by Sean Platt
But IT couldn’t: ITS eyes were fixed to the moving pictures, just as they had been since the story of the murderous woman first broke. Since then IT couldn’t shift ITS eyes from the screen, or the bloodbath behind it.
The woman was just another bored housewife, until The Darkness claimed her, worming ITS way into her body, then nested to grow stronger by the breath until IT was ready to summon her, and ITS growing legion.
The footage was gruesome, the news cut back on little, wanting to grab viewer attention, even if their overtures were earned only through gore.
It was as if Steven’s body was hypnotized through ITS fascination: this one story meant so much, maybe everything. If IT wasn’t careful, the world, and all of ITS plans might unravel. IT had made so many mistakes before, on the other world, the dead one, but a new planet meant new opportunity; IT didn’t have to make the same mistakes again.
This planet was ITS for the taking, so long as IT didn’t make any mistakes — like letting things out in the world that IT didn’t, or couldn’t, control.
IT was obsessed with the story, hungry to know more, to know everything, but IT couldn’t afford for Marina to know, couldn’t afford for her to find out, or smell what IT was.
“Turn off the TV, Stevie,” Marina said. “I’m much more interesting.”
“Of course you are,” IT said, then picked up the remote from the nightstand, aimed it at the screen, smothered the picture to black, then tossed the plastic onto the carpet and rolled over into a hover above Marina.
“Nothing is more important than you,” said Steven’s mouth.
That was mostly true. Marina was essential to ITS plans. But the story of the woman, Eva, was important, too. IT just had to know how she’d broken free. She had been one of the 315, one of ITS chosen, and was supposed to have been ITS to command. But Eva, the woman who was once part of The Darkness, had broken away, she had grown unstable, become a liability rather than an asset.
IT had felt Eva when she snapped and killed her friend in the park. IT had felt it almost as if IT had murdered the woman. However, and most disturbingly, IT wasn’t able to seize control over her, ITS connection severed.
Eva was one of many such people IT had lost control over recently. While most of the incidents had not made the news, an increasing number were — people snapping and committing acts of horrible violence.
IT started trailing kisses across Marina’s body, nibbling at her ear like she wanted, like she always wanted. IT lifted her gauzy top to suckle her nipples. She exhaled, lightly bucking beneath ITS mouth, purring as IT spread kisses and kept her humming.
While ITS host body, Steven, followed the routine with Marina, ITS mind, or the alien part of IT, couldn’t stop thinking about Eva.
IT was slipping, losing control. If IT did nothing ITS power was threatened.
The thought brought a sudden flare to ITS body.
The kind IT didn’t quite know how to control.
IT snarled, then bit Marina, lightly on her shoulder, just enough to make her yelp, squeal, and purr for more. She’d mistaken ITS rage for passion. Humans were so ignorant when it came to knowing things.
In a second, ITS temperament shifted, IT felt more like ITSELF, less like IT did when masquerading in Steven’s shell; IT felt more like the entity IT was, alive and born to consume.
IT thrashed, suddenly aggressive on top of Marina. IT grabbed at her gauzy top, ripping it from her body as she rattled and squirmed under Steven. IT was suddenly hungry to quell the hunger wafting from ITS host body like a stink. Pleasure hummed from Marina’s mouth; guttural craving quivered from her body involuntarily, jolting up toward IT, craving satisfaction.
“Fuck me, Steven,” she growled. “Hard.”
“My pleasure,” IT said.
Then IT attacked her, satisfying something inside Steven by ravishing Marina, planting kisses almost with malice, biting rather than nibbling at her nipples, then tearing creamy panties down her ass and over her ankles and positioning himself between her legs — IT had no underwear to shed, already naked, as IT preferred to be as often as possible — and started thrusting ITSELF into Marina as if trying to punish her.
It should have been too much for her body, how IT pounded, but it was exactly what she wanted, what she needed. Marina proved it with her every shudder, scream, and whimper. She tried crying out for him, using the name Steven, but was so deep in her pleasure, she could only mutter and groan.
IT made mad, almost violent, love to Marina — not that what IT did was anything like love. Once finished, when IT should have been exhausted with ITS host’s body so thoroughly spent, ITS mind started to crackle.
IT left Marina passed out and breathing heavy on the bed, then went into her office to watch her Confessionals.
The Confessionals were a huge source of curiosity for IT.
IT had been watching them for a while, sometimes with Marina’s knowledge, though mostly without, and never grew tired of the … entertainment. The Confessionals were semi-well known among the Church, and critics of it. The sessions were supposedly designed so sufferers could unburden their souls, much like with a priest, but the Church of Original Design did something with their Confessions that Catholicism did not: They recorded the sessions and kept them in clearly labeled files. Ostensibly, they did this to “evaluate ticks” and “mine truth from a candidate’s face.” In reality, it was done because secrets were the world’s best currency when shopping for loyalty. While Marina was more or less ignorant of the Confessionals’ use, IT had seen the truth in the heads of her inner council, and knew how the videos were used in the past, before Marina came into power.
IT clicked Play on the first QuickTime Confession, and watched as a miserable wretch of a woman filled the screen. She had a long face like a horse, her stringy hair falling in a straight curtain around her homely face.
The horsewoman, Catherine Munn, according to the file name, looked at the Confessor with her large, empty, eyes and said, “Most people who meet me think that I have a great life, and I suppose I do, in a way. I have a family and friends. A husband. We don’t have children, yet, and I don’t want them. My husband does, two at least, and knows I don’t. It’s affecting our relationship. I won’t make a good mother.”
The horse shook her head, held her temple, and continued with a sigh, “Parenting is a burden, and I’m not a happy person. I’ve struggled with depression for years. Besides, I’m in love with my ex and have sex with him all the time, even though I have to beg him sometimes. He has a girlfriend and thinks we should stop. It’s only a matter of time before my husband and I have kids I don’t want, all to keep living a lie I wish would finally end. I’m so miserable, I feel like I’ll never be happy again.”
Most humans would have probably thought the Confession sad, but IT saw the video as pathetic; stupid humans who didn’t know how to be happy or use what they had to get what they wanted. The horse woman was one of a billion, feeling the same things that they all did, perhaps in a slightly different shade, not knowing what to do with her stupid, tiny, little feelings.
She wasn’t unique. She wasn’t original.
She was pathetic, a waste, of no use to IT at all.
And as IT thought, a smile spread onto Steven’s face.
The horse woman might not be of any use, but surely there were plenty of files from people who would be. The Church’s Confessions had recorded some of the worst of the worst. Marina told Steven about some of them, people with the blackest baggage: cheaters, criminals, sexual deviants, and predators — people IT could worm ITS way into, then stay close, nested until needed. IT could find people closer, easier to stay connected to. Easier to control.
Everyone wanted power, longed for it even if they didn’t realize it, and IT was now in a position to give it away. IT would find these people and give them positions in the Church of Original Design.
Then IT would no longer need Marina at all.
* * * *
CHAPT
ER 6 — Paola Olson
Paola sat in the back of her first-period class, barely staying awake while Mr. White droned on for three million years about world history that no one cared about. Paola often wondered what the people in her class, or her teachers who claimed to know so much, would think if she told them about her experiences on the other world. It would probably be hilarious; no one would believe her, and she’d be in a world of crap.
Sullivan had come to their house and warned them to keep quiet — for their own good. Paola wasn’t sure what he meant, but her mother seemed to get it, and told Paola that this was more important than any secret ever. “If you tell anyone, people will come and take us away, forever. We’ll never see each other again.”
Paola kept the secrets to herself. It was hard, throttling her longing to scream it. It was hard pretending she didn’t know something so special, and harder pretending that her dad wasn’t dead; having people think he was a jerk who abandoned his family — rather than a hero who gave his life to save them — was torture.
As Mr. White rambled, with half the class pretending to pay attention, Paola felt like someone was staring at her. She turned, surprised to see Harry on her left. She met his eyes, and he quickly looked away, pretending to study Mr. White instead.
She felt a warm flush, followed by butterflies.
Oh my God, is he checking me out?
Harry was one of the cool kids, a skateboarder with a long, blond wall draping his tanned face. He had cute dimples and a killer, confident smile. Paola had spoken to Harry twice so far this school year, both times he seemed bored.
She turned her eyes down to her desk, waiting to look back up, then dared a glance.
Holy crap, he is looking at me!
She looked back down, her heart pounding, fighting the urge to giggle. Paola hated how she laughed when nervous, at least around boys. She wished she could be confident like Brianna Collins, her most popular friend; Brianna had a way of turning any boy into a quivering mass of silly stupid.
Paola sat through class intensely aware of her every movement. She tried to be cool, tried not to look at him, tried not to giggle, tried not to bite her nails, tried to just be normal. But it was impossible when the cutest guy in your grade was staring at you.
Why is he looking at me?
She casually brushed her fingers over her face, just to make sure it wasn’t a giant, new zit or stray booger that had grabbed his attention. That would make sense. Guys like Harry didn’t like drab brunettes like Paola, they liked pretty, blonde cheerleaders with big, perky boobs.
She watched the clock, eager for the bathroom where she could check her face, then find her best friend, Tracy Lin, and tell her the news.
The bell sang. Paola reached beneath her desk, grabbed her books and stood. She was in such a rush to get out of the class that the moment she stepped from her desk, she dropped her books — right in front of Harry.
No!
She bent down, quickly, eager to grab her books, but bumped her head hard into Harry’s on her way.
If Paola could melt she would have.
Instead, she was forced to awkwardly stare as Harry held up a hand, and said, “I got it,” then gathered her books, and returned them to her, smiling.
I’m such a dork!
“Thank you,” she said, smiling back, then turning her gaze to her shuffling feet.
“You’re shy,” he said. “That’s cute.”
Harry was very forward; that made Paola want to run and vomit.
This conversation is NOT happening!
“Thanks,” she said.
Thanks? I just thanked him for saying I’m shy and that’s cute? I’m so stupid!
“I mean, for the books,” Paola said, even though she had already thanked him for that.
I’ve got to get out of here before I say something worse. I’m stupid and frozen.
Harry spoke before Paola could thaw. “Did you do something different with your hair?” His head was cocked sideways like he was trying to figure it out. He looked Paola up and down. Her flaws felt like they were growing. She crossed her arms over her chest, which had seemed bigger this morning, though she couldn’t tell if it was monthly bloating or a growth spurt … or a supernatural spurt from healing Mom!
“No,” she said, surprised that Harry had noticed anything different about her at all. Before today, she could have come to class bald, and he wouldn’t have seen the shine on her head. “I mean, maybe a few weeks ago, I don’t remember.”
“Looks good on you,” he said, smiling like a dream.
“Um, yours, too.”
You did NOT just compliment him on his hair! You idiot!
“Thanks,” he said. “OK, see ya around, eh?”
“OK,” Paola said. She turned and fled, barely keeping herself from a run.
**
By third period, Paola had been asked by five people if she had grown, or changed something about herself. Terri Pantorelli asked if she “got new tits?”
After third period, she waited in the girl’s bathroom until the bell rang for class. Paola wanted a few minutes of alone time with the mirror, to see if she could see the same thing that others had.
Paola leaned close, staring at her reflection and searching for change. She thought she looked different, but it was hard to see small changes when you stared at yourself every day. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing real changes or just subtle shifts provided by her imagination.
Though Paola felt different, she couldn’t be sure that she was. She stared with no expression, then lost her frozen face to a smile as she thought of a way to test her hypothesis.
**
Paola snuck out of school and caught a bus before lunch. Fortunately, nobody on the bus seemed to notice that she was skipping school as she rode three miles to the nearest hospital.
She had never been to the local hospital, and had no idea where to go once there. She entered through the large doors which read Emergency in large, red capitals, then stepped into a giant lobby filled with at least 20 people. Patients were lined at the front counter, checking in.
Paola didn’t want to check in, so she took a seat as far from the counter as she could, trying to blend in with a woman and a young boy, around 5. He had a red face and tired eyes, leaning against his mother and staring blankly toward the reception desk.
She wondered what was wrong with him, and if he made a good candidate to experiment with. If she was going to age, Paola didn’t want to find someone so injured that she risked aging a lot, so a sick person might be perfect, but at the same time she didn’t want to risk harming someone else, especially a child.
Paola looked around the waiting room, searching for the right person.
She saw a man who was as yellow as a pepper and a woman who looked nearly green. Everyone else in the waiting room was a varying shade of pale or miserable. There were no clear clues for Paola to follow, no way to know what waiting patients were suffering from, or what her risks might be if she tried to “heal” them.
She felt stupid, and for a short moment wanted to go. Then, after ruling out everyone in the waiting room, Paola felt her mother’s determination, dug her heels into her decision, and decided to get up and wander the hallways, maybe find someone who fit the bill better. Several sets of doors led to different parts of the hospital. Paola studied them to determine which she could easily slip through without drawing attention. She wasn’t sure how much trouble she could get into sneaking around a hospital, but figured it had to be quite a lot — certainly enough to make her mother furious.
She watched as a pair of women was called through the busiest set of doors, and went to try those.
Her legs were shaky as she made her way toward the doors, feeling like every eye was stuck to her skin, and that at any second a hand would fall on her shoulder — a nurse or doctor demanding to know what she was doing.
As Paola reached the doors a man yelled from behind her, “How much longer do we have to sit her
e? My boy is hurt, bad!”
From the front desk, “Sir, please sit down, we’ll see you as soon as we can.”
Paola looked toward the desk and saw the man, but not his boy. She scanned the room until she saw what she hadn’t before: in the corner, sitting by himself, a boy of 7 or so, crying, wrapping his leg with a blood-soaked towel.
“This is bullshit,” the man said, “I want to speak to someone in charge.”
The woman at reception, a large woman who probably didn’t take much from anyone, tried telling him to sit, but the man refused. Suddenly, a security guard stepped around the counter and began speaking to him. Paola strained to hear their exchange.
The father continued to yell, and Paola watched the boy, sitting in obvious anguish.
She approached.
He looked up at her, eyes red and still crying.
“Are you hurt badly?” Paola asked, feeling like it was maybe a dumb question, considering the evidence.
The boy nodded, sniffling.
Paola looked back to make sure the kid’s dad wasn’t looking. He was still arguing, with both the receptionist and the security guard, his voice growing louder. Paola hoped he didn’t get himself into trouble.
“Can I see it?” she asked.
The boy nodded, and unwrapped his towel to a horrible break; bone jutted from the front of his leg, right beneath his knee.
Paola winced, feeling his pain twist into her guts as if she had suffered the injury herself.
“Oh, God” she cried out, unable to hide her shock at the boy’s horror. She was surprised the kid wasn’t screaming his throat raw — his injury reminded her of some of the worst she had seen … over there.
Paola looked back, saw the father still arguing. She didn’t have long before someone noticed her, or the dad returned to his seat.
She met the boy’s eyes, “Do you want to feel better?” she asked. Paola wasn’t sure if it was hope or instinct, but she knew she could help him.
