Shock Totem 8.5: Holiday Tales of the Macabre and Twisted - Valentine's Day 2014

by Shock Totem

  He woke up sweating and shaken, but didn’t vomit again. Bill got out of bed and went to the kitchen in the dark, knowing the way by memory. He took out the last plastic container and went to the trash, lifting the lid. There, he stopped, his hand hovering over the empty space.

  He couldn’t throw it out.

  Bill cursed at himself. He held the sauce in his hand and went to the sink. He pried off the plastic lid in a spray of frost and went to turn on the water. He stopped again, his hand hovering over the faucet. He swore he felt one of the fissures in his heart garden snap open further, but even that wouldn’t force him to ruin the last bit of Tawny’s sauce. His chest burned, and he whimpered, returned the container to the freezer, and went back to bed.

  Bill’s dreams were violent but quickly faded in the morning. Still, once out of bed, he could only shuffle himself from one room to the next. Even lifting his toothbrush felt like effort. His complexion pallid, the circles under his eyes like bruises. At the office, his boss took one look at him and ordered him to a doctor—or, at the very least, home to bed. Bill chose to take the latter option, and when he got home he fell into his covers and drifted to sleep without undressing.

  Upon waking, the first thing that registered was hunger. His stomach uttered a low, savage grumble. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, feeling the ache in his joints from sleeping in the same spot for too long. The burning in his chest had not subsided. It was worse.

  In need of food and drink, his body still weak and hot, he opened the refrigerator. The sterile glare of white plastic and a jar of mayonnaise was all he saw. On the bottom shelf sat a week-old burrito. He considered it for a moment, then stood and opened the freezer.

  That last container of sauce. He wanted it. More than the breath of life, he needed it—to drown his fever like medicine. Not for the first time he wondered if the sauce was indeed some sort of voodoo. His stomach uttered another savage growl. Bill removed the container and placed it in the microwave to thaw. This time, when it was ready to eat, he didn’t bother with a spoon. He bent the plastic back and poured the sauce into his mouth. It was hot and burned his lips, but he didn’t care. He continued to pour...

  The vision was different this time. It was like being thrown into a pool full of ice water. His heart hammered in his chest. Fast. Too fast. He grimaced as pain shot down his arm. He looked around. He stood in a field that stretched from horizon to horizon, which he didn’t remember but was strangely familiar. In the center of the field sat a brown house, sorely neglected and ramshackle. The siding was missing in spots and the windows were broken on the first floor. Bill approached, and he saw that the roof was sunken in on one side.

  In the back yard, a marble statue stood immaculate, surrounded by fountains. The rest of the yard was overgrown. Bill recognized the subject of the statue. It was Tawny, sculpted to look like a West Indian goddess. She stared down at him from the pedestal with empty eyes and an expression that saddened him.

  In a sudden wind, the back door of the house whipped open and crashed against the siding. Leaving the statue behind, Bill went to the door and stepped inside, out of the fierce gale. The interior of the house was just as ill-kept as the exterior. The furniture moldy and moth-eaten, the floors covered in dust and scraps of rolling paper, the kitchen piled with dishes that smelled of rotten food. As he explored the ground floor, he took it all in, disgusted. He went upstairs, and was greeted by more of the same: a filthy, grime-covered bathroom and bedrooms full of stained sheets and broken appliances.

  At the end of the hall, remained one last door, standing out from the others. The wood was a bit brighter, here, clear sky amidst the dark clouds of a storm. He turned the cool doorknob, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  In one corner of the room sat a queen-sized bed, covered in silk sheets that were neatly folded. In another was a desk piled high with Bill and Tawny’s favorite books and her computer. Bill could see that the screen showed a website that sold Tawny’s jewelry, a hobby that she’d wanted to turn into a business for as long as he could remember. In another corner was a nursery, empty but clean and new. One of Bill’s childhood stuffed animals sat in the corner, a dog he’d named Pongo, which he hadn’t seen since he was nine.

  Tawny sat on a stool in the middle of it all, lovingly gazing at all the items in the room. Her eyes settled on Bill. “Hello there,” she said.

  Bill started. “Are you actually...talking to me?”

  Tawny smiled and stood, her mane of curls bouncing upon her shoulders. She was wearing her favorite dress, a purple cotton strapless that complimented her skin tone. She’d never looked lovelier, and Bill had the desire to reach out for her, to take her to the bed in the corner and make love.

  “You can’t do that, Bill,” she whispered.

  He flinched at the sound of an answer to his unspoken thoughts, but remained silent.

  Tawny frowned and approached him. “This place doesn’t exist. This house is the life that we could have had, that we should have built together, but that I had to make alone. I could only stay in this room for so long, polishing and preparing to spread out to the other rooms, and then I had to get out.” She looked toward each item, the desk, the bed, the empty cradle, and then back to Bill, waiting for a confirmation that he’d heard her. He only stared, his mouth agape.

  Tawny pursed her lips and shook her head. She looked into his eyes. “You can leave now, Bill. This is over.”

  The room faded as Bill opened his mouth to beg her not to go, to stay with him, but his words caught in his throat. The cradle shriveled and then dissolved into powder and shavings. The desk did the same, and the laptop disintegrated into tiny fragments on the floor. The bed sheets melted into a pool of liquid. A crack opened up in the floor, and then the foundation of the house shook. Bill ran, leaving Tawny behind, down the hallway and to the stairs. His feet slipped and he tumbled downward, feeling wood and paint flake away beneath his body. At the bottom landing, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the door, which broke apart like sawdust as he stumbled into the back yard. He found himself standing in front of the statue once again, and when he looked back the house was a pile of rubble. Somewhere in the midst of that ruin were the remains of the life he could have lived, if he’d simply reached out and taken hold of it.

  He looked up to the statue. The eyes were no longer lifeless; they were pools of brown flame. The statue moved, and then hopped off the pedestal in one fluid motion. Goddess Tawny looked down at him, her expression pained.

  “Goodbye, Bill,” she whispered, then walked into the field toward the sunset. She did not look back.

  Bill sat on the ground near the fountain and cried. They were the first real tears he’d let out since Tawny left him. When she had packed her bag three months ago, all he’d done was mutter that she should stay, that she was throwing away almost ten years, and then bitterness and anger consumed him.

  Now, curled up on the ground, he wept, and his tears watered the garden of his heart. The dark saffron flowers grew too large and the vines burrowed deep into the soil. Bill felt a lance of pain in his chest that became unbearable. He buried his face in the crook of his arm and bit down until he felt blood on his lips. He tasted tomato and garlic. As he clutched and scratched at the remains of his broken heart, Bill’s cries turned to choked screams.

  Catherine Grant lives in Providence, Rhode Island. She is an Assignment Editor for Shock Totem Publications, office monkey, freelance journalist, bibliophile, gamer and connoisseur of caffeine-laden beverages.

  HOLIDAY RECOLLECTION

  SOMETHING TO CHEW ON

  by Kristi Petersen Schoonover

  As a kid, Valentine’s Day was much anticipated. At school, there were cupcakes and card exchanges; at home, there was Chinese take-out and candy from Mom and Dad. And in 1980, there was a party.

  This wasn’t any party. My parents were insanely active in our local United Methodist church. Among other things, my mother directed the choir, in which
my father sang bass. The choir was at the core of my family’s social life, and being part of it was a rite of passage.

  Every Thursday, Mom and Dad would go to rehearsal and leave the four of us with a babysitter. I was nine—old enough, in my opinion, to sing with the adults. I was a stubborn, difficult child, and the relationship between me and my parents is best described as a “constant battle of wills” more than anything else, so I was persistent about asking to go. Even though my mother had refused my request several times, that year Valentine’s Day fell on a Thursday. Since she’d decided on a short rehearsal followed by a dessert party, she relented and said I could go.

  Ecstatic, I planned to wear my favorite dress and from then until the big day helped her make all manner of sweets. I couldn’t wait.

  At last, February 14 arrived. But things were odd the second I got home from school.

  Our candy and gifts—usually concealed until post-chow mein—were displayed on the dining room table, and the smell of cooked meat thickened the air. My aproned mother opened the oven and peered inside at the only meal I despised more than liver and onions: meatloaf.

  “What about the Chinese food?” I asked.

  She closed the oven door. “We don’t have time for that this year. Babysitter’s coming at six and we need to be fed and ready to go.”

  “I hate meatloaf.”

  “Too bad.” She tossed her oven mitt on the counter. “Set the table.”

  Mom put the brown mass the size of a small brick on my plate. I ate the rice, nearly finished the green beans, and struggled through a few carrots.

  Dad eyed me. “We have to get going and you haven’t touched your meatloaf.”

  “I ate almost everything else.”

  “Eat it.”

  “But—”

  “Your mother is letting you go with us tonight and this is how you repay her? Eat it.”

  I took a bite. It was like chewing dirty socks.

  I knew there was no way I could eat it; I reached for my napkin.

  “You will not spit it out. Your mother made it. You will eat it.”

  “It’s disgusting,” I said.

  My father’s face reddened. “Then put other food in with it.”

  I sipped my water. I forked in a few green beans. Desperate, I added some carrots.

  “Swallow it,” Dad said.

  I shook my head.

  “You will swallow that or we’ll leave you home.”

  No. Anything but that! I struggled to swallow, choked it back up.

  “Itssshhh too big!”

  “Drink more water.”

  “Let me shhhpit it out!”

  “No.” Dad pointed with his fork. “That’s it. You’re staying home tonight.”

  I started to cry. I looked to the other kids, but all three of them were focused on playing with their food.

  “Stop crying! We tried to give you a privilege and this is how you act. It’s quite obvious you don’t deserve it.”

  I looked to my mother for help, but her quiescence made it clear that I was on my own.

  The kids finished their dinners and scattered. Mom and Dad prepared to leave. I sat at the table, alone, with the foul lump in my mouth and even more of the wretched stuff on my plate. Pam, the babysitter, was given strict instructions—I was not allowed to spit it out. But I believed that they weren’t going to go without me. That they’d change their minds. That I’d still get to don my favorite dress and go to the party.

  Until I heard their car pull out of the driveway.

  SILENCE

  by Robert J. Duperre

  The demon is in the room with him, and David Higgins knows its name.

  It has haunted him for more than forty years, this beast, skulking in the corner of his vision, always lurking, always waiting for its time to strike, its stinking, fetid breath wafting across his nostrils on even the most windless of days. Yet for four decades David has been able to hold it at bay, quashing its advances at every turn. For a long while he thought he had defeated it completely, for in the calm moments in the dark of night, as he lay in his bed sweating while the machine beside him went ping, he felt nothing. No fear, no regret, no anger, no anything. And yet here it is again after so long, prowling the outskirts of his living room, goading him, taunting him, promising death. It lingers in the darkness of the doorway, boring deep into his soul.

  Of course it would come for me now, he thinks.

  David cannot move, cannot defend himself. He is trapped in his living room, strapped into his goddamn wheelchair. ALS has robbed him of motion. Now his eyes are all that move; they swish in their sockets as he points them beyond the doorway. He wishes his daughter Natalie was in here with him. David can hear water running and dishes clanking in the kitchen, as well as a pair of busily chatting voices. Even though she’s never even known it existed, Natalie always seems able to cast the evil thing aside, as if her soul itself is made from some sort of ethereal armor. She’s been his caretaker ever since the disease began its hateful warping of his body. He yearns to call out to her, but his vocal chords are just as useless as the rest of him.

  The machine beside him pings.

  David’s heart rate is rising.

  Low, malicious laughter echoes in his ears. The beast is on the move. His eyes track the black shape as it scuttles across the wall, a living inkblot, barely noticeable in the dim room. The thing moves like a worm, expanding and contracting, gliding over layers of beige paint until it disappears behind the entertainment center. The television clicks on, the ancient picture tube buzzing as the screen begins to glow. The sound grates on him, makes his panic rise. Why couldn’t his affliction have robbed him of his hearing, if only to make this one moment more tolerable?

  Images appear on the television while to his right the machine goes ping once more. No, David thinks, but cannot say. Please, no. On the screen, Rod Serling takes shape, looking at David from beneath his brow. The theme song rises in volume; da-na-na-na, da-na-na-na. Phantom Rod’s lips begin to move, ready to impart a nugget of wisdom about the grand irony of life, but David can barely make out the words. Why isn’t Natalie coming to check on me? he wonders. Televisions don’t usually come on all by themselves. It should have caught her attention.

  The demon reaches out for him with invisible feelers. His mind starts swimming backward.

  This is wrong. I don’t want to see.

  But the demon doesn’t listen.

  It is persistent.

  And, David now realizes, it is desperate.

  • • •

  To thirteen-year-old David Higgins, Miss Margery’s droning voice was a lot like static. He knew the sound well, since there were many nights when he’d fallen asleep in the den with the television on while watching Twilight Zone marathons. And just like static, her voice made him want to stay asleep.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t close his eyes, nor pay attention to the symbols Miss Margery was scribbling on the blackboard. He couldn’t even look at the posters of the Beatles on the wall—like David, Miss Margery was obsessed with them, making sure to tell her class that one day they’d take America by storm—and imagine himself standing on stage alongside Paul and John and George. Nothing mattered, not addition or subtraction or any other boring 6th-grade nonsense. All that did matter was the new kid. Max. The one sitting right in front of him; the one whose hair was sandy-blond and who had a triangle of freckles dotting the back of his neck.

  Goose pimples rose on David’s arms, and he shivered. Involuntarily, his foot kicked out, clanking against the boy’s chair. Max turned, his light blue eyes half-mast as he stared. The left side of the boy’s plump lips rose into a half-smile.

  “S-sorry,” David stammered.

  Max swept a stray lock of hair from his brow. “No problem,” he whispered with a grin, and turned back around.

  David let out a long sigh of relief, then felt instantly afraid that someone might notice. He glanced left and right. Everyone’s attention
was still on the front of the classroom. Good. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, an image of Max took shape. An odd sensation churned in David’s stomach.

  What he felt scared him. David wasn’t what one would call a shy kid, but he was indeed strange, and he knew it. He felt lonely, out of place. When other boys talked of girls, saying words like titties and bush and spanking it, he willingly laughed along. When they showed him dirty pictures, he dutifully looked and whistled. In truth he couldn’t understand his classmates’ fascination. To him, girls were just like anyone else—friends and neighbors, and nothing more. His interactions with them were never special, and thoughts of their naughty bits only made him feel disgusted. The only erections he ever remembered having were those that made him groan and slide out of bed hunched over in the morning before waddling down the hall for the day’s most painful piss.

  Yet now here he was, in class of all places, and the thought of Max’s face caused him to stiffen. David stifled a groan and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, squeezing his fists as tightly as he could, trying to wish the erection away. But the damned hardness was persistent. It was only when he thought of the Twilight Zone episode that had scared him the most, the one where the poor businessman sees a demon on the wing of a plane, that it began to fade. David leaned back and breathed deeply, Miss Margery’s voice once more trying to coax him to sleep.

  When he opened his eyes again, Max was looking at him. The boy had a disapproving look on his face, as if David had farted out loud or something. David averted his gaze, and Max grunted and turned back around. All the while, Miss Margery continued to drone on, and on, and on. When class ended, David quickly leapt from his seat. He was out of the classroom before the bell ever stopped ringing.