Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  With a few swift keystrokes she was well on her way to finding what she needed. The page popped up with her answer: Dr. Mortin, known as the ‘doctor to the stars.’ With trembling hands she dialled the number.

  “Hello, Dr. Mortin’s office, how may I help you?”

  “I need an appointment, please. It is urgent.”

  “Name?”

  “Genna Kramer.”

  “Birthdate?”

  “October 13th, 1995.”

  “Kramer, Kramer… are you a patient of Dr. Mortins?”

  “No, not yet, I--”

  “I’m sorry, but the doctor is not taking new patients right now.”

  “It is an emergency that I see him. Please, if you could just-”

  “I’m sorry, the doctor is full. If this is an emergency, please go to your nearest hospital. Good-bye.”

  “Wait!” But the buzzing in her ear screamed futility.

  “Bitch! Now what?” She cradled her face in her hands and sat in silence until the shrill music startled her. A pop-up on her screen shuffled before and after pictures of women who had drastic weight loss results. She watched, mesmerized, as the sexy nurses pointed to the blinking number.

  “Call in the next thirty minutes, and receive your free consultation with the leading doctor in professional weight loss. Never gain it back again – call now!”

  Genna scrambled for a pen and paper, and promptly dialed the number.

  “Hello, this is the office of Dr. Sioux, how may I help you?”

  “My name is Genna Kramer, and I want an appointment.”

  “Hello, Miss Kramer, when would you like to see the doctor?”

  “Right away.”

  “Can you be here at seven tonight?”

  Genna looked at the time on her screen. She had half an hour.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, Miss Kramer, we have you booked for seven pm tonight. See you then.”

  A smile spread across her face. Finally, she could slim down to compete with those other actress’ who kept her from the big roles.

  “Thank you.”

  A giddy squeal escaped her as she hung up the phone, and again the neighbours thumped the wall.

  “Just fucking move out already! Ingrates!”

  She would show them; she would show everyone just what she was made of. Genna skimmed her bedroom closet full of knock-off designer clothes, and grabbed a form-fitting, knee-length dress. She slipped it on and took a good look in the mirror. “Hopefully that doctor takes trades,” she thought.

  Getting a cab was much easier than she assumed it would be, but traffic was end to end. It was ten to seven, and she was still three blocks away.

  “Driver, let me out here.”

  “Miss, I can’t. We are in the centre lane.”

  “I don’t give a hell. Let me out now!” She tossed a twenty at him, and was out the door before he could speak again.

  Her spiked heels echoed as she hurried down an alley, cutting off half a block’s walk. When she reached the office, she was out of breath, and her stomach was gurgling in protest.

  “Genna Kramer, for Dr. Sioux,” she gasped, wiping the sweat from her brow.

  “One moment please.” The receptionist picked up the phone and mumbled something inaudible. “The doctor will see you now; this way please.”

  She followed the slender red-head to a small, grey coloured room.

  “Please remove your clothes, and put on this gown. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” She smiled as she shut the door.

  Genna changed and sat on the edge of the bed-like table. The chilly air rose gooseflesh on her legs and arms. In the quiet of the room her stomach gurgled and churned some more, and a sharp cramp forced her to bend in defence.

  “Miss Kramer, I am Dr. Sioux. What can I help you with today?”

  The cramp eased enough for her to speak. “I desperately need to lose some weight, and keep it off. I saw your ad on my computer and I knew you were the go-to guy.”

  He looked her over in a glance. “Miss Kramer-”

  “Genna, please,” she managed a smile.

  “Of course, Genna. Your weight seems fine for your bio index.”

  “I assure you, it is not,” she spat. “I am an actress, and, as such, I am held to a high standard.”

  “Well, perhaps the problem lies in that standard. For your height you seem a little thin.”

  “Thin?'” she laughed. “Thin, is the actress who stole my big role last month. Thin is the one who took my role before that! Doctor, I have tried to stay thin, and it is not working for me. I need help!Her stomach cramped again, and this time she winced.

  “Are you in pain, Genna?”

  Frustration took her over. “Hell yes, I’m in pain! Every single day on this God forsaken planet, I am in pain. I am so sick of trying to get my body where it needs to be. I’m sick and tired of everyone telling me what I can or can’t eat! I need you to do for me what you did for those women on your ad. I need a new body!”

  He smiled at her then, as if he finally understood her, but the revelation would have to wait. With a final dose of excruciating pain, her bowel cramped. She screamed, and rushed from the room in the paper gown to the open door with the washroom sign beside it.

  Genna swung the door behind her and sat just in time for the evacuation process. When she was sure it was over, she washed her hands and face, and returned to the room where the doctor was waiting for her.

  “I am sorry about that,” she stammered, “I-”

  “No need to explain. I understand your position, and I have decided to help you.” He handed her a small paper cup with two black tablets inside.

  “Take these, and you will get what you wish.”

  “What are these?” She rolled the pills from side to side.

  “They are what you came here for. Take them both tonight, and you will quickly see changes.”

  “How long do I have to take them for, for the results to be permanent?”

  “Oh, my dear, this is all you need. Take them and call me if you need anything else.”

  She eyed him for a moment. Something in his voice reminded her of a director she once met. He had plans for her too, but he wanted too much in return.

  “And the cost?”

  His smile widened. “Your success is my success. No other payment is required.”

  She returned the smile, and took the pills before he could change his mind.

  “I’ll have my receptionist call you a taxi. Have a good evening.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  She dressed and was ready only moments after he closed the door. Excitement filled her with endless possibilities. If her results were as good as she saw on the ad, she would land a starring role in no time.

  Genna instructed the taxi driver to make a stop at a nearby convenience store, just to pick up a few things to celebrate with. When she got home she tossed the bags on to the couch, and surfed the T.V. channels until she found a good movie. One by one she stuffed the candy bars, and potato chips into her mouth, washing it all down with soda. “One last binge before my life changes forever.”

  “YOU CAN HAVE THE SAME AMAZING RESULTS!”

  Genna awoke to her laptop belting out the commercial at full sound. The T.V. channel was nothing more than static and the pounding on the wall from behind the couch almost seemed warranted.

  “Screw off, you bunch of ingrates!” She stumbled as she made her way to the droning laptop, and slammed the lid. Walking back to the couch, a wave of nausea hit, and she bypassed it completely, in favour of running to the washroom.

  Never had she felt pain as tremendous as she was feeling now. She sat on the toilet with the wastebasket in front of her to catch the vomit. Her bowels showed no mercy as they emptied, and then emptied again. She wiped, trying to fold the flimsy paper as fast as she could but stopped in shock. The paper was soaked in blood.

  Her stomach retched, and everything inside her spewed forth in violent waves.
She gasped for breath between attacks, failing, and choking, while the neighbours banged the wall relentless with force. Desperate, she pulled herself up, using the sink as a stronghold, but more vomit and a black tar-like substance made its way out of her mouth to the sink as well. Her body seized in a standing position and she watched, helpless as her torment went on.

  From the next room, her phone rang and the machine picked up. Her mother’s voice trailed on and on about her being a failure and how the plans she once had for her daughter’s future were ruined by her destructive nature.

  In a final gasp, the thing inside her slithered the rest of the way out and fell to the floor. Genna dropped beside it, released of the paralysis that held her upright as the creature took form. The black and bloody ooze skeletonized, turning to look at her with deep yellow eyes as flesh pieced together in a ghastly orchestra of wet, gurgling noise. It watched her eyes roll into the top of their sockets, as her deflated body lay limp and lifeless.

  “And remember, Genna, you are what you eat! Take better care of yourself.” Her mother’s shrill voice echoed in the bathroom as the creature turned to the mirror.

  “I know, Moootherrr!” it screamed, with inhuman vocals.

  The wall pounded in response.

  A smile formed across her face as it solidified. She looked at her new form in the mirror, her glowing eyes staring back at her.

  “Don’t worry, Mother, I will take good care of the both of us; but first, I have neighbours to visit.”

  SPIRIT WALK ON SOUR GROUND

  M.J. Preston

  Thomasville, MB

  September 20th, 2015

  Two Days Before Fall Equinox

  “SHE’S coming,” Mick said. “I tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t back down.”

  Proudfoot gazed into the burning embers of the fire and considered what the Chief of Police was telling him. They were in the Spruce Woods that neighboured Stephen Hopper’s abandoned farm. What his dead Uncle, Jake Toomey, called: the sour ground. It was a place where the innocents were taken in the night, an evil place whose ghosts had long since passed from this world to the next, but one remained and the walls were thinning.

  “You know what she wants, Johnny. She wants to know how her father died.” John Proudfoot groaned. There could not be a worse time. Jaimie Logan was a reporter and they were getting ready for the Fall Equinox. “Is there any way you can wave her off, Mick? At least until the ritual is done?”

  Mick shook his head. “No, I tried, believe me I tried. She’s coming. She doesn’t believe the story of how he died and she is demanding to come here. She wants the truth or she’s threatening to bring a slew of reporters down upon us.”

  “Okay, then let her come, but keep her here, away from the sour ground. Keep her in town.” Proudfoot shook his head with impatience as he spoke. The braided ponytail that lay over his left shoulder bobbed up and down. He was the only Chocktee who still wore his hair in the tradition of his people. When the Chocktee relocated from the Spirit Woods in the Northwest Territories to Thomasville, Manitoba they began to assimilate and blend with the local aboriginal people. Most cut their hair, wore the same clothes and had begun to blend with the neighbouring communities.

  All except the Chief Elder.

  The children were told not to speak of the Nation of Chocktee, nor of its semi-annual ritual that took place during Spring and Fall Equinox. Other children might have had a hard time keeping such secrets, but not the children of Chocktee. They were steeped in mystery, a cursed people who did not invite outsiders within their talking circles. The Chief Elder, John Proudfoot, schooled them well, just as he had been schooled, and it was well known among all of the Chocktee people that the Chief Elder’s word was law.

  “She wants an audience with you, Johnny. Keeping her away isn’t going to be all that easy.”

  “I thought she might.”

  “Well, what do you suggest I do then?”

  Proudfoot sat silent, then looked up at Mick. “She wants to know what happened to her father. Well maybe it’s time she knew the truth.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “No, Mick. I’m not sure about anything, but as you said, she is coming. She has a right to know the sacrifice her father made. Let her come and I will tell her about her father, the ritual circle and everything else.” Proudfoot stared into the crackling fire.

  Mick left the Chief Elder to the fire and his preparations.

  ONE Day before Fall Equinox

  Jaimie Logan arrived early the next morning, announcing her arrival with a call to Mick from her cell phone. She was outside his house, sitting in an idling black Chevy Cruz. It was three minutes before seven. “Are you guys out of bed yet?”

  “Nancy is already on her way to work. Come on up, Jaimie.” He set the phone down on the counter and watched her get out of the car. She was slim, blonde like her mother. She had the same hard chiselled chin of her father and when Mick saw this, even after all the years, his heart filled with sorrow. Quietly he said, “She’s beautiful, Dave.”

  He opened the door.

  She smiled and hugged him. “Hello, Uncle Mickey.”

  He smelled the shampoo in her hair and whispered, “Hi, Jaimie.”

  They uncoupled and he led her up the stairs into the house. She glanced around, made some pleasantries and, though she was sincere in her greetings, he could feel the impatience in her demeanour. She wanted to get down to it, wanted to pick up where they’d left off on the phone the day before. She held back, looking at the pictures on the wall. Two were of her father, one of her brother Howard in his Mountie uniform, and another of her as a foreign correspondent in Afghanistan. There were none of her mother. Uncle Mick and Aunt Nancy had come into their life after her parents split. “I’m going to get a room at the Holiday Inn Express, I just wanted to stop by first.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Nancy and I have already made up a room for you.”

  “Oh I don’t…”

  “It’s no bother, in fact, both Nancy and I would be hurt if you didn’t stay.” He reached into the cupboard, set two cups on the counter and poured them both a coffee. “John Proudfoot said he will talk to you about your Dad.”

  She turned, her eyes meeting his. “Why can’t you just tell me, Uncle Mick?”

  Not Mickey, just Mick, an obvious note of dissatisfaction.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re the Chief of Police! What is it with this Proudfoot? What hold does he have on you?”

  “You wanted to know what happened to your father? Well, John Proudfoot has the insight I can’t give you.”

  “So, you are sending me to some old Shaman Indian and washing your hands of this?”

  “No, Jaimie. Not just some Shaman, he is the Chief Elder of his people. He is granting you an audience and I will be there by your side when he sees you.” He handed her the cup and sipped from his own. “We’ll be sitting down with him this afternoon.”

  ***

  There were two abandoned farms on either side of the tree copse where Proudfoot made camp. One was the Wakeman farm; which they parked on and walked in from. The other was the Hopper farm, known as the sour ground.

  Nobody walked on the sour ground; it was forbidden.

  Dry grass crunched beneath their feet, spirit whispers to the evil that still lingered in the soil of this prairie ground. Jaimie knew the story well. A boy had set out on a summer day to discover the serial killer, Stephen Hopper, burying his last victim. It would break the case of the missing Tommy Parkins and lead to the discovery of 17 more victims buried beneath rows of summer corn.

  It also set into motion events that would include a massacre and the eventual end of her father’s life. There were questions about what happened that week, dozens more than the inadequate answers given. The official story had been that the distraught father of the last victim, John Parkins, had gone on a killing spree and that her father, Chief David Logan, had killed him, but not
before being shot and killed himself.

  Strangely, the serial killer named Hopper would also die on that day in an airplane crash that would splash into Lake Michigan. The wreckage would be located a month later along with the bodies of two crew members, but Hopper, two Winnipeg Police Detectives, the accompanying Forensic Psychologist, and flight attendant were lost to the murky depths of the great lake. Strangely, Hopper’s severed arm would be found in the eastbound lane of Interstate 94 six miles outside Ann Arbor. The flight recorder raised even more questions. The pilot could be heard screaming at the flight attendant, “Devon shut the door,” and into his radio, “We are under attack.” This was followed by an unidentifiable screeching and numerous gun shots. The official findings of the FAA Investigators were that Hopper had overpowered one of the detectives and went on a killing spree which resulted in the downing of Oasis Flight 182.

  Jaimie read through the findings and knew in her heart that the whole thing was bullshit. Not only did both stories stink of cover-up, but she sensed that Uncle Mick was being dishonest with her as well. He averted his eyes when he talked about that day. He told her it was such a painful memory that he couldn’t focus, but she had interviewed enough people to smell a lie.

  When they got to the wood line, he reached out, squeezed her hand, looked directly into her eyes, and said, “Up until now, we tried to protect you kids. What you learn today can never be told.” He held her gaze—no aversion—he was telling the truth—or what he thought was the truth. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, Jaimie?”

  She never hesitated. “Yes, Uncle Mickey. I need to know.”

  They entered the woods.

  ***

  John Proudfoot’s camp was comprised of an improvised shelter and a commingling of provisions. Some old, some new. Spread on the ground beneath him, a large hand-woven blanket decorated in patterns of aboriginal lore. Stitched into the weave, a native man atop a horse, behind him in parade formation, a bear, a wolf, a buffalo and a deer. Around the stitching, were words from their native tongue and strange circles. Calendars maybe, but Jaimie could not be sure. Laid out on the blanket, a walking stick, a medicine bag, a large black feather, and a small pipe carved of jade stone. At his left, a Coleman stove, with a black coffee pot and matching metal cups. In the shelter behind him, a red and green sleeping bag. The centerpiece, John Proudfoot was decidedly among the old artifacts, his hair, now unbraided, hung below his shoulders. Spider web strands of black and grey. His face was like stone, with high chiseled cheekbones, a protruding chin, all covered by leathery skin edged with a road-map of lines. Deep set into that hard face were serious brown eyes.