Six Dead Spots

by Gregor Xane

  The hand shot forward—revealing an arm spotted with rodent hair and the backs of beetles firmly rooted in its flesh. Four giant fingers grabbed the chair Frank had been sitting in just a moment ago and, with one quick jerk, pulled it from the room, out into the darkness.

  The hand returned and dragged the couch next, and then a second easy chair. Soon the room was cleared, except for the television's buzzing, glaring presence.

  Then the arm returned to the room, and its great hand spread its fingers across the floor. An elbow emerged, pressing the palm firmly into the carpet. A second arm reached through, another hand took a firm grip.

  Then came the monster's head, and the incubus was revealed. Its mouth was wider than Frank was tall. It smiled with pointed teeth, three rows deep, top and bottom. The thing's eyes were two pinched holes, dripping with infection. They dilated, and a pair of black marble eyeballs emerged from beneath the thing's simian brow.

  Twin horns sprouted from its massive forehead and scraped against the ceiling. Its mouth opened, groaned in Frank's face, as it dragged the rest of its body into the room.

  Frank stood trapped against the wall. He couldn't move. Only a few inches separated him from its flaring nostrils. The thing's body filled the room, crouched down to less than half its height, curled up with its arms wrapped under its bent knees.

  Its great mouth moved as if it were trying to speak to him, but didn't make a sound. Its marble eyes retracted into puckered flesh. The floor began to shake.

  Frank heard a deep noise, like an airplane taking off, coming from the thing's throat. And then it stood up to its full height, throwing the ceiling and the roof of Steve's house from its back like a magician theatrically throwing off his cape after the final illusion.

  Shingles and plaster, beams of wood, fluttered up and disappeared into the night sky, like a thousand birds taking flight.

  Frank craned his neck and saw stars, the night sky, just beyond a pair of glistening horns.

  The thing looked down at Frank. He couldn't see its eyes, its teeth. Its features were now lost in shadow. But he knew that he was being watched. The thing's gaze kept him still. He couldn't turn his eyes from the twisted horns. The creature's shoulders shook as if it were quietly laughing.

  A crop of tentacles grew from the back of its neck. Six fleshy strands stretched and lengthened, whipped around the horns, snapped in a mindless frenzy.

  Then suddenly the tentacles dropped and hung writhing on either side of the thing's torso. They continued to grow until they reached the plush carpet at Frank's feet.

  Frank turned to run, but his time to escape had passed. He now understood the black dog and the faceless girl. They had known where he was headed—and what he'd planned to do. They'd been placed in his path to stop him, to scare him awake before it was too late.

  And now the tentacles were on him. The three tentacles branching from the left of the thing's neck were firmly rooted to Frank's back. A second later, his belly and chest were connected to the three strands of flesh trailing up the beast's right side. The tentacles had no trouble finding and penetrating his six dead spots. They pricked his skin like clusters of intravenous needles, pumping him with a stinging coldness.

  Frank closed his eyes in surrender, let the incubus overtake him, let it fill him with its heavy fluids. He felt a strange wet warmth press against the inside of his face, slithering lumps moving under the skin of his chest. The flesh of his thighs wriggled in fattened waves.

  The numbness of his six dead spots expanded to cover his entire body. He felt nothing. No pain.

  Frank blinked, opened his eyes, the incubus still loomed, and he found that he was no longer frightened.

  The night sky was just beginning to fade into a morning mist when the incubus came apart. Its hair fell and its skin sloughed from its arms. Its horns broke free from its skull and slammed to the floor a few feet from where Frank stood.

  But he didn't flinch.

  A hail of giant jagged teeth fell and lodged themselves deep into the floorboards.

  The demon's skin gathered in a puddle at Frank's feet. Its muscles liquefied. Its black bones rocked and creaked. The bars of its ribcage looked like a prison built for a baby dragon, but crumbled to dust in a faint wind, and were swallowed in a sea of melted flesh.

  The demon's naked spine tottered like a kindling tower built by an idiot child. Its skull rolled forward and splashed down and disappeared in a puddle of its own flesh, like it had fallen into deep waters.

  The incubus was gone. Its remains swirled at Frank's feet.

  He was alone with the television, with an extreme close-up of a severe woman selling pain relief. The tentacles were still implanted deep in his flesh; the opposite ends now moving through the muck.

  Searching.

  But then, when the liquid waste that was once the incubus began to recede, Frank realized that the tentacles weren't looking for something. They were thirsty. They were siphoning the thing's remains, drinking them, sucking the liquid incubus into Frank's torso, filling him up.

  The tentacles overtook Frank's body, dragged him throughout the room as they vacuumed the remains puddled in the carpet.

  When the floor was dry and clean, the tentacles retracted and disappeared inside of Frank, leaving no trace on his flesh.

  Frank touched a spot just below his sternum. It was no longer dead.

  Chapter 17

  Frank opened his eyes and was glad to see that Steve had gone. He was overjoyed to actually feel the painful tug of the adhesive he'd used to secure the six accordion tubes to his skin. He grabbed the tube fixed at the center of his chest with both hands and yanked it free. He screamed, and laughed with relief. He smiled down at the circle of raised blood on his sternum, and shuddered. He stood and ripped the remaining tubes from his body with five curt yelps. And he stood there, breathing heavily, smiling, eyes welling with tears, and reveled in the sensation of blood running over flesh once lost to him.

  Frank turned, stamped across a carpet of EZ-Meal boxes and Taco House bags to the front window and searched the driveway and the street for Steve's car. He was certainly gone. And he'd been a good brother and left the pills behind. But Frank looked at the crumpled DrugMart logo and knew that he would never open the bag. He didn't need Serapuems anymore. Tonight would be the end of it.

  Frank reached down the front of his stained jeans and made his daily collection. His hand returned with a harvest of his own filth slathered across his fingers. He rubbed his fingertips together and rolled his waste into a ball about the size of a schoolyard marble. He rolled the 'marble' gently across the blood pooled on his chest, rolled it between his palms, and then held it admiringly before a squinted eye.

  This is it. The last bit.

  Frank's feet crunched sardine tins and processed cheese wrappers as he rushed from the living room, over broken pizza box cardboard and the wax sleeves from frozen beef pies as he slogged through the kitchen to his basement door. He kept it locked and the key close to him at all times, in the right front pocket of the pants he'd been wearing for three months straight. He unlocked the door and took the first few steps down, closing the door gently behind him.

  He walked to a mini-fridge near his washer and dryer and opened the door. On top of a cache of assorted beer cans lay a cookie tin with a green linen napkin draped over it. Frank removed the tray and rested it on top of the refrigerator. He peeled the napkin back and revealed his creation, the tiny figure he'd been molding for months. Although the smell that wafted up at him was horrible and overwhelming, his tearing eyes still traveled the tiny body with pride, the miniature man sculpted from his own bodily waste. It was only a few inches long, no bigger than a boy's collectible action figure. It lay on its back as if awaiting a medical operation. Its torso, head, and limbs were formed from a compound of dried skin, eye paste, mucus, and semen. The features of its face were drawn with nail clippings. The hair that covered its head and body was pulled from Frank's arms. The curlies bet
ween its legs once belonged to Frank.

  Frank rolled his new ball of 'clay' between his fingers, concentrating, planning, rolled it between his palms. He then carefully sculpted the lump, accenting and smoothing with a paperclip and a pen cap. Twenty minutes later, he held a tiny penis and scrotum. He placed this finishing touch between the figure's legs and carefully blended it in with the lines of its body, rearranging the pubic hair around its center piece.

  Satisfied, he moved the tray from the fridge top and carried it over to a dark corner of the basement. He placed it on a wooden block he'd spray-painted black, next to a dusty square car battery and a converter with metal coils branching from its top. Frank pulled the string hanging overhead and a bare bulb shook to life, unsteady and dim. He turned his tiny man carefully on to its side and then began to sort through the wire coils. He unwound one, straightened it, and then bent it down to touch the sculpture at the top of its chest. Frank pushed and the wire pierced through and shivered, set firmly in place. He then straightened another wire and plugged it into the little man's solar plexus, and another just below its navel. Frank attached the remaining three wires to the figure's back, one between the shoulder blades, one at its base, and another in between. He made sure that all six connections were firmly set and then flipped the switch on the converter to bring the thing to life.

  Rancid smoke began to rise immediately from the cookie tray. Frank stepped back and coughed, his eyes watering. He doubled over and gagged, fell to his knees, and his chest heaved. Vomit burned the back of his throat and then splashed onto the cement floor between his hands, spraying his wrists and forearms. Frank's eyes were closed, and he listened to his heavy breathing and the sizzling noise coming from the metal tray, his baking filth. He tasted the miracle of new life springing forth from decay.

  He forced his eyes open, wanting to bear witness, and thought he saw, through smoke and tears, a shape rise from the tray. He was almost certain that the tiny man was moving, struggling to its feet, standing to meet the world. Smoke rose around it as if it were a god of lava rising from the mouth of a volcano.

  Frank tried to greet this new life but his throat was raw, clogged with snot and vomit. And he heard footsteps, several pairs of shoes stomping down his basement stairs. Deep, official voices. A man retching.

  "What the hell is that smell?"

  "He's started a fire." His brother Steve's muffled voice.

  "What is he burning? Shit?"

  Frank cleared his eyes and saw the man who asked this question. He was a police officer. His uniform was bulky, a deep blue, almost black in the basement's spare lighting. A second officer came into view and his eyes widened as he looked past Frank at the smoke rising from the tray.

  He's amazed to see the miracle I've worked. He's awed by the new life I've brought into the world.

  Frank turned his face to the intruders. It shone with a fierce pride, which soon turned to rage when the officers ran past him, pushing him out of the way, to stomp the fire out. Their black boots crumpled the tray and smeared the tiny figure to an ashy sludge before Frank could stop them.

  But he attacked anyway. He needed to avenge the death of his creation. He lunged forward at the pair of officers, hands raised, fingers curled, ready to rip their eyes from their sockets, intent on smashing their noses into their faces. But he never made contact. Both officers were young and well-trained. They raised their batons and together knocked Frank unconscious with two sharp raps to his skull.

  Chapter 18

  Steve walked into the smoky waiting room of the Greater Springdale Center for Psychiatric Health and saw his brother sitting by a window, arm draped over the ledge, staring out at a parking lot lined with trees and peaceful landscaping, muted colors, chosen carefully so as not to excite the patients. Steve had only seen Frank once before in the year since he'd been committed. The doctors had felt that isolation was the best thing for Frank, quiet and order. They feared any news from outside might send him spiraling back to the place from which he'd fought so hard to return. Frank was dressed in a gray sweater Jill had sent him for his birthday and the green slacks Steve had sent him for Christmas. He looked incredibly thin. The meds appeared to have taken his appetite and all the color from his face. Frank turned and Steve saw creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes that shouldn't have been there for at least ten more years.

  "It's good to see you, Frank."

  Frank stood and reached out his hand. Steve grabbed it and dragged Frank into him and hugged him.

  "So what's going on?" Frank asked, his voice muffled in Steve's shoulder. "Are you my guardian now?"

  Steve laughed. "No. I'm not my brother's keeper." He patted Frank on the back. "I'm just picking you up. You're free to go."

  "They can't keep me any longer."

  "No. They can't keep you."

  Steve stretched out his arms, holding Frank's shoulders, and smiled. His smile wasn't returned.

  Frank was still on heavy medication. His eyes were listless. He turned his head away and his attention returned to the window. His eyes followed a station wagon moving slowly through the parking lot. "You're taking me home."

  "That's right."

  "I don't think Jill would like that very much."

  "She wouldn't like it at all. I'm not taking you to my house. I'm taking you to yours."

  "Oh," Frank said, turning away, freeing himself from his brother's embrace. "I just assumed that the bank had taken it back."

  "No," Steve said. "I've made some arrangements."

  Frank picked up a newspaper off the windowsill, folded it in thirds, turned his back to Steve, and walked to the door. "I'll pay you back," he said. "It will take a while. But I'll pay you back."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "I want to."

  "Then don't worry about it for a while. All right?" Steve caught up with Frank, pushed the door open for him, and followed him out into green hallways filled with milling men in paper-thin gowns, sleepy eyes and stuttering lips.

  Steve squeezed his brother's shoulder. "All right?"

  "All right. I appreciate it."

  "No, you don't," Steve said, and instantly wished he hadn't. The last thing he wanted to do was initiate an argument.

  "It's called absence of affect," Frank said. "It comes with swallowing a handful of psychotropic drugs with every meal."

  "I'm sorry, Frank."

  "Don't be. I'm too tired."

  • • • • • •

  Frank and Steve sat in Frank's driveway in uncomfortable silence for a long time before Steve reached over and opened the glove compartment for Frank's keys. Three keys dangled on a simple silver ring: front door, back door, and garage. He shook them and dropped them into Frank's palm.

  "Thanks." Frank shoved open the passenger door and stuck his foot out. "Sorry if I don't sound like I mean it."

  "Get some sleep." Steve put the car into gear and pressed a button on his armrest, rolling up Frank's window. "I'll call you in a few days."

  Frank groaned as he pulled himself up and out of Steve's car. His ankles seemed weak as he traversed his gravel walkway. He climbed the steps to the porch and pulled open the screen door. He stood there with his keys and watched his brother drive off. Steve waved.

  Frank didn't wave back. He turned the key in his front door and stepped inside his home for the first time in over a year. The living room was empty. The walls were clean of pictures and cracks. The house smelled musty, closed up. The smell of household cleaner still lingered in the air.

  Frank walked into the kitchen and placed the wrinkled bag containing his prescriptions on the counter next to a line-up of spray bottles standing proud. Like show horses. Windows Plus X. Surface Shine. OMOX. Toilet Cop.

  The dishes on the drying rack were covered in a layer of dust. But the place was clean.

  Frank rinsed a glass and drank, gulped, and dribbled water down his shirt.

  His medication.

  He'd been written a prescription for
endless thirst. He took two pills and drank two full glasses of water, rinsed the glass, and returned it to the drying rack.

  • • • • • •

  Frank's bedroom was empty, save for a single twin bed and a small oak dresser. They looked new. All of his old furniture had been removed from the house. The carpet had been stripped from the floors and the exposed wood was buckled in places and deeply scarred. The walls were stark white.

  Twilight had long ago disappeared and the windows now looked on a reflection of Frank's bedroom. The light fixture over his bed blared with three bare bulbs. There were no blinds or curtains on the windows, so he quickly flipped down the light switch.

  He didn't like what he saw reflected in the window.

  Frank hadn't seen his own reflection since the morning he woke up in the Greater Springdale Center for Psychiatric Health.

  He undressed in darkness, draped his clothes over the top of the dresser, and slipped into a tightly made bed that had never been slept in. The air was dry beneath the covers. Dry and warm.

  Chapter 19

  Frank woke up in his twin bed, opened his eyes, and surveyed his bedroom. He hadn't changed a thing since being released. He hadn't hung a picture or added a single piece of furniture in seven months. The only item that wasn't in the room when he'd moved back in was a golf bag propped up in the corner. Only three clubs poked out of the top, a putter, a driver, and a wood. His brother had given them to him as a present over three months ago and today was the first day he'd agreed to a game. The season was almost over. It was cold and Frank didn't want to get out of bed.

  But he did. He sat up and rubbed his face, groaned as he stood, and grunted as he slowly made the bed.

  He unlocked his bedroom door and went through the short hallway and into the bathroom and showered. He toweled off and brushed his teeth with the medicine cabinet open, mirror facing the wall.

  He hesitated and scowled at every piece of his clown suit as he put them on. He wore loud argyle pants, a yellow shirt, and a checkered duffer's cap. He carried his clubs downstairs and set them down next to a shoe box by the front door. His living room was still barren.