by Lee Isserow
The four glanced to one another, none of them certain that there had even been a knock. After all, the rain that continued to pummel their house from seemingly every angle made it sound like there was a constant barrage of taps, cracks and rat-a-tats all around them. When they did not hear any further indication of anyone at the door―specifically listening out for a ring of the bell― they resumed their last supper, passing dishes around and filling up their plates with ravenous anticipation of the culinary delights awaiting them.
Before any of them could dig in, the knocking came again, louder this time. Three―hard―knocks.
There was no denying it, someone was at the door, standing out in the harsh storm, right on their doorstep. It was not late, not late enough to consider it overly suspicious at least, and although it was a curious event, Rob Miller excused himself from the table and rose to his feet to see who might be visiting amidst such terrible weather.
Lily Miller toyed with the food on her plate, beginning to surreptitiously slice up a juicy lamb cutlet, only to be rewarded with a stern “Ahem,” from her mother. She laid the cutlery back down on her plate, having been reminded by the simple sound that it was rude to start eating without all family members present and correct.
Steve craned his neck to the direction of the front door, not that he could hear―let alone see―anything happening beyond. The dining room was at the rear of the house: the kitchen, a living room and a corridor staunchly standing in the way of his view. The three family members sat around the table heard the whining creak of the front door opening, each of them remembering how Rob had promised time and time again that he was going to fix the creak with a simple spray of WD40. A promise that Rob Miller would never have the chance to keep.
Each of the Millers was all too aware that their food was getting colder with every passing moment, and after what seemed like an eternity, they heard the faint sound of the front door close, and waited impatiently for their patriarch to walk back through their unnecessarily labyrinthine home. As he stepped into the dining room, eyebrows arched and heads cocked. For he was not alone.
Rob Miller held the door open for his guest to walk ahead of him. A young girl of no more than seven or eight, in a filthy night dress that was soaked through. Her skin was sickly and pallid, looking almost diaphanous in the white glow of the energy saving bulbs that lit the room. Her hair was thin and frail, blonder than blonde, a messy and dull alabaster mop atop her head. And her eyes were like no eyes any of the Miller family had seen before. The whites rippled and wrinkled, pruned like skin in a bath. The irises monochromatic, as if all the colour and vibrancy had been sapped from them, and the pupils were almost a centimetre in diameter, as if they were struggling to take in all the light they could, to enable sight.
“Who's this?” Mary Miller asked, curious at the visitor that appeared to be joining their dinner. Those would turn out to be the last words Mary Miller ever spoke.
The girl walked towards the table, circled around it. As she came close to each of the diners in turn, the questions, queries and confusion fled from their minds. A calm silence wafted over their thoughts, all objections muted, as she took a seat at the head of the table.
Rob Miller stepped over to a cabinet, fetching cutlery and an additional plate for their mysterious guest, and placed it all out in front of her. Mary gave her a generous helping of every dish, piled her plate high, as the tiny visitor began to dig into the tasty morsels meant for the family. Lily and Steve watched in silence as the girl devoured everything on her plate, caring not for the spills of juices and sauces on her clothes, let alone the mess on her face.
When her plate was emptied, she reached across to the plates in front of the Millers, and proceeded to shovel food into her mouth with a ravenous hunger that seemed as though it might never be sated.
When the dishes and plates were empty, the nameless, silent, uninvited caller sat upright in her chair, and straightened her back, as something coalesced in her gut.
As the Millers watched, it seemed as though the young child's belly was becoming distended before their very eyes, expanding and swelling to the size of a football.
She showed no signs of discomfort on her face. She showed no emotions at all. The young girl closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, deeper than any breath she had ever taken before she had the impulse to knock on the Miller's door. A breath that filled her being through and through, that latched on to the tumescent mass in her gut, and wrenched it out as she exhaled.
It wasn't so much an exhale as a long, silent belch. Her lips vibrated rapidly as the gust of air bellowed forth from deep in her core. A smell of sulphur filled the air, and as her belly began to deflate, a thick, black fog tore its way up her gullet, that seared the flesh as it launched out of her mouth, dissipating across the table to each of the Millers in turn.
As the gaseous expulsion made its way to the family members, they found themselves compelled to inhale deeply. One by one, they became woozy, light-headed, and collapsed face first into the plates laid out in front of them.
The rain lashing down on London eased up. The dark fog in the Miller's dining room cleared and silence reigned over the room. Sat at the head of the table was a terrified little girl with four motionless bodies in front of her.
“Where's my mummy?” the little girl asked, forcing the words through her scratched and scarred throat. “Hello?” She poked at Rob Miller with a tiny finger. “Do you know my daddy?”
Rob Miller did not know her daddy. None of the Millers knew much of anything any longer. They were unconscious, present in body, but not in mind.
“Wake up!” the girl said, as she grabbed hold of Mary Miller's arm and shook it vigorously with all her might. Thick black tears began to fork down her cheeks, leaving a slick snail-trail behind them,
That would prove to be her last action, along with her last words. Her last breath expelled in a fruitless attempt to wake a woman that would not wake until the time was right.
The girl collapsed, her head bounced off the table with a loud thud. The Millers and their guest lay there, dormant, as the night ran its course.
*
The dawn chorus sung out, and seemed to mock the Millers, for they would not rise with the sun that day. The only movement in the house was subtle rolls of their bodies to the left or right, soft and silent expulsions of various gasses through their noses and mouths as the day wore on. Something was changing within each of the Millers, something was growing deep inside them.
*
As the sun began to set, the front door to the Millers' house creaked open, a high pitched whine filling the air as it arced, never to be oiled, as promised time and time again.
One by one, the family members exited, the sauces and juices of a dinner uneaten the previous night caked on their faces. Their skin was pallid, the colour sapped from their irises, their pupils wide and hungry for light.
Each of them splintered off in a different direction, walking with no precise destination intended. They would walk until they found exactly what they were looking for. Each of them with the same single objective in mind. To spread, far and wide.
The Roving Death is available
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