by Frazer Lee
Then the movement was right beside her.
She turned her head and cried out in anguish to see the man-child gazing at her lasciviously not six inches from her face. This close, his breath smelled particularly foul—an undigested mess of seafood and rank rotting sweetness. He appeared to sniff at her, grinning and baring his teeth as he did so, and she saw the rot in his gums for the first time. The look of old man’s perverse delight on this child’s face was an abomination. His lips were flecked with saliva, which trickled down his chin. He savored the scent of Marla’s fear in the same way a normal child would savor the smell of candy. He voiced his enjoyment in little spasms of breathy laughter. Mirthsome little bubbles of snot formed and burst wetly in his nostrils. It was all Marla could do to stop herself from vomiting. He ignored her discomfort, reaching out into her field of vision with pudgy little boy hands then stroking strands of her hair as though she were a stray cat he’d found somewhere along the way. Marla shuddered at his touch, feeling sure it were those hands that had stoved that poor pussycat’s head in—the one Adam had found by the path that day. The old boy’s eyes were filled with dark mischief now and Marla pictured him at work in the loft of the big house, torturing and maiming his little playthings until they were all dead. The boy sprang up and climbed atop the table, straddling Marla and laughing that peculiar little circus laugh of his as he did so. His voice sounded like it was constantly on the verge of breaking, yet stuck in the shrill tones of a preteen youth. She tried not to look up at him as he knelt above her chest. Then she glimpsed the dirty syringe in his hand, the chamber filled with what looked like chicken fat and blood. He held the needle aloft and Marla winced, waiting for it to pierce her skin.
But then the boy took hold of his twitching member in his free hand and plunged the dirty needle into it, pumping the fatty contents into its head. He moaned in vile pleasure and, discarding the empty syringe, started to rub his newfound erection furiously. He kept rubbing as he nuzzled his face in her neck, cold snail trails of snot tracing across her skin. Then, like a rat, he began nibbling at her clothing, tearing it with his teeth and peeling it back to reveal her nakedness beneath. She struggled and kicked, feeling like one of the dead birds in that loft, pinioned and unable to fight back. The boy’s rubbing and biting and tearing was becoming frenzied now and Marla felt oily drips of sweat drip from his mop of hair into the valley between her breasts. He began to convulse above her, grunting like a beast, his little legs twitching and knees clenching as though he were riding a rodeo horse. Marla closed her eyes tight and cried out in disgust as the boy lurched into the painful throes of orgasm. His ecstasy at fever pitch, he continued rubbing himself frantically and Marla felt globs of cold leaden semen spattering her chest and face. His tepid ejaculate tasted of ruin, of heresy, and she spat it from her mouth. Still trembling from his exertions, the boy thing slapped his palms to her chest and began massaging his seed into her flesh. The act was functional and robotic and, daring to look, Marla saw disinterest in her abuser’s eyes for the first time. He’d done this before.
The very thought made her gag.
“Have to rub the lotion in. Have to get you ready for Daddy. All the king’s horses. And all the king’s men.”
His casual, sing-song tone was too much for Marla. Her eyes gave way to tears and her breasts rose and fell with great sobs. She felt betrayed by her nipples, which stood erect from the sensation of the semen as it cooled like porridge in the chill air of the cave. She looked straight at him, defiant, as he went on rubbing his filth into her. The boy averted his uncaring eyes, idly distracted by the crackle of a damp candlewick as it sputtered and died in its own puddle of wax. As he turned his head, Marla saw a figure standing over both of them. Heart in her mouth, she recognized the face. Vincent. His arms were stretched out above his head. What on earth is he holding onto, thought Marla as if in a dream. She soon realized it was a huge glass jar as it came crashing down on the boy’s head, knocking him sideways from the gurney. Vincent released her from her bonds and quickly pulled her tattered clothing over her nakedness as best he could. Only the aftershock of fear and disgust stopped Marla from grabbing the old man and kissing him in gratitude. Once we’re out of here I’ll do just that she promised herself as Vincent helped her to her feet.
They were almost at the opening to the cave when the scurrying boy-thing began to wail. The sound was an affront, only serving to encourage Marla on her unsteady trajectory to the tunnel beyond the cave wall. She turned, sensing Vincent’s distance from her and saw that sure enough he’d stopped dead in his tracks. The vile thing’s cries were escalating, in that way children cry after a series of sharp intakes of breath when they take a tumble and graze their little knees. Their little knees. Marla shuddered, becoming all-too palpably aware of the child’s ooze drying and forming a crust on the skin of her chest. She wanted only to be away from here and washing herself in the sea. Even if the waves dashed her onto the rocks bludgeoning the last breath from her body, that was where she wanted to be, not loitering in this cavernous rattrap. But even now Vincent took a faltering step towards the boy-thing, then another, his arms held out in supplication and his unblinking eyes saying I didn’t mean to strike you little man, I’m so sorry, let me hold you, I won’t hurt you again! For Vincent’s eyes saw this wretched thing as a child once more, the son that he’d lost so long ago in the stark negative of white foam on black waves. His arms yearned for the embrace of that which he’d lost and he stooped to comfort the boy. Don’t.
“Don’t! Don’t go near him! He’s a fucking monster!” Marla screamed, giving voice to all that she’d endured at the fat wormlike digits of those little hands.
But it was too late. Vincent looked back at her, his eyes veiled with the membrane of his memories. A single tear trickled from his eye, a pure thing winding its way down the crags of his face.
“But he’s my son.”
At this, Marla reeled.
“How can that be…your son?”
“He’s my son,” the old man repeated with sorrow in his voice, “The island took him. The island changed him. But he’s still a boy inside.”
The notion rang with bitterness in Marla’s ears. A boy? No. A boy thing that kills, that poisons and maims and despises. An inversion of all that is pure and good about a child. That’s no boy, she was about to say, when a great jet of blood punched out of Vincent’s throat. A huge shard of jagged glass from the jar emerged from his neck. The boy-thing rammed it further through the gruesome hollow where the old man’s throat used to be until his little fist began to emerge too. Vincent spluttered and fell to the floor, head swimming in a fountain of his own blood.
“No. No, no, no, no!”
Marla backed away from the murderous thing and bolted for the opening in the cavern wall behind her. She’d been stupid to linger here, but her empathy for the old man had made it impossible to just abandon him. But abandon him she should, even as she heard the sound of sharp glass scraping on old bones as the child began his playtime.
“Pop! Goes the weasel…”
For the love of God, the boy was singing—a vile distorted sound like the nursery tapes she and Jessie had found at the Big House. A wet popping sound and a guttural giggle followed and Marla turned to see the lad pulling one of Vincent’s eyes from the socket, making silly string of the stretchy optic entrails connecting orb to socket.
She ran. Behind her, the shrill laughter and sputum nursery song of the boy as he got to work on his father’s tongue.
The tunnel outside stretched out into black in both directions. Left or right? It was a tough call, Marla had no idea which direction she’d come from when he, when it, had brought her in here. The boy’s shrill laughter urged her on and she banked to the right. Fifty-fifty chance, deeper into this hellhole or out onto the beach. The tunnel snaked, forming a sly corner and Marla was considering doubling back on herself when she saw a distant light up ahead. That was it, must be, the way out. She ran full pelt, her w
et footfalls echoing off the bare rock like mechanical applause. Nearing the light, she saw it was coming from a doorway in the side of the tunnel. Slowing down to a trot, Marla approached the lip of the doorway cautiously and stopped. Back pressed against the wall, she took a deep breath and peered around the doorway. Inside was a large chamber, lit with dim sepia lamps that hung from wires bolted to the walls. The room was lined with rows of shelves that formed an avenue to the other side, and there—another door. Marla looked back the way she came. She could no longer hear the maniac boy-thing and no footsteps were coming from the tunnel behind her. Into the room then, oh please let that door be an exit. She stepped inside, struck by the strong smell of mold and dust, and began walking the avenue of shelves to the door. Now she was inside, Marla could see what lined each shelf. The lower ones were stacked to bursting with plain plastic containers, just like the ones filled with cleaning products back at the white stucco house. The containers were neatly grouped according to shape and size and as she walked on, Marla saw further shelves cluttered with the smaller toiletry containers of the type she’d found waiting for her in the summerhouse filled with shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste and the like. Puzzled, Marla paused for a second and took one of the containers from the shelf nearest to her. It was empty. She placed it back on the shelf and saw a stack of screw cap lids waiting next to it—waiting to be twisted on when the container was filled, but with what? Larger shelves up ahead glinted yellow and Marla walked on to better see their wares. These shelves were larger because the vessels that stood upon them were larger and heavier than the plastic containers. Marla was looking at a wall of large glass jars filled with what looked like goose fat. Many of the jars were covered in thick layers of dust, their contents separating like spoiled milk. They must have been here for years, and there were so many of them. Walking further on, Marla was dismayed to see that more of the jars were filled with body parts and tissue specimens, just like the ones she’d seen in the cave before the boy thing had his way with her. She grimaced as her eyes focused on a jar containing the thick tube of a belly button cord, swimming in a dark amber jelly, little flaps of pink flesh surrounding the orifice like a collar. Peering closer, she realized her mistake—this was actually someone’s anus, complete with the fleshy rectal opening she’d mistaken for a navel. Dread connections crept into her mind as she equated the contents of these jars with the expectant spaces within the plastic containers. Shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste. Oh dear God no. Marla felt suddenly sick, desperate to wash herself inside and out. Her flesh squirmed sticky cold where the boy had violated her. She backed away from the jars and their disgusting contents and fled for the door, grabbing at the handle with one frantic sweaty palm.
But the door was locked. It was made of old metal, heavy and immovable.
Tears of despair welled up in Marla’s eyes. She’d have no choice now but to go back the way she came, and to face whatever lurked in the darkness at the other end of the long tunnel. No, she couldn’t do it; she’d be driven mad by fear before a hundred paces, before a dozen even. Nothing else for it, she’d have to break open the door somehow. Studying the door she saw there was no discernable locking mechanism, just the age and rust that made it looked fused into the rock that surrounded it. Maybe if she could break the door handle with something—that might just do it. She began looking around for an object heavy enough to do the job. The jars had been amassed here over months, years or even decades. They had to be important to someone. Surely they’d keep a fire extinguisher down here, in case of fire? Marla darted to the nearest corner, desperate to see red. But she found only more jars, great stacks of them, each filled with fleshy objects she had no desire to look at any longer. She continued her search, aiming for a gap in the shelves that formed a kind of deep avenue within the tall rows a little way from the door.
She froze. Ahead of her was a dark shape, terrifyingly large and horribly familiar. He’d been here all along, watching her. Marla’s head swam, drowning beneath the weight of this new horror. She backed away in slow terror, realizing that she’d run straight into the massive clutches of the giant who’d pursued her through the trees. The candles flickered and she saw him clearly for the first time—a massive Skin Man. His huge physique was clad in black oilskins, but now she saw they were stitched together with a network of leathery off cuts. Horribly, she saw an eyelid forming a buttonhole, the flap of someone’s cheek (still with beard hair) grafted onto a pocket at his hip. His greatcoat was literally held together by human skin and sinew. She looked up and her terrified eyes were reflected back at her from his goggle eyes. They were indeed housed in goggles made of bone, eye sockets expertly extricated from a human skull, filled with obsidian glass, then strapped to his head with sickly yellow surgical tubing. The dark lenses bore into every corpuscle of her being, reflecting her horror like hideous inverted scrying mirrors. Marla choked as his great hand clutched at her throat and she felt herself lifted off the ground onto the very tips of her toes. She looked down in terror at the endgame of those black goggle eyes and felt herself falling into their nauseating curves. Like a terrified, naked child Marla slipped beneath the cold black ripples of her fear and gave herself over to oblivion.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A siren song of waves lulled Marla to and fro like a boat cut adrift from its moorings and set loose upon the ocean. She heard them in the submarine depths of her dreams as she floated above the ground through the trees. The Skin Man was carrying her over his shoulder like a rag doll. Oh but he was a behemoth, barrel-chested and thick, sturdy as a tree trunk. If you’d seen them crashing through the trees together you’d be sure to mistake them for something out of a fairytale. La belle et la bete. The giant bestial fiend in his greatcoat of skin and the girl fragile and pale in her tatters. But his cold glassy eyes were not party to fairytales, they were filled with the thousand flayed edges of nightmares past and yet to come. On through the woods he trudged—each step a commitment to the darker, higher purpose that drove the engine of his being, each breath a hymn to this eviscerated night. Marla stirred slightly in her fitful sleep, murmuring something of the horrors she’d witnessed under her breath as the Skin Man climbed a steep incline, gravel and dirt fleeing from beneath his feet. He turned onto a path, visible only to his owl-like eyes in the vague moonlight, and cut through a network of tall trees and bushes. Breaking cover, he paused for a moment to draw breath and looked up at the huge white edifice in front of him. It gleamed huge and white as an iceberg—the most beautiful house on the island, unknown to any but him and his brethren. He strode on, his path now lit by an avenue of flaming torches. The torchlight danced across Marla’s face, giving her the aspect of a sleeping child curled up in front of a dreamtime fire.
Inside the house, the Homecoming was in full sway. The group from the jetty had made light work of warming up the house and had put on quite a spread. At first glance, the scene looked like any well-to-do gathering of wealthy families. Mothers stood gossiping by the picture window while children ran between their ankles, their play punctuated by joyful exclamations of “Tag! You’re it.” Fathers talked business over the dips, keeping a safe distance from the kitchen door lest they were dragged inside to help with the finger food. Some gathered on the veranda, watching the garden sprinklers, which seemed to be applauding these beautiful rich people with their clockwork display of water jets. Their rhythmic sound was like little chuckles of approval at the urbane normalcy of the proceedings. But the scene was far from normal. Each and every member had shed their clothes—men, women and children included—revealing bodies of such sheer perfection they’d make even the finest cosmetic surgeon weep tears of blood. They socialized casually, their skin smooth and flawless, not a pair of spectacles or piece of jewelry among them, and not one of them batted an eyelid when the huge, lumbering Skin Mechanic made his way up the garden path carrying a delirious Marla Neuborn over his shoulder. In fact, they let him through as though he were a waiter, here to pass around the hors
d’oeuvres from a silver tray.
Perhaps he was.
Marla’s mind was cloudy. She was still a boat, adrift on the ocean, but something had changed. The sea was becoming unbearably choppy and the clouds were rolling back now. Someone was changing the sky for a new one. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably and she began to experience a lunatic flicker book slide show of white walls and white ceilings and luminescent faces peering blithely down at her. Marla wanted to remain as a boat, her back supported by salt water, her face kissed by a fine spray of sea mist. She clenched her eyelids shut tight and fancied she heard joyous laughter from somewhere beyond the field of her consciousness. The dull sensation of heavy hands lifting her crept into her lucid dreaming and she felt her entire body tilt suddenly. The sea was no longer at her back. The waves had solidified into cold steel. Her shoulder blades flinched at the metal chill of her new resting place and somewhere behind her eyes the lights were switched on. Their glare came crashing into her eyes, filling them with the harsh truth of her predicament. She was not adrift, there was no blanket of mist and no sirens sang their lullaby—there was only hard steel and bright artificial light and the sudden, naked horror of being watched by dozens of pairs of eyes.
