Now when she curled up in a blanket on the couch, he snuggled against her, at first a tiny weight with warmth and movement, gradually growing. Her stomach didn’t feel so hollow anymore.
She’d had him almost a month when he changed again.
* * * *
The sun set at 4:30, and cold air was clawing at the windows. She had rolled towels along the windowsills to catch the condensation drips before they mildewed. After peering out the windows at the frozen night, she closed all the curtains, the way she did every night as soon as the sky darkened and there was a chance someone could see in.
She changed Rubio’s diapers and set him on a towel in the middle of the living room floor, near, but not too near, the space heater. She had given him a little ball with a bell inside it, and sometimes his kicking and arm-waving moved it and it jingled. Often she just sat and watched him, and she was sure from her observations that he enjoyed the sound of the bell. She also cut out colored shapes from construction paper, pierced them with strings, and dangled them above him; his eyes tracked, and his arms reached. He made little noises.
That day she had gone to a thrift store on her way home from work and found Rubio a Fisher-Price toy, a white plastic wheel, with picture buttons that when punched made the noises of barnyard animals. She wasn’t sure if it was age appropriate, but she thought he might like noises other than the television and her radio. Besides, she enjoyed finding things to share with him. She sat down beside his towel and held the toy up where he could see and hear it. She punched one of the buttons. A dog barked three times and a thread of music played.
“Uh uh!” said Rubio, waving his arms.
Smiling, Claire tried another button, and produced a horse’s whinny.
“Uh! Uh!” He was extremely agitated. She set the toy down, frowning, and watched him.
“Uh! Arrr!” He thrashed with more vigor than she had seen him display before. He rolled back and forth. He grunted and whined; then he howled, so loudly she had to wrap him up in the towel to smother the sound. She hugged him to her, pressing his face against her shirt, listening for any clamor from the walls, floor, or ceiling. All her neighbors were very quiet, too. If any of them had heard, she couldn’t tell.
Rubio squirmed in her arms, making high-pitched squeals like the cries of monkeys in jungle films. Maybe there was really something wrong with him; maybe he’d eaten something wrong or something had struck him. Maybe she would have to spirit him to an emergency room somehow. She held him away from her and stared into his face…
…and found a dark-haired, whiskered snout poking out at her with a little wet black nose on it.
She cried aloud and dropped the bundle.
For a moment the towel-shrouded form jerked about on the floor, and then a fat-bellied, fur-covered form tumbled out and danced about, growling and nipping at her, bouncing away, swarming closer, uttering small yips, finally coming up and licking her nerveless hand.
She wanted to scream. She wanted very much to scream. But some part of her brain said that would bring people, and she couldn’t have people coming into her apartment. She just couldn’t; not after living with her husband. She had promised herself she would never let anyone into her private space again.
And here was this—this animal, inside her apartment.
“Rubio, Rubio,” she whispered, feeling a dark despair. She knew that this puppy had eaten her child, though she wasn’t sure exactly how.
“Rrrff!” yipped the dog. It scrambled against her side, straining up toward her face, its small claws digging into the meat of her thighs.
She thrust it away from her and leaped to her feet, then ran to her bedroom and slammed the door in its face. She stood by the door, hugging her elbows, her shoulders hunched. She shivered, listening to its little scraping sounds as it dug at the door, snuffled along the crack, yipped and whuffed excitedly. She could hear its panting breaths. But it couldn’t get in. It was far too small to reach the doorknob. She turned the key in the lock.
After a few minutes it began to whine.
“Shh!” she hissed.
It lapsed into silence. A little more time passed, and then she heard its toenails clicking as it ran across the hardwood floor. A grunt or two. More silence. Some small whimpers that sounded like Rubio had. Then nothing.
If it made too much noise and someone came to investigate, she realized, they would take the dog away. Yes. That was it. They would take the dog away. It would be all right.
She wrapped herself up in a quilt and spent the night going in and out of thin, terror-racked sleep.
When dawn finally stained the curtains, she sat up and dismantled three wire hangers and twisted them into a triple strand for a weapon. She knew how a single strand felt over her back and figured three would be much worse. Then she unlocked the door and peered around its edge.
Rubio lay naked, sleeping on the bunched-up towel, his cheeks salt-stained from tears, his lips cracked. He’d messed himself, and he looked thin and somehow twisted.
Claire dropped the hangers and went to him, lifted him, and took him to the changing table she’d set up in the bathroom, where she cleaned him and diapered him and powdered him. He woke as soon as she touched him, but didn’t make any sounds, except, at last, an “uh uh” of contentment when she wrapped him up in a baby blanket and held him against her breast.
She called in sick and spent most of the day sleeping with him beside her on the bed.
In the evening she sat on her couch with Rubio snuggled in her lap and looked at one of the few of her husband’s diaries she had left. She had been reading them in small doses and then tearing them to pieces.
* * * *
She is a slut and a sloven. She wasn’t so when I married her; she used to be a paragon of cleanliness and organization; but certain remarks from me and actions on my part have gradually chipped away at her belief in herself until she sinks under the weight of my regard. I shall push her further down for a little longer before I experiment on altering her behavior back toward the societal norm.
She is so precious, so perfect in her suggestibility. It was the work of but a week to train her to drop into a trance state at a word from me, and from there a short step to my systematic erosion of her personality core. I am so glad I found her when I did. Her life could have been completely wasted if I hadn’t discovered her clerking in that stupid little shop and seduced her away from it.
I wonder what I should turn her into next. It might be amusing if she was afraid of some simple everyday thing. Salt, for instance; or water—no, that would interfere too much with the housework. Perhaps later, when I have more free time.
Dogs.
Perfect.
* * * *
Rubio was whining in her lap, squirming. She set down the diary, stared toward the door without seeing it. She had hated dogs all her life.
She blinked. A thought, hovering…she held her breath, trying to coax it closer by stillness.
A small golden cocker spaniel named Bootsy.
Pressing her face into the curly fur and snuffing up a noseful of Dog. How Mother scolded when Bootsy drank from the toilet. The warm wet feel of a slobbery tongue on her cheek, her nose. Knocking her forehead against Bootsy’s domed skull; luxuriating in the softness of the fur of Bootsy’s ears; delighting in the wag of the little stump tail.
Rubio yipped and thrashed. Claire blinked back into the present and looked down just in time to see hair sprouting all over her baby, his limbs and torso shifting and his face pushing and pinching into something else. Fear shot through her, paralyzing her.
Rubio howled, then pressed his snout against her stomach, mufffling his own noise. Claire watched in surprise as her hand lifted and stroked the creature in her lap. The diaper was hanging loose on him, and a tail thrust from the left leg hole. She slid the diaper off of him; and then, suddenly, she was holding him tight, scratching behind his little lop-ears and stroking his soft smooth back, turning her face away as he licked it, h
is milky breath musked by his doghood, its scent taking her back in memory.
She wondered how many things she had hated all her life that she didn’t hate. This was the worst of it, not knowing who she really was and which parts of her were manufactured.
She lay back on the couch with Rubio on her chest. “Say the magic word,” she whispered.
“Rrrff!” he barked, and licked at her tears.
He was so little. She could turn him into things because he didn’t even know who he was. Whatever she did, she was turning him into something. That was what people did to each other.
She felt suddenly tired.
After a while of Iying with Rubio’s warmth perched above her heart, she sat up, catching him in her cupped hands as he slid down her.
“Paper training,” she said. She set the puppy on the floor. She tore pages from her husband’s diary. She was going to set them on the floor and let Rubio use them as puppy diapers, but before she could, he ran up and gripped the corners between his teeth. Growling, he jerked at the pages. She laughed and pulled back.
Between them they tore the pages to shreds. Not ready to visit the dumpster again, Claire collected the paper scraps in a steel bowl and set fire to them under the stove’s fan. Rubio danced around her feet and barked softly as the flames rose, fed, flickered out, leaving the pleasant scent of burnt paper, but only for a moment.
Claire sat on the kitchen floor. Rubio came and jumped into her lap, and she stared at him, hard. “Well, one thing I know. You can change yourself, and it’s not even my fault.”
His eyes were so bright, looking up at her. She gathered him to her and rocked back and forth on the cold linoleum floor, thinking of dumpster diving. That was what her husband had been doing when he found her. Look how that turned out. He had switched her around so much inside she had had to make him stop.
Maybe Rubio would feel that way about her, later, when he was bigger and stronger. Or maybe not. She rocked and hoped not.
At least he could change.
THE WEREWOLF, by Eugene Field
In the reign of Egbert the Saxon there dwelt in Britain a maiden named Yseult, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold only, and to him she plighted her troth.
Among the other youth of whom Yseult was beloved was Alfred, and he was sore angered that Yseult showed favor to Harold, so that one day Alfred said to Harold: “Is it right that old Siegfried should come from his grave and have Yseult to wife?” Then added he, “Prithee, good sir, why do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire’s name?”
Then Harold asked, “What know you of Siegfried that you taunt me? What memory of him should vex me now?”
“We know and we know,” retorted Alfred. “There are some tales told us by our grandmas we have not forgot.”
So ever after that Alfred’s words and Alfred’s bitter smile haunted Harold by day and night.
Harold’s grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, had been a man of cruel violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at certain times he was possessed of an evil spirit that wreaked its fury on mankind. But Siegfried had been dead full many years, and there was naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought spear which he had from Brunehilde, the witch. This spear was such a weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been blunted. It hung in Harold’s chamber, and it was the marvel among weapons of that time.
Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she did not know of the bitter words which Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for Harold was perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the curse of old Siegfried was upon Harold—slumbering a century, it had awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse that was upon him, and it was this that seemed to stand between him and Yseult. But love is stronger than all else, and Harold loved.
Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that was upon him, for he feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whensoever he felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, “To-morrow I hunt the wild boar in the uttermost forest,” or, “Next week I go stag-stalking among the distant northern hills.” Even so it was that he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Yseult thought no evil things, for she was trustful; ay, though he went many times away and was long gone, Yseult suspected no wrong. So none beheld Harold when the curse was upon him in its violence.
Alfred alone bethought himself of evil things. “’Tis passing strange,” quoth he, “that ever and anon this gallant lover should quit our company and betake himself whither none knoweth. In sooth ’twill be well to have an eye on old Siegfried’s grandson.”
Harold knew that Alfred watched him zealously, and he was tormented by a constant fear that Alfred would discover the curse that was on him; but what gave him greater anguish was the fear that mayhap at some moment when he was in Yseult’s presence, the curse would seize upon him and cause him to do great evil unto her, whereby she would be destroyed or her love for him would be undone forever. So Harold lived in terror, feeling that his love was hopeless, yet knowing not how to combat it.
Now, it befell in those times that the country round about was ravaged of a werewolf, a creature that was feared by all men howe’er so valorous. This werewolf was by day a man, but by night a wolf given to ravage and to slaughter, and having a charmed life against which no human agency availed aught. Wheresoever he went he attacked and devoured mankind, spreading terror and desolation round about, and the dream-readers said that the earth would not be freed from the werewolf until some man offered himself a voluntary sacrifice to the monster’s rage.
Now, although Harold was known far and wide as a mighty huntsman, he had never set forth to hunt the werewolf, and, strange enow, the werewolf never ravaged the domain while Harold was therein. Whereat Alfred marvelled much, and oftentimes he said: “Our Harold is a wondrous huntsman. Who is like unto him in stalking the timid doe and in crippling the fleeing boar? But how passing well doth he time his absence from the haunts of the werewolf. Such valor beseemeth our young Siegfried.”
Which being brought to Harold his heart flamed with anger, but he made no answer, lest he should betray the truth he feared.
It happened so about that time that Yseult said to Harold, “Wilt thou go with me to-morrow even to the feast in the sacred grove?”
“That can I not do,” answered Harold. “I am privily summoned hence to Normandy upon a mission of which I shall some time tell thee. And I pray thee, on thy love for me, go not to the feast in the sacred grove without me.”
“What say’st thou?” cried Yseult. “Shall I not go to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda? My father would be sore displeased were I not there with the other maidens. ’Twere greatest pity that I should despite his love thus.”
“But do not, I beseech thee,” Harold implored. “Go not to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda in the sacred grove! And thou would thus love me, go not—see, thou my life, on my two knees I ask it!”
“How pale thou art,” said Yseult, “and trembling.”
“Go not to the sacred grove upon the morrow night,” he begged.
Yseult marvelled at his acts and at his speech. Then, for the first time, she thought him to be jealous—whereat she secretly rejoiced (being a woman).
“Ah,” quoth she, “thou dost doubt my love,” but when she saw a look of pain come on his face she added—as if she repented of the words she had spoken—“or dost thou fear the werewolf?”
Then Harold answered, fixing his eyes on hers, “Thou hast said it; it is the werewolf that I fear.”
“Why dost thou look at me so strangely, Harold?” cried Yseult. “By the cruel light in thine eyes one might almost take thee to be the werewolf!”
“Come hither, sit beside me,” said Harold tremblingly, “and I will tell thee why I fear to have thee go to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda to-morrow evening. Hear what I dreamed last night. I d
reamed I was the werewolf—do not shudder, dear love, for ’twas only a dream.
“A grizzled old man stood at my bedside and strove to pluck my soul from my bosom.
“‘What would’st thou?’ I cried.
“‘Thy soul is mine,’ he said, ‘thou shalt live out my curse. Give me thy soul—hold back thy hands—give me thy soul, I say.’
“‘Thy curse shall not be upon me,’ I cried. ‘What have I done that thy curse should rest upon me? Thou shalt not have my soul.’
“‘For my offence shalt thou suffer, and in my curse thou shalt endure hell—it is so decreed.’
“So spake the old man, and he strove with me, and he prevailed against me, and he plucked my soul from my bosom, and he said, ‘Go, search and kill’—and—and lo, I was a wolf upon the moor.
“The dry grass crackled beneath my tread. The darkness of the night was heavy and it oppressed me. Strange horrors tortured my soul, and it groaned and groaned, gaoled in that wolfish body. The wind whispered to me; with its myriad voices it spake to me and said, ‘Go, search and kill.’ And above these voices sounded the hideous laughter of an old man. I fled the moor—whither I knew not, nor knew I what motive lashed me on.
“I came to a river and I plunged in. A burning thirst consumed me, and I lapped the waters of the river—they were waves of flame, and they flashed around me and hissed, and what they said was, ‘Go, search and kill,’ and I heard the old man’s laughter again.
“A forest lay before me with its gloomy thickets and its sombre shadows—with its ravens, its vampires, its serpents, its reptiles, and all its hideous brood of night. I darted among its thorns and crouched amid the leaves, the nettles, and the brambles. The owls hooted at me and the thorns pierced my flesh. ‘Go, search and kill,’ said everything. The hares sprang from my pathway; the other beasts ran bellowing away; every form of life shrieked in my ears—the curse was on me—I was the werewolf.
“On, on I went with the fleetness of the wind, and my soul groaned in its wolfish prison, and the winds and the waters and the trees bade me, ‘Go, search and kill, thou accursed brute; go, search and kill.’
The Werewolf Megapack Page 12
