Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales

by Fran Friel

  Oblivious to my bloodied paws, I raced across the broken glass and into the living room, heading straight for the stairs and the dusty rodents that were dragging my unconscious master. They turned and attacked, hacking at my paws with knives and scissors, jumping on my back and stabbing me with ice picks and steak knives, but I snapped and I ripped and tore at them until their tiny bodies were strewn like rag dolls, motionless, around the room. Badly bleeding, I padded quickly to my master's side in hopes he was still alive. The gaping hole in the side of his head where his ear had been oozed with thick dark blood. I drew my tongue gently across his cheek. I could feel his warmth—he was still alive. I licked him again, and his eyes fluttered open.

  With relief he looked into my face and whispered, “Goliath.” Then his eyes widened and shone with terror. “Upstairs, boy. Get them!” he rasped.

  I bounded up the steps to save the others. The master's bedroom looked like a massacre—my mistress's body hung limp over the side of the bed, bloodied and shredded. I ran ahead to my boy's closed door, relieved when all there seemed quiet. Suddenly, shrieks sounded from the teenager's room. A wet trail of red paw prints led to her open door. As I burst into the room, I saw hundreds of the beasts swarming over the floor and around a fluffy feline mass at the foot of the bed. Some of the fiends had broken away from the pack and were beginning their climb up the bedspread. The terrified girl huddled against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest.

  "Goliath, they're eating the cat! Help me!” she whimpered through snot and tears. “Please...."

  I leapt into action, mauling and trampling the Long Tooths, but there were so many of them. They swarmed over my body, ripping and tearing at my ears, slicing into my flesh with their household weapons and their razor claws.

  As I felt my strength ebbing with the loss of blood, to my horror I noticed little Teddy standing wide-eyed and frozen in the doorway. I barked a warning and lumbered behind the bed, trying to distract the Long Tooths from the boy. Flailing my head around, I flung the beasts into the air. As I drew the mass of fiends away from the door, Ashley made a run for it, grabbing Teddy by the hand. For just a moment she glanced back at me, her face streaked with tears; then the two of them disappeared, leaving me alone with the horde. With great relief, I heard the children running down the stairs.

  I struggled to survive, but the fiends kept coming. The blood loss and the pain of my torn flesh were draining me of strength, but the longer I distracted the dark rodents, the more hopeful I was that my family would escape with their lives.

  Howling my final battle cry as my ancestors would have done, I reared up on my hind legs and tossed the beasts from my back. Coming down hard, I hammered them with my paws again and again, trampling their wicked bodies. I gnashed with my still-powerful jaws, the taste of their bodies sickening, their black blood spilling from my muzzle as I continued my assault.

  Long, painful moments passed during the battle, how many I'm not sure, but I sensed the house was finally vacant of my humans. Bone weary and staggering with dizziness, I stumbled with the weight of the next wave of the Long Tooths’ attack. Taking advantage of my weakness, the rabid beasts dragged me to the floor. Snarling and drooling, they blinded me with their claws. As if from far away, I heard unfamiliar voices, shouts, the popping of gunfire.

  My body failed me, and I could no longer struggle. As my pain passed away from my awareness, my thoughts wandered to the ancient mastiff lore and Old Sam; I knew he would be proud. Entrusted with the sacred duty, I had saved my family from the old evil—from the Long Tooths.

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  Close Shave

  Triple-blade, double-blade, electric razors ... god, I'm tired of shaving my legs, thought Susan as she sank the potato peeler deep into the base of her shin bone. With a steady pull she scraped the tool up toward her knee, smiling as the first long strip of wet skin fell away, revealing the glistening red meat beneath.

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  Connected at the Hip

  "I'm sick of you. I wish you would die,” said Sue. She turned away, switching off the light as she listened to her sister weeping in the dark.

  Sue's clenched jaw loosened as she fell into a restless sleep. She dreamed of the past—two little girls, arm in arm, skipping in their identical Sunday dresses. She watched as Drew—her sister—stumbled, toppling them both to the ground. She endured the burning pain from Drew's scraped knee and the spankings they earned for soiling their dresses. So often she suffered for her sister's stupidity. Her only satisfaction was knowing that Drew felt her pain, too.

  In her dream memory, Sue sliced a blade deep into the soft pad of her thumb. Blood dripping, she watched Drew's suffering with satisfaction. Torture after torture her self-mutilation continued just to watch her sister bear the phantom twin pain.

  Startled from her sleep by a searing pain in her hip, Sue saw a flash of metal. Sobbing, Drew swayed at their beside, bloody cleaver in hand. The hacked flesh at her hip matched the bloody hole Sue discovered below her own ribs. A scream rose in her throat as her sister collapsed to the floor.

  No longer were they connected at the hip.

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  Special Prayers: The Making of Mama

  Babies fell from the skies over Eastville. They bounced, they bled, but none cried. Their silence was eerie—their tiny bodies splatted and split open as they hit the rooftops, the road, and the sidewalks of our little street. For miles and miles, the sky was full of falling babies, dark blots against the blue.

  Kiki Bordrow stood on the porch across the street hugging a baby doll to her chest. It was swaddled in a soft yellow blanket, tight like her mama taught her. Curls ringed Kiki's perfect face, now blank and stunned. Her mouth hung open in a slack-jawed “O."

  I watched from my window as her expression changed, her eyes widening, as if someone had finally turned her switch on. Kiki wound up like nobody's business, her wail piercing the dull-thud-filled afternoon.

  "MAMA!” she screamed.

  As the bodies mounted at the foot of her porch, a nasty baby eruption splashed Kiki's dress and her dolly's soft yellow blanket. She screamed again; her hands flew up and the dolly went flying through the air like a yo-yo. Unrolling from its perfect swaddle, the naked baby doll appeared to dive headfirst into the pile of its fleshy counterparts. Just as Kiki Bordrow collapsed to the floorboards in fits, her mother blasted through the screen door, ready to defend her little darling from the latest neighborhood mistreatment.

  Missus Bordrow skidded to a halt. Suddenly unaware of her daughter's fits, she watched the falling babies with the same slack-jawed “O” Kiki had worn on her face just moments before. One particularly plump infant smashed through the windshield of their shiny new Studebaker, the horn blaring to life.

  My knees were raw from kneeling inside the sticky black circle at my window. I'd only gotten up for pee breaks and some water, but I was done now. I went downstairs to the kitchen and dug my finger into the tin of peanut butter. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

  I strolled to the living room window. More moms appeared at the front doors all along Blue Bell Street. I watched as they covered their mouths, cried, vomited, and clutched at their perfect children. Some rushed back into their houses, no doubt calling their husbands at work and phoning the fire department and police.

  Obsessed with their own lives, as usual, none of them noticed me standing naked in the front window of our house. It's the only way to pray. That's what the pastor taught me.

  He said I was special, a messenger of God. Brother Donald Godspeth, pastor of The Holy Blood of Jesus Pentecostal Church, taught me my prayers. He said he'd been waiting all his life for me, Sue Ann Brown. From the time I was three, he schooled me special. We'd pray and the spirit would take hold of Brother Godspeth and he'd give me the healing treatment, to purge my sins and make me the messenger God needed me to be. I never understood how all his sweating and rubbing on me made me cl
ean, but whenever his healing treatments brought blood from between my legs, the pastor cried, blessed me, and then went to sleep in the wet sheets before the altar.

  Brother Godspeth schooled mama, too, and the Lord would reward her with a baby inside. My daddy died in the war before mama found the church, so I was lonely with no brothers and sisters. So each time the blessing of a baby would come from mama's schooling, I was excited and couldn't wait for its birth. I'd pray real hard, but my mama wasn't clean like me—that's what Brother Godspeth told me. That's why all her babies died. He personally delivered every one of them to try to cleanse them of their earthly sins, but the Brother said my mama's sins were too great and the Lord took all those babies to heaven.

  The last baby died just a few days ago. My mama died, too. Brother Godspeth said not to cry since she was finally cleansed of her sins. He told me I should pray for her and the baby. I'd been doing a bit of reading in the special book of prayers, the secret one Brother Godspeth kept hidden in the base of altar. I pretended I was asleep after a healing treatment and I seen him sitting naked on the floor of the chapel inside a black circle. Holding the book in his lap, he traced the strange symbols on the black cover with his fat fingers, muttering to himself. I figured I'd surprise him and practice the prayers, too. I was lonely, but being left by myself in the house was a perfect chance to try them out. I figured since my old prayers didn't work, maybe the special prayers would.

  Before he left me, we prayed together and the pastor gave me one of his private healings. The healings don't hurt my insides no more—the cleansing must be working. At least that's what Brother Godspeth said. When he left, I practiced the special prayers from the black book and I prayed for my mama and all her lost babies. I'd memorized as many verses as I could, but there was one that I thought was just right.

  So I painted a black circle with shoe polish and I prayed for days, kneeling in front of my window. Some of the time, I did self-healings with my fingers. Brother Godspeth had taught me how.

  After mama died, none of the neighborhood mothers stopped by to check on me. I didn't expect they would—they always said I was dirty and no good for their little darlings. But Brother Godspeth said I was special and I'm beginning to think he's right. Still, I kind of wished one of the moms had visited to see if I was all right. I was lonely praying by myself, but standing naked with my peanut butter, looking out the window at all those falling babies, I don't feel so lonely anymore.

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  Widow

  Dew shimmers in the sunlight; a perfect morning to make love. She beckons to me, taunting me with her long, slender legs. Her eyes sparkle with desire and the promise of her undying forever-love. The dance of seduction is long and languid and our bodies quake with the finality of our devotion, our act of creation. As I watch the diamonds of dew fall from the web, her fangs pierce my tender throat. Forever is short in the eternity of the widow's web.

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  Spider Love

  Gertie Kleinsmith was plain at best in her mediocre life, but after the surgery Dr. Beetleheim admired her long, dark, silken legs and her curvaceous abdomen. Many women like Gertie would benefit from his work—no longer invisible, unloved, sad little wasted bits of useless life. The doctor's eccentric clientele eagerly awaited his first success. Their bidding for the prize of the new woman was vigorous.

  * * * *

  Gertie's eyes fluttered open for the first time, and she swooned at the kaleidoscopic images flooding her brain. She reached up to touch her swimming head and two hairy segmented legs filled her fragmented field of vision. Screaming, she began to thrash on the recovery table, her legs and abdomen strapped down securely.

  Dr. Beetleheim rushed to her side.

  "Oh, you poor dear. I hadn't expected you to wake for some time. I had intended to cover your eyes to lessen the disorientation when you regained consciousness."

  Gertie continued to thrash in near-hysteria.

  "Who are you? Where am I?” she screamed, her throat dry and raspy. “What have you done to me?"

  "It will be alright, Ms. Kleinsmith. I know it's a difficult transition, but a glorious one. You are my first, my blessing, my gift to the world. Because of you, the wonders that will follow are unfathomable. And, my dear, your patron awaits in my office suite, just beyond those doors. He's very eager to make your acquaintance."

  As he reached to stroke her head, a tender gesture of a parent to a child, she bit him. Her fangs sank deep into his flesh, and she felt the ecstatic release of hot liquid jet through her body. A strange serenity washed over her. She salivated as the doctor shrieked in agony, fighting to release his hand from the pressure of her fangs. Wrapping her hairy arms around his neck, Gertie relaxed back against the table, drawing his warm, wriggling body close to her. His screams were muted in her ears by what she, as a virgin, had only dreamed of before this day—the intense feeling of sexual rapture.

  Gone was her fear. Gone was her concern for anything but that feeling. She reached one long, hairy arm over the edge of the table and released the straps restraining her legs and abdomen. She wanted nothing more than to caress the doctor's body and immerse her whole self in the delight of the moment.

  Instinctively, Gertie's legs began to work, weaving the fine moist threads spilling from her spinnerets. Back and forth, like a dance, she spun a loving shroud around the doctor. The screaming had ended, and all that remained of his movement was the occasional twitch of a leg or an arm within the cocoon, one made as an expression of Gertie's love.

  She began to hum and sway with joy as the body in her grasp became a soft, liquidy bag. Somehow, in her swoon of pleasure, she knew the taste would be sweet even before she took her first swallow of the thick, warm juice that had been the good doctor. Nothing had ever filled her, satisfied her so completely.

  As she drank deeply of the nectar that was Dr. Beetleheim, Gertie's mind began to clear. It was clearer than she could ever remember feeling, but at the same time, she could barely remember feeling anything before this moment. Only a dim impression of her life before remained, and with each swallow of warm, viscous human syrup, the memory faded further away.

  Far too soon, the bag of Beetleheim juice was nearly empty and the cocoon deflated in Gertie's grip. Tossing the silken sack aside, a whimper of petulant disappointment escaped her. Skittering off the table, Gertie stopped to clean the bits of flesh still hanging from her fangs. She swallowed them whole, her stomach grumbling. Gertie smiled a greedy smile as she headed for the door. The scent of man was heavy in the air, and she had a lifetime of hunger to satisfy.

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  Fine Print

  1.

  Donovan kneeled on the wet pavement in the center of the mayhem, sirens screaming in the background. Warm blood oozed through his fingers as he cradled his wife's head. He watched helplessly as her life slipped away, taking their unborn child with her. The accident had been so quick; in the time frame of a glance, his wife had been struck by the Oldsmobile.

  Through the pouring rain, he heard the desperate weeping of the elderly driver at the curb.

  "No, no ... it should have been me,” he said. “The dream ... they promised to take me..."

  As he felt the life drain away from his wife's slender form, Donovan cried for help, drowning out the sound of the sobbing man and the murmurs of the gathering crowd.

  "Someone help me! She's dying ... she can't die. Please!"

  Cold rain plastered Donovan's blonde hair flat; his T-shirt clung, soaking, to his body. He didn't notice the chill seeping through his muscles; he was desperate, panicked. Clutching his wife's lifeless body to his chest, he looked to the crowd, pleading for someone to help him. His wife was the one thing whole and good in his life.

  His eyes locked on those of a woman who appeared in the mass of onlookers and umbrellas. She held the hand of a frail child hugging a ragged blue-haired doll to her chest. The hood of the child's pink ra
in slicker had fallen back, exposing darkened eyes and sallow skin. The woman's eyes widened—she seemed to recognize Donovan. As she pulled the small girl close to her hip, she shook her head and waved her hand, frantically trying to push through the crowd to reach him.

  From behind, a hand caressed Donovan's shoulder, its heat radiating so intensely that he looked away from the shouting woman.

  "Hello, Donovan."

  He heard the smooth voice and turned to see a man in dark sunglasses and a custom tailored suit, the kind Donovan had grown accustomed to in recent years. He had become successful in the business world and could easily spot a shark at first glance.

  The noise around them stopped, the frantic woman forgotten. There was only the voice of the man.

  "I heard you call, so I'm here to help,” he said, his glistening black hair slicked back tightly against his skull. As he crouched down beside Donovan, he opened his leather briefcase and drew out a fountain pen and a crisp white contract. “There's not much time, so you must act now. I can guarantee that the scene around you will never happen, and your wife and child will be completely safe. Please sign here."

  "What is this?” asked Donovan, his eyes wild with grief, unaware that the pouring rain was no longer falling on him. “What are you talking about? My wife is dead ... she's dead.” Sobbing, he buried his tears in the ringlets of her red hair, pressing his face against her soft cheek.

  With unshakable corporate cool the man continued his pitch, motioning for Donovan to take the pen. “As I said, Mister Hunter, there isn't much time. If you want your wife and child to live, sign here now."

  Donovan looked up, his face ashen and wet with tears. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

  "You asked for help, I answered. I'm in the business of checks and balances. It happens to be your lucky day, Mister Hunter, because it's time for a check to be paid and the balance returned. See that sickly child over there?” he said, pointing to the small girl with the blue-haired doll. Like everything else around them, the woman holding the child's hand was frozen in place, her other hand still reaching toward Donovan. Only the girl remained mobile, grabbing at her mother's rigid body, crying to be picked up. Donovan's panic deepened, eyes sweeping back and forth, trying to make sense of the bizarre scene.