Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  I had an awful dream that night. Laurie, who had the body of a nine-year-old but kept her infant head, stood in front of the blackboard at school. She was trying to do a simple arithmetic problem. There was a huge chunk missing from her skull, and I could see her brain writhing around inside. It crawled out, sliced itself in half on a jagged piece of bone, and splattered onto the floor.

  I had the same dream every night that week. Although the arithmetic problem changed each time.

  ***

  I knew I should tell my parents what I'd done so they could take Laurie to the doctor, but I couldn't bring myself to confess. This wasn't like having a messy room or sneaking some red licorice from my dad's private stash—if I had really hurt my sister, they might send me away. Even though I was scared for her, she seemed fine. Mom and Dad would know if something was wrong with her, right?

  Of course they would. Parents knew when something was wrong with their kids. They could sense it.

  Laurie was fine.

  ***

  I pretty much stopped worrying about it until Laurie's first birthday. It was an outdoor party. She was crawling around on the grass in our backyard, while about a dozen of my relatives chatted and drank. I'd been allowed to invite one friend to the party, so I'd invited Howie Taylor because he had the best comic books.

  "You know who's boring?" he asked.

  "Who?"

  "Your baby sister."

  We giggled at this clever, insightful observation.

  "You know who else is boring?" he asked.

  "Who?"

  "Your baby sister."

  We giggled some more. Howie was a witty guy, although I still only liked him for his comic books.

  Laurie cooed and picked up an earthworm. It was a small one, just over an inch long, and it wrapped itself around her index finger. She smiled, then popped it into her mouth and chewed happily.

  Howie burst into hysterical laughter. "Did you see that? Did you see her eat the worm?"

  I couldn't even nod. Laurie's birthday cake felt like a chocolate-flavored rock in my stomach. Were babies supposed to eat worms? Was that normal? I had no idea. She was only one year old, so it was entirely possible that her sucking down a raw earthworm was nothing to be concerned about. . .but what if it wasn't normal? What if she was brain damaged?

  "What's going on?" my mom asked, walking over to join us.

  I tried to respond, but my mouth went completely dry. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, Mom, I think that my disobedience six months ago has transformed my sister into a worm-chomping freak?"

  "Laurie scarfed a worm!" Howie gleefully announced.

  "Oh, yuck." My mom crouched down and poked her finger into Laurie's mouth. She dug out an uneaten piece of worm and flicked it onto the grass, then wiped some drool off Laurie's lips.

  "She's going to poop worms tonight," said Howie.

  "Behave yourself," my mom warned. She'd never much liked Howie.

  "I don't think she ate it on purpose," I said. Yeah, it was a dumb thing to say, but I was scared and sweating and not thinking straight.

  Mom scooped Laurie into her arms and stood up. She didn't seem too distraught about what my sister had done. Maybe it was just a normal thing for a baby to do. Maybe I'd eaten a bug or two at that age. They probably tasted good, and we simply had that activity socialized out of us.

  My mom sat back down with a couple of my aunts. The party atmosphere hadn't been disrupted. Clearly, my sister was not insane.

  That evening, while Mom and Dad watched television, I snuck down into the basement to retrieve a dead roach. I'd noticed it laying on a cardboard box a couple of days ago but saw no reason to move it until now. I brought it upstairs and placed it in Laurie's crib, right in front of her.

  Would she dine?

  Laurie poked at the insect, laughed, and returned to playing with her Sesame Street Grover doll.

  She didn't try to eat it. That was good.

  What if she just wasn't hungry?

  What if she only craved live bugs?

  I picked up the roach and placed it on Grover's stomach, to give her another chance. Laurie ignored it. Though I wanted to do further study, I also didn't want my parents to see me messing with dead roaches around my baby sister, so I pocketed the bug and watched Laurie play.

  She looked normal.

  She was normal. So what if she ate a worm? I was just being paranoid about the whole thing. If all she ever did was sit in the corner of her crib and drool, then we'd have something to be concerned about.

  I'd made a mistake, but no harm had come from it, and it was way past time to forget the whole matter.

  ***

  Okay, it was way past time to forget the whole matter. . .after I consulted with an expert.

  "Hey, Jacob, how's it going?" I asked, walking over to Jacob Terremy during afternoon recess. He looked at me suspiciously. We were both in the third grade, but he was in Mrs. Hansen's class while I was with Mrs. Raver, and we didn't interact very often. He got beat up a lot.

  "Okay."

  "Your dad's a shrink, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "If you drop a baby on its head, you can mess it up, right?"

  "Well, duh. Yeah."

  "How can you tell?" I asked.

  "You mean if you turned it into a retard?"

  I shook my head. "I just mean messed up. Doing weird things like eating bugs and stuff."

  "Retards eat bugs."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. It's cool."

  "Can the mom and dad always tell?"

  "Nah. Some parents are even worse retards."

  "No, I'm being serious. If the mom and dad are normal, can they always tell if the baby is retarded?"

  "Naw. They have no idea."

  "Oh."

  "So when did you get dropped on your head, retard?" Jacob asked this with a grin, although his grin quickly disappeared as he seemed to realize that this was a good way to get beat up.

  I thanked him and walked off. I usually favored the swing set for recess, but there were already a couple of people counting. If the three swings were occupied, you'd stand in front of the swing of your choice and count out loud until the current swinger had gone back-and-forth twenty times, at which point he or she was required to vacate the ride. In my current mood, if somebody started counting on me, I'd probably try to kick them in the face. Instead, I walked to the far corner of the fenced-in playground and stood alone, thinking.

  Confess.

  No.

  It's not fair to Laurie to let this go on.

  It's not fair to me to tell what I did. It was an accident. I didn't mean to drop her. Why did she need to squirm so much? I wasn't hurting her.

  They can get her help.

  Yeah, and I'll go to jail.

  You won't go to jail. What kind of stupid idea is that? You really think Mom and Dad would send you to jail? It's not even a crime.

  It's not?

  Well, I'm not sure. If you did it on purpose it would be.

  What if they think I did it on purpose?

  They'd never think that. C'mon, get real.

  They might.

  In what universe?

  I dunno.

  Stop being so dumb. Tell them. They can help Laurie. Take her to a good doctor.

  They'll be mad.

  They'll be grateful.

  No.

  I couldn't do it. What I'd done was too bad to confess. Especially six months later. This wasn't like tracking mud in the house and blaming the dog, where the punishment of getting caught faded with time. I had to keep the secret. They'd never know it was me.

  ***

  I tried the dead roach trick again, and Laurie ignored it. Then, after a very long search, I dug up another earthworm—a much longer one—and dangled it in front of her. She batted at it but didn't try to eat it.

  Batting at it was normal. If somebody dangled an earthworm in front of me, I'd probably bat at it, too. Flicking it with your fingers woul
d also be acceptable.

  I held it closer to her mouth. She didn't take the bait.

  "Open wide, Laurie," I said, trying to use the same vocal inflection that Mom did when she was encouraging my sister to eat something good for her. "I've got a yummy yummy worm for you. Mmmmmmm. . .good! It's squirmy and tasty!"

  I touched it to her lips. She turned her head away.

  Thank God.

  I squashed the worm in my fist, then washed off its gunk in the bathroom. Laurie wasn't brain damaged. Her head was fine. I'd done all of this worrying for nothing.

  ***

  Still, I couldn't help but watch her closely.

  One time, her eyes crossed for no reason. Brain damage?

  She laughed at nothing. Brain damage?

  She babbled all the time. All babies babbled, but sometimes it just sounded weird. Brain damage?

  My stomach hurt a lot. There were times when I wished that Laurie had simply turned into a drooling mongoloid as soon as I dropped her. At least it would end the constant worrying. Seeing my sister in a catatonic state would be miserable, unbearable, but could it possibly be worse than this constant stress?

  Less often, but sometimes, I wished that her head had just splattered on the floor.

  Of course, I could end the stress by confessing, but. . .no.

  ***

  A couple of months after her first birthday, Laurie developed a cough and Mom took her to the doctor.

  "Is she okay?" I asked, as Mom walked in the front door.

  "She's fine," said Mom, setting Laurie in her playpen. "I just wanted to be sure is all. I love you guys too much to let anything happen to you."

  "The cough isn't because of anything in her brain, is it?" I asked.

  "Of course not. Why would you even ask something like that? It's just a regular baby cough."

  This seemed like a good time to ask something along the lines of "Mom, would you still love me if I did something really bad?" but I just couldn't. I couldn't risk getting sent away, to wherever it was that they sent horrible little boys.

  What if Laurie had to live in a cage?

  What if I had to live in a cage, for what I'd done to her?

  I couldn't stop the tears. Mom kept asking what was wrong, but I just couldn't tell her.

  ***

  "I need you to watch Laurie for a couple of minutes," Mom said. "I'm going to vacuum out the car."

  "Can I help you vacuum?" I asked, suddenly breaking into a cold sweat.

  "You can help by watching Laurie. You don't have to do anything—just make sure she stays in her playpen."

  "I can keep the cord from getting twisted."

  "Sweetie, just keep an eye on your sister, okay? I'll be right outside."

  Okay, this was a good thing, right? It had to be. If Mom suspected what I'd done, and there was any actual sign of Laurie being brain damaged, she'd never leave me alone to watch her again.

  Of course not. That would be insane.

  Unless Mom was going to spy on me. . .

  No, no, no, no. Laurie was fine, Mom trusted me, the car needed vacuuming, and there was nothing else to it. Basically, the only thing I had to do was shout "Hey, Mom!" if Laurie managed to get out of her playpen—something she'd never been able to do, and a feat she was unlikely to accomplish in the next few minutes. My responsibilities were pretty much just ceremonial.

  I dragged a chair from the dining room table across the living room over to her playpen. As I heard Mom turn on the vacuum in the driveway, I sat there and watched Laurie sleep for the full fifteen minutes.

  ***

  Not too long after Laurie started pre-school, I heard Dad talking on the phone with her teacher about how Laurie was really smart for her age. That was weird. Had I actually helped her? Had I maybe pushed a smarter part of her brain in front of a dumber part?

  No, probably not, and I certainly wasn't going to test this theory by dropping her a second time. . .but I hadn't hurt her. Thank God, I hadn't hurt her.

  ***

  I can't say that I ever really forgot about it. I mean, she still occasionally did strange things, like wet the bed or spill things that didn't seem like they should be spilled quite that easily, but overall she was an intelligent, cheerful, friendly little sister. Bratty sometimes, yeah, but I liked that. It meant that she was normal.

  When my parents and I sat in the auditorium, watching her graduate from high school, I think I was even more proud than Mom and Dad were. I didn't cry as much as Mom—nobody could—but I don't think I'd ever been happier in my life.

  ***

  Now that I'm telling you this, I guess it all had a happy ending. I didn't remember it working out like that, but I can't really think of anything bad that happened. I'm not even sure why I'm here.

  Oh, yeah. My own child.

  I know I checked on the baby this morning.

  The blood on my hand proves it.

  Don't worry, I didn't hurt the baby. God, no. It's entirely my blood. You see, I have memory problems these days. I used to leave the house and be absolutely miserable all day, not remembering if I'd checked the baby, paranoid about what I might find when I got home. I tried the usual tricks, like tying a string around my finger, but that didn't work because I could never quite convince myself that I hadn't just forgotten to take off the string from the last time I checked.

  Writing notes to myself, calling and leaving messages on my voice mail, taking photographs. . .none of it worked.

  Pain? That worked.

  It's a wonderful idea, jabbing my palm with a knife. I do it hard enough to draw blood and hard enough to make sure it really hurts, but not hard enough to do any permanent damage. That is something I didn't forget. Thirty or forty times a day I gasp and suddenly have this horrifying feeling that I've forgotten to peek into her room before I left, but all I have to do is look at the blood on my palm and see that, yes, I had indeed peeked into her room.

  After all, I wouldn't stab myself unless I'd genuinely checked on the baby. Right?

  And I never forget to disinfect the wound in the evening and apply a bandage. Otherwise I'd get blood on my bedsheets, and I can't risk that. Sure, the blood might wash out, but then so would the scent of Yasmine's perfume. It's faded so much that I almost think it's only in my imagination, but still, I can't bear to lose it.

  I didn't hurt the baby. I watched her perfectly.

  You know that Yasmine told me I didn't need to watch the baby so closely, right? She said it was creepy to stare at her so much. Can you imagine that? Creepy to watch our own child?

  And she kept insisting that it was okay to hold her. It was not okay to hold her. When you dodge a bullet, you don't jump back in front of the gun, right? If it were up to Yasmine, we'd be carrying her all over the house. I saw her holding the baby in the kitchen, where there isn't even carpet. I swear I didn't lose my temper. I just had to keep the baby safe.

  See, I had a moment where I got worried, just now, but the blood on my hand tells me that everything is okay. She's sleeping soundly.

  Yasmine can't watch her very well anymore, but that's fine because I checked on her for both of us.

  This blood I know is mine. It's how I know that everything's okay. For a while I couldn't remember if it was mine or Yasmine's, but that was a while ago, and now I know it's mine for sure.

  When you let me go, I should check on her again, just to be safe.

  What's funny is that I feel like somebody dropped me.

  Jeff Strand used to be best known as the creator of Andrew Mayhem, whose insane adventures appear in such horror/ comedy novels as Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, and Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). But now he's probably best known for his first "serious" book, Pressure, which was a Bram Stoker Award finalist for Best Novel. He's written other comedic books (Benjamin's Parasite, The Sinister Mr. Corpse) and other serious books (Dweller), and a couple that kinda blur the lines (Wolf Hunt, Kutter).

 
His second greatest career accomplishment was appearing in +Horror Library+ Volume 3, but he knew that he would only be truly happy if he could make the cut for +Horror Library+ Volume 4. One bribe later (a couple of tacos with extra sour cream) he is living his dream.

  You can visit his Gleefully Macabre website at www.jeffstrand.com.

  —GUARDIANS

  by Tom Brennan

  Karl padded past his son's room, boots in hand, trying not to wake him. A sleep-crumpled face appeared around the edge of the door. "Dad? Where're you going? It's still dark."

  "I'm off hunting, Mikey. Back to sleep now."

  A wide yawn, then, "You going after deefs?"

  Karl smoothed his son's warm hair. "You go back to bed. Don't you worry about a thing."

  Downstairs, Karl found Donna pouring coffee into a flask. He slipped his arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck. "You smell good."

  Donna didn't turn around. "There's toast and eggs still warm in the top oven. Bacon's almost done."

  Karl hesitated, went to speak and then let go of Donna and sat at the table. A faint pearl glow lightened the sky beyond the windows. Inside the kitchen, a single overhead tube flickered. As Karl ate he watched Donna pack sandwiches into his rucksack along with the flask. When she leaned against the sink with a cup of coffee, Karl said, "You know I've got no choice."

  "I know."

  "We've been lucky so far: we've had no deefs this far north."

  Donna sipped coffee and pulled together the edges of her chenille robe. "God, I hate that word."

  "Why? Everybody calls them that."

  "Exactly."

  Karl shook his head and pushed away his plate. From outside came the crunch of tires on gravel and a harsh blast on the horn. Karl winced.

  "The neighbors will love that," Donna said.

  Karl grabbed his camo rucksack and reached into the tall cupboard beside the stove. He slid his grandfather's old Winchester shotgun into a carrier and opened a box of shells. He paused at the back door. "I shouldn't be too late. Four or five. I won't let Frank get me drunk."