servitude to something like me. Hopefully he’ll be a better protector than my former neighbor.
But if not, it’ll be fun housebreaking him.
LENGTH
By David Turton
Dylan Turner stood in his small, untidy bathroom, holding a tape measure against his small penis.
It had definitely grown. Maybe not to the naked eye, maybe only by less than an inch, but it was definitely bigger than it had been two days ago. He pushed the tape measure as far back towards the base of his penis as he could and stared down at the numbers on the yellow tape, which clearly read 1.8 inches in large black letters. What had it been before? One and a half perhaps? He wished he had written it down. Determined not t
o make the same mistake again, Dylan made a note on his phone. Tuesday 7 November 2016. 1.8 inches.
It had been three days since he’d seen the gypsy. Stumbling across the woman as he walked home through the woods from his local pub, she had known. The small, scruffy old woman had stumbled into his path in the dark and she had known. She had raised a gnarled, bony finger, pointed towards Dylan and said, “A darkness haunts you.”
She pointed to Dylan’s crotch. “Shame. Oh, great shame.” She began to shake her head with genuine anguish. “Oh, great shame,” she repeated.
“Look, I don’t know who’s told you what but I—”
She cut his words off by grabbing his penis, making him gasp. “No more shame. No more shame. No more shame. Grow! Grow! Grow! Shame will go. Shame will go! Dylan will grow and shame will go.”
She let go and let her head roll back, the whites of her eyes flickering in her dirty, blackened sockets. Suddenly she released a bone-dry, bloodcurdling cackle. Her long finger rose once more and pointed at Dylan who stood quivering with fear.
“No more shame, Mr Turner. Dylan Turner will be shamed no more! Go and live. Go and conquer. Go!”
Dylan looked at the old hag. She seemed to be getting older, her nose large and swollen, her clothes were falling off her haggard, skeletal body. Her thin, grey hair fell around her shoulders revealing large patches of dry grey scalp on the top of her head. Her remaining teeth were an awful combination of black and yellow and her cracked lips were thin and pale. She was still cackling as Dylan pushed past her and ran the half-mile through the woods and into his house. As he ran he could hear her cackle become fainter and fainter. The little sleep he had that night had been plagued with dreams of the old woman. His penis tingled with the pain her bony fingers had caused, the long dirty nails had dug through his jeans into the soft flesh.
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 38
