Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  My cuticles split open around fingernails extending past their waxen tips. Pressing against the edges of my sneakers, my toenails begged for freedom. I placed my hands below the table, out of sight, lest I rip someone's throat out. The mysterious shape within my head permeated every part of my body, growing with languid leaps like some sinister amoeba. My pulse pounded chaos at my temples.

  I took some deep, needed breaths and the darkness slowly shrank inside me, making my innards convulse as it receded into my cranium and finally slipped back inside my brain, leaving my body with a violent shiver that made the spoon rattle on the coffee saucer.

  At least I could still control it … somewhat.

  I continued watching the waiter hobble around in search of my order, unsure if he was simply delaying another visit to my table. I lit another smoke, doing my best to hide my hideous hands. Studied the cheesy contemporary art decorating the walls. Tried to relax. Still fairly amazed at the spectacle, I observed my nails slowly shorten as though perusing them before choosing which one to gnaw on; felt the warm hint of blood within my shoes. My hands were shaking, causing ashes to fall from my cigarette and into my coffee. I really needed some food.

  A jukebox stood dormant against the wall farthest from me; unnecessary, considering the amount of entertainment the drunks provided. I think I heard one get slapped out of my line of sight. Laughter followed.

  I looked for my waiter and thought of ways to kill him; the good Lord knew I had the time.

  Clearly envisioning the look upon his face, blood vessels bursting within the glowing whites of his eyes, I imagined sewing his lips shut, permanently sealing the source of those snide remarks and that hideous whine. I chuckled around a mouthful of smoke. Coughed. I'd do it with some crude instrument—not the gently piercing needles that surgeons used—maybe a chicken bone. Not only would I sew his lips shut, I'd light his feet on fire and watch those lips split open like one of the Outback Steakhouse’s Bloomin’ Onions.

  As he went through a door that led probably to the kitchen (most likely having the cook spit in my eggs), I pictured the amount of utensils I would find back there, perfect for poking and prodding. I wondered how long it would take his face to fall off as I dipped it into the fryer and enjoyed the frantic kicking of his legs as he tried to struggle free.

  With more than enough time for my mind to wander, my malicious fantasies were suddenly intruded upon by the harsh, sad thoughts of my unborn child. The reality of it all flooded my veins with the heat of blood at a boil as I realized I would never be able to see the birth of my first and only child, never get the chance to snuggle with a life I had brought into this world.

  Never smell the cleanliness of its innocent skin.

  Soon, there would no longer be any late nights watching cheap horror flicks buried beneath the blankets with my wife. No more marveling at the swell in her belly as my son or daughter pushed against the feel of my touch, or the joy of laughter and amazement at such a simple sign of life waiting to breathe the outside air.

  I fought against the wetness within my lids, the brewing of an impending storm.

  * * *

  Though cold, he finally brought the right order, standing just far enough away from my table to lay the edge of each plate on the table’s corner before pushing them the rest of the way. He didn’t stay long.

  Butter had soaked clear through the toast and made a slice droop within my fingers as I picked it up.

  I noticed my nails again. Ugly.

  Quickly scooped scrambled eggs into my mouth. Cold or not, they tasted pretty good. I thought the cook may have added a few eggshells as a favor for my whining friend, but didn’t care. Ravished, I gulped down another piece of toast, sausage and more eggs. That was when I bit my tongue and restrained a scream of rage within my throat. A child-like squeal managed to escape.

  I let my mouthful of eggs fall into an open napkin, rolled it up and placed it on the table.

  Groaning to myself, I felt for my tongue with a shaking finger—still there. But the back of my finger rubbed against the bottom of a tooth and came away with a scratch. I checked the rest, gently probing from molars to incisors. Every one of them was as sharp as an ice pick and serrated, as though the outer enamels of my teeth had completely shattered.

  Curious, I opened the napkin I had rolled up and stared at its contents. Bits of teeth peered at me from within the conglomeration of eggs, sausage, and sparse bits of pepper. Toying with the contents in dim fascination, I found almost the entire root of a bloody molar among the mix.

  I slammed my jaw shut as someone walked by.

  Then it hit me.

  Any color I had left in my face drained to my feet as I wondered if what I had growing alongside the tumor would find its way into the blood of my child. The doctors didn't have a clue what was growing inside of me. Only tests, tests, and more tests could possibly offer some hints as to its creation. Tests—invasive, painful experiments—that would find their way into the infantile veins of my child as soon as he or she was delivered from the safety of its womb.

  The thing in my head began to stretch its black fingers throughout my body, tugging on exposed nerves, taunting me.

  No longer hungry, appetite stripped completely from my bones and something inside my head leaving me weak and delirious, I left enough money to cover the meal and a tip—no idea why—and made to leave in a hurry, before I hurled all over myself.

  The night swallowed my footsteps as I exited the restaurant and walked toward my car. A light rain had fallen and moved on since I had first arrived, leaving only a soupy grey ceiling in its wake. Sporadic bolts of lightning decorated the distant horizon, accompanied by low rumbles of thunder; an unsettling truth to God's harsh existence.

  I noticed my Taurus sitting at an odd angle, the right rear seeming to fall away from me. I knew what it was immediately and wasn't the least bit surprised, but the pounding soon reappeared at my temples. My nerves were beginning to flutter like malignant butterflies.

  A flat!

  I paused in the middle of the parking lot and squeezed my eyes closed as I pinched my fingers hard over the bridge of my nose. A nail scratched my cheek.

  My tremulous hands could barely hold the tire iron in place; with every rotation I seethed, animalistic grunts erupting from my chest. There was always one nut that just wouldn't budge, and I fought with that one for quite some time, jagged teeth ripping into my gums as I clenched in frustration. My growing nails began to clink against the rim and I had to fight the urge to look at each monstrosity.

  Tire changed, I left the deflated tire and rim where I had dropped them against the yellow curb of the parking space. I slammed the trunk, slammed the door shut once inside the car, slammed my hands upon the steering wheel.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck!

  I spewed vulgarities from my mouth with unharnessed fury. A mere glimpse of my reflection unleashed a rage I had no intentions of withholding. I ripped the rearview mirror from the windshield, clawed at the faux leather under my thighs.

  Fire spread through my feet as my toes protested against nails exploding from tender flesh. Talons soon curled against the tops of my sneakers, screaming for release. Spittle landed on my chin as I arched my back, hard, chewing back the pain. With a searing climax, muscles fluttering with tension tight against bones, I collapsed into the driver’s seat and felt my chin smack against my sternum. For a moment, I wondered if my heart still beat within its shallow cavity.

  I was spent. Exhaustion replaced the anguish and numbed frayed nerve endings. Drool stretched from chin to chest, and I, without the strength to lift a hand to sever the liquid strand, just listened to a developing gurgle of phlegm rattling in the back of my throat.

  My gaze wandered with slow strides inside the confines of my car. Left, right—lazy unfocused circles. When it happened upon the rearview mirror on the floor, the reflective glass within its plastic frame pulled me inside as if barbed hooks had just snagged my pupils. Snapped to attent
ion, I looked past the Phish sticker adorning its right hand corner, and into the spotted glass, where I saw myself staring back from within the menacing eyes of my unborn child.

  Within the mirror, crimson images dripped with ghastly detail.

  Its razor-sharp claws tore at the womb, scraping against its protective cocoon. Ripping away layers of muscle and flesh, it paved a path to the surface, shredding organs with its teeth as it shook its head with spastic whips. It thrust through the surface of my wife’s swollen belly, now a tangled mess stark against her beautifully skin, and expelled its sordid breath.

  With a slow turn of its head, chest heaving with breaths that seemed too large for its tiny body to contain, it looked at me. And I knew.

  Much like a child nuzzling the fabric of a favorite blanket, I caressed the tire iron next to me with calming strokes, loving its feel and the strength I pulled from it. I watched the last of the customers leave, a little more sober than when they had arrived.

  My whining friend soon emerged from the restaurant, apparently done with his shift and fumbling inside his pockets. He picked out a key among dozens cluttering a large ring and passed my car, our eyes meeting again.

  He flipped me the bird.

  Before he even had the chance to get his key into the ignition, I had the tire iron hidden beneath the sleeve of my jacket, neatly in place and easily accessible. As I walked with steps in line with his side mirror, I heard the car deny him the favor of starting on the first try. When the sputter of the second crank faded, I tapped on his window with a long, yellowed claw. He jumped in surprise, chin quivering beneath a nervous frown.

  I tapped again, this time hard enough to scratch the glass.

  He stretched a third crank to no avail. It appeared as though this wasn't his day, either. His jaw muscles tightened and eyes stretched just a bit wider. I think he knew I wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.

  The tire iron fell from my sleeve and into my hand in one fluid movement. My speed and strength impressed me as I smashed the window, opened the door and pinned him to his seat with one arm, his nurtured physique suddenly worthless.

  We shared a moment of intense eye contact before the ascending arc of my arm pulled his attention away.

  He didn’t blink.

  With each blow of the tire iron, I yelled the Lord's name in vain, loving its flavor upon my lips. The absolute power! Over and over I screamed His name in vain, an insatiable appetite for blasphemy running rampant, searching for the very core of my soul. I longed to tear Him from the cross and bury my teeth into His throat, letting His purity boil within the heat of my blood.

  A guttural snarl rumbled in the bowels of my chest as the darkness grew with sudden ferocity, filling every cell, every nerve, every pore. Pieces of flesh flew around me, on me, and inside of me. I licked at a drop of splattered blood that had found its way onto my lips. My entire body tingled in ecstasy as I began to relish my newfound glory.

  Only when my blows were striking the tattered remains of cloth and flesh did I stop, leaving the waiter's bloody corpse where it lay, irritating whine forever silenced. The sickness inside me pulsated with strong, thunderous beats, threatening to separate the skin from my bones. Soon, I knew, it would devour me.

  Quickly getting behind the wheel of my car, I ignored a small group of people running from the restaurant, eyes wide, mouths agape. Oblivious to me, they only pointed at the hand that hung from the open car door and dragged its knuckles on the pavement, swaying from a frayed strip of flesh.

  Stroking the cool, sticky surface of the tire iron, I sped away, intent on delivering the terrible news to my pregnant wife.

  And a cure for what was growing inside of her.

  God be damned.

  THE END

  Peggy Sang the Blues

  by Jenny Orosel

  Jenny Orosel has worked in public education, as a photographer, radio news monitor, frozen dessert specialist (scooping ice cream at Baskin & Robbins) and game show contestant. A lifelong movie fanatic, she has been on the crew of two feature films, and animated two short films herself (both of which won awards). She has also written numerous fiction and nonfiction pieces (many of which have actually been published).

  She is currently a student of cooking, specializing in candy making. Sometimes her experiments are epically successful. Other times they involve caustic capsaicin clouds in the kitchen. However, she has no problem with people learning from her toxic mistakes

  It might seem like Peggy did this to me, but I did it to myself. We could blame the rain, I guess, since we wouldn't have been alone except for the storms. I could but I don't. I'm the one who told her to sing, even after hearing her story. I know she blames herself but, Peggy, please don't. I did this to myself and it's okay.

  I never met the previous owner, Charlie, but he left a folder on the bar when I took over. The best vendors, cleaning instructions for the equipment. The last few pages were marked "regulars." Little hints and quirks he felt I should know.

  "Joe will run a tab for weeks if you let him, but it will always be paid in full on the second of each month."

  "No matter how much he asks, do not serve tequila to Sam or else you'll be patching up holes in the wall (see page five)."

  "Now and then Peggy will sing to the jukebox. When she does, she'll cry. Don't talk to her. Just leave her be and everything will be fine."

  I thought it was quaint. That first night Sam introduced himself and ordered a tequila, double. I spent two hours after closing patching up two holes in the wall. Since then, I took the folder seriously.

  Peggy introduced herself that first week. Seemed like a nice older lady. I would guess in her sixties or seventies. Her face would have been fitting for someone's grandmother, if their grandmother loved whiskey. Nice lady, quick with a laugh. Not someone I would expect to get all weepy.

  I don't know what inspired it, but a few days later Peggy asked me to change a dollar for her. The folder in the back of my mind, I handed over the quarters and watched. Sure enough, those quarters went right into the jukebox. I was not expecting what came next.

  I imagined her belting out old sad songs with a smattering of drunken, tearful wails. Instead, she rested her head against the glass, eyes closed. The only reason I could hear her voice is because everyone stopped talking. My guess is they knew the routine and, whether they wanted to hear or just out of respect, they let her have the air. Even then, I could barely make out Peggy's voice. Her eyes were closed, tears in a constant stream down her cheeks. There was only so long I could watch, because the sight was breaking my heart. I couldn't imagine what would cause the pain she carried. Part of me wanted to talk to her once it was over. The other part of me remembered the instructions. Joe's tab had been paid on the second, Sam knew I wouldn't give him a drop of tequila anymore. And I was not to talk to Peggy about her song.

  Even if I wanted to, I couldn't ask that night. As soon as the song was over, she gathered up her things. As drenched her red, swollen eyes were, Peggy walked out of the bar, standing straight, with dignity and grace. On the way out, she looked at the jukebox, and I'm pretty sure she mouthed the words "I'm sorry" and walked out the door.

  No one spoke about her when she left. As soon as the door closed, everything went back to normal. I was in shock, but I suppose they were used to it.

  Peggy sang to the jukebox a handful of times before the night of the rain, and every time it broke my heart. The silent tears, the quiet singing, the apology on her way out the door. Then back to business as usual. I tried asking a couple of the regulars if they knew what was up. They shrugged and said, "That's just Peggy. She does that sometimes. You get used to it." I never did. In fact, the more she sang to the jukebox, the more I wanted--needed--to know why.

  Then came the night of the rains. Pouring rains. I think the prediction was six inches overnight, but I wasn't around long enough to find out. It sounded like double. I almost didn't open the bar. After an hour with no customers, I almost
closed it. Then Peggy walked in, shaking off her umbrella, soaking wet. I handed her a bar towel, feeling bad I didn't have anything larger. She thanked me nonetheless.

  "What brings you out in this mess?"

  "Power went off in my apartment," she said, drying off her hair. "Figured it was as good a reason as any to come get a drink. I only live a few blocks away."

  "You walked in this?" She nodded. "Drinks are on the house tonight."

  I poured a few for her. I poured a few for myself. We talked about the rain. We talked about the news. We told jokes. It took me three shots before I got up the nerve.

  "Want me to put something on the jukebox tonight?"

  She looked long and hard at the machine near the door. I don't know if it was longing or regret, but she was thinking about something. "No, not tonight. I don't think it's a good idea," and left it at that.

  I couldn't leave it, though, Too many questions held inside for too long. If I was ever going to find out, it would be that night with just the two of us inside and the pouring rains outside.

  "So why do you do it?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why do you apologize to the jukebox?"

  She stared at me as if I were insane. Then I could see her replaying her memories until she saw what I was talking about. "Oh, that. I'm not talking to the jukebox. I'm talking to the songs. Or, what's in the songs. Or..." She looked inside herself, searching for a word or an idea. "Forget it. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Let's have a drink.

  There was a crash of thunder. I think I jumped about four feet in the air. Peggy just looked at the window. I saw a sadness deeper than any of those jukebox tears she'd shed. There was a story there, and I didn't think I could make it through the night without finding out more. I needed to know.

  I poured the drink and waited. And waited. And waited. I stared purposefully keeping my eyes on her. She knew it. As much as I kept my eyes on her, she kept hers away. Huge raindrops hit the windows in that ragged, irregular beat. We were on edge.