Tamara slouched back to the counter, picked up the fast food bag, and tossed the cat the taco she had bought for herself.
“Here, Pumpkin, you eat this,” she grumbled to the rotund cat’s delight. “Apparently I need to pay more attention to the old figure instead.”
Pumpkin wasted no time in doing as commanded.
“I’m going to bed,” Tamara sighed at the feeding feline. “Men are scum. If any come knocking on my door, feel free to eat them too.”
###
She dreamt of the woods in Herschmire Park.
Only these woods were all wrong.
The trees towered higher and loomed larger, their canopy almost blotting out the distant sky. The bark knotted and twisted in deep furrows around the trunks, mottled by scabrous patches of gray-green lichens. The carpet of dead leaves lay thicker as well, deadening the sounds in the already quiet scene while at the same time making her footsteps jarringly loud.
Too loud for comfort.
Because there was something out there…
Something waited for her in the darkness of the surrounding woods. Something that made no noise as it lurked somewhere out in the darkened underbrush. Tamara could feel its eyes on her, abiding in the shadows…calculating…waiting for her to make a mistake and get too near. And standing still wasn’t an option, for when night fell it would come for her.
She needed to get out of here.
But the woods were trackless, and she had no clue which direction led to the parking lot and the exit. Daylight was fading, and the more distant trees were already starting to merge into a shadowy background. Nightfall loomed only minutes away.
Tamara picked a direction and started to run.
The slash of her feet through the leaves seemed to echo through the trees, certainly alerting any and all predators of her existence. Her breath now rattled in her ears and her throat burned from exertion. The surrounding woods seemed to close in as evening descended. Still no sign of the parking lot appeared.
Realizing she had made a mistake, Tamara stopped and tried to catch her breath. Darkness was almost upon her and time had run out. With a strangled cry of fear she turned to flee once again…
…and ran straight into something that had been standing right behind her.
She woke with a scream.
“Oh, God!” Tamara gasped, clutching the sheets. “Oh crap! Oh Jesus! … Oh Pumpkin! I’m so sorry!”
The big cat glared at her from where he had been rolled off his usual perch on her chest. He listened with imperial disdain to her breathless apology, then pointedly turned his back and started grooming. Pumpkin wasn’t taking apologies at the moment—she would just have to get back to him later, preferably with something edible as a gesture of atonement.
“Hey,” she scolded, “you would be jumping up too if you dreamed you were in the woods and ran into …ran into…”
Tamara frowned and concentrated, trying to remember the dream. It took a second, then the image returned.
“…ran into…Pauly?”
Now that the last bit of the dream returned, she realized it had been the AV technician she blundered into at the end of the dream. He had been standing, slouched against a tree behind her, and he had been dead.
Dead and wearing a cloak of mushrooms.
“Oh, that’s just great!” She fell back into the mattress. “Now I’m dreaming of being chased through the woods by dead nerds! That’s it, I’m doomed. I am now officially insane, and Jeff is going to trade me in for a blonde with huge boobs and claim it’s just because she’s ‘stable.’”
Pumpkin issued a disgruntled growl in response, hopped off the bed and disappeared into the darkness.
“Fine, you traitor,” Tamara sighed. “Just be that way. I bet a dog would feel sorry for me. Mommy’s not feeling too good so I’m going back to sleep. And I’m sleeping in too! So you can make your own breakfast!”
###
The ringing of the phone woke her.
“Pumpkin?” Tamara moaned. “Get that, would you?”
Another ring dashed that forlorn hope.
Feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds, the girl slowly rolled out of bed and sat on the edge. Her head swam and her stomach threatened to rebel. Worst of all, when she tried to open her eyes the brightness stabbed into her head like brilliant shards of jagged glass. Her head felt like the worst of hangovers had moved in and made itself at home.
The phone rang yet again.
“Okay! Okay!”
Tamara lurched to her feet, swallowed hard, then stumbled to the bedroom door. Clutching the doorframe with one hand, she used the other to shield her eyes from the greater glare in the hallway. Sunlight poured in through the windows in the living room and down the short apartment hall.
“Ouch! Somebody turn down the sun! For Pete’s sake, I didn’t even have anything to drink last night.” Her stomach gave a queasy protest and she tried to ignore it while forcing herself forward.
The phone rang again as she shambled down the hallway and the answering machine picked it up. She gave up all hope of catching it in time, so resorted to leaning against the wall and listening so she could return the call in a minute.
“Tamara?”
Tamara realized with mild dismay that it was Pauly again. He didn’t sound good.
“Tamara, listen. Y-You’re probably… st-stuck too. That’s…most likely why I…I…can call you. It’s…it’s… all about carpenter ants…Thailand…control…and I can’t…can’t…leave…or talk directly either. G-Google is…your friend. I…I…”
There was a strangled cry and a clatter, as if the phone had been dropped on the other end, then the line went dead.
“Okay,” Tamara gulped. “That was weird, even for Pauly.”
Regardless of her ambivalence toward the AV tech, it had sounded like he was disoriented and in trouble. And while the girl wasn’t thrilled with the idea that she was the one he thought to call when dazed and confused, it didn’t change the fact that he obviously needed medical assistance. Tamara started for the phone with the intention of calling somebody to help him.
She didn’t make it.
At that moment, the reek of rot and decay rose around her in a suffocating cloud. The stench smelled exactly like the one that overcame her in the park yesterday, and the results were almost the same. Grabbing her throat, Tamara stumbled into the hall bathroom and fell to her knees at the toilet.
Only the fact that she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty four hours spared her from another bout of severe vomiting. As it was, the girl’s stomach muscles cramped from the sudden exertion as the dry heaves overwhelmed her. She was still sore from yesterday’s bout, and this time the whole experience was agony. Tamara clutched her middle and moaned in despair.
“Never again,” she gasped…making the same pledge she always made after a night of too much to drink. That wasn’t the case this time, but habit took over.
After another prolonged couple of minutes, the nausea started to subside.
Tamara levered herself up with both hands on the seat, then staggered over to the sink. Turning on the tap water, she hung her head while waiting for the basin to fill. Her stomach seemed to settle further as she waited. Turning off the tap, she splashed cold water on her face and raised her head to survey the wreckage in the mirror. It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at…
…then she covered her mouth to keep from crying out.
A tiny mushroom sprouted from her forehead right at her hairline.
“What the hell?”
Leaning forward in a state of mesmerized panic, she pulled her hair out of the way and examined the intruder in the mirror. It was small, brownish, and an exact counterpart to the fungi that coated the corpse from yesterday. Several other dark bumps along her hairline suggested that more were on their way.
“Tamara, it’s Pauly. How close did you get to that body?”
The message on her machine last night rose in her mind.
“Pauly?” she gasped at the mirror. “Oh crap! What’s going on?”
Tamara stumbled out of the bathroom and headed for the phone. The brightness of the living room lanced into her aching skull but she decided to hold off on closing the shades till later. Right now, she needed answers. And if anybody could make sense of this madness, Pauly would be that guy. Snatching up the receiver, she checked the answering machine readout for Pauly’s number then punched in the digits.
“C’mon, Pauly,” she urged. “Pick up.”
The phone rang on the other end rang. Once. Twice. Three times… The memory of his last, disjointed phone call raised ugly possibilities in her mind.
“C’mon, Pauly. You can do it. Please!”
Four rings…Five…
“Pauly! Goddammit! Pick up the phone!”
Six…Seven…
“Dammit, Pauly!” For the first time, tears started to flow. “Don’t you dare be dead! Just hang on, I’ll get help.”
Pushing the button to hang up, she started to dial 9-1-1… when the smell rose again. It seemed to emanate from the phone itself and reeked even worse than before, as if invisible, rot dripping tendrils were forcing themselves into her nose and mouth.
Tamara’s stomach clenched and she dropped the phone before managing to push the first button. This time the pain lanced through her gut like a lightning bolt, and her gagging actually managed to produce bile colored vomit as she collapsed to her knees on the floor. She curled into a ball at the base of the counter, moaning in agony.
“Okay,” she gasped, “okay. I need help, too.
She didn’t know if she had the strength to get back to her feet. Instead, with far too much effort, Tamara managed to roll to her stomach on the cool tiled floor. Weakly pushing herself to her hands and knees, she began a laborious crawl toward the front door.
“Just…get…outside,” she panted. Her legs and arms quivered with each small advance forward. “Somebody will…find me…and…call help.”
All considerations of dignity and appearances were gone. The only thing Tamara cared about now was getting to the other side of the front door, where somebody would be sure to find her.
It wasn’t to be.
Just as she got close enough to stretch one shaky hand towards the doorknob, the horrific smell rose again. It smote her senses in thick waves that seemed to emanate from the door, and once more Tamara curled up into a fetal lump of pure misery. Pain tore through her ravaged stomach as she started retching for the third time in the past few minutes. She didn’t even want to think how far down in her digestive tract this new gorge came from.
Even worse, a powerful mental image formed of what waited for her in the outer hallway of her apartment building.
It was the Mushroom Man.
The corpse that had slumped like a discarded bag of rags in Herschmire Park now waited on the other side of the door. She knew that couldn’t be the case, that it had to be impossible, but every instinct in her body told her it was true. She could feel him like a solid presence, almost more real than the door itself. And Tamara knew if she opened it, that horror would shamble through the entranceway after her, and she would have no hope of escape.
Like the phone, the front door was forbidden to her.
“I’m sorry,” she wept, and started a feeble retreat back into the living room. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.” It made no sense at all, and she wasn’t even sure who she was talking to, but the shuddering and crawling girl on the floor somehow felt it needed to be said.
And it worked.
As if a switch had been flipped, the pain and nausea vanished and blessed unconsciousness overcame her.
###
Tamara pulled the window shades down against the orange glow of the setting sun. The windows were of no use as an escape route anyway, as attested by a bilious smelling stain on the carpet beneath them. That had been her final attempt—that run at the windows—and her failure there had driven home the futility of her situation.
The Mushroom Man had her, and she could neither call for help nor get away.
The world outside disappeared as the last of the shades fell shut. Then, with all the somber gravity of a funeral director, Tamara pulled the curtains closed behind them.
Why not? It’s my funeral.
The young woman turned and faced the darkened lair that her living room had now become.
Three small candles burned in their separate little holders on the wall. They provided all the light she needed, as even the overhead incandescent bulb now gave her a headache. Their dim glow created a cave-like atmosphere, accentuated by the large mushrooms growing in all her flower pots around the room.
She had discovered those upon regaining consciousness and starting her habitual routine of watering her plants while she tried to gather her thoughts. They had reminded her to put her hand to her own forehead, where she discovered several new additions to her toadstool collection. At least the ones on her head were still small, as compared to the much larger specimens that were taking over all her flower pots.
The sight of the pale clumps of fungi depressed her further, and she didn’t have the heart to water the plants again. It seemed like a pointless effort, with her ferns and flowers probably as doomed as herself. She suspected they would be dead from the fungal infestation long before lack of water had a chance to cause them any harm.
The same held true for her.
With the slow march of the condemned, Tamara returned to the counter and sat down. She didn’t bother looking at the phone. Another attempt at using it earlier had proved it to still be off limits. Any attempt to pick it up would result in her curled up in agony and retching on the floor again.
Instead, she pulled out her laptop.
As long as I don’t try to contact anybody with it, I’ll be allowed to use it.
It was a concession of defeat, but the girl knew it to be true. As long as she played by the rules…as long as she obeyed…she could keep her laptop. Attempting to communicate with anybody outside was forbidden, but as long as she didn’t do that she would be allowed this one small window to the world while waiting for her time to come.
The Mushroom Man was a strict warden, and tolerated no infractions.
Things that were taken away, were taken away for good.
And speaking of the Mushroom Man…
Tamara connected to the internet and made her way to the internet forum where she had posted her photos the day before. This was what started it all, so she figured she might as well see how it turned out. Pulling up the page she hunted the forum for the name “Scarlet Lark.”
It didn’t take long.
Her entry still sat on page one, near the top of the list of threads. It had received over a thousand views and boasted almost a hundred and fifty comments. Yesterday, such a result would have filled the young photographer with excitement…now she felt nothing. Only an empty curiosity. Clicking on the thread, she opened and reviewed the photos and comments.
Scarlet Lark was a star.
She read down the comments, her features blank in the face of the outpouring of praise sprinkled with condemnation. She was a genius. She had a gift. She was a selfish criminal. She was a talented rebel. The picture was a masterpiece. The picture was an obscenity. The picture was truth, beauty, horror, life, death, and the encapsulation of the eternal struggle of man and the universe. The argument was fierce and often personal.
And it all meant nothing.
Tamara could find no satisfaction, or even anger, at any of the comments. None of them had any impact on her at all. They were from a world ago…a world before the Mushroom Man stood outside her door.
Finding no reason to stay at the forum, she chose to check her email instead. A few desultory clicks later and her inbox displayed a short list of unread letters.
A short, apologetic letter from Jeff headed the list. He was still hung over from partying with his friends after the basketball game, but he promised
to drop by and visit her after class on Monday. Tamara wondered what he would find when he arrived.
An invitation from her friends Lacy and Stella followed Jeff’s missive. Apparently they were having a party Sunday night and wanted her to be sure and attend.
“Sorry, girls.” A tear slid down Tamara’s cheek. “No parties for me. You guys have fun.” She hadn’t intended it to, but the girl realized her current exercise in checking her mail was turning into her own private wake. She wondered if the Mushroom Man would let her respond with an unexplained goodbye, but realized that would probably still result in losing her laptop privileges.
The next message was from Pauly.
“You are unbelievable,” she murmured in sad wonder as she clicked the message. “How did you get my email address, too?” She now understood what Pauly had meant in that strange phone message he had left earlier.
The Mushroom Man had him too…a fact further driven home when the email opened and Tamara found herself confronted with a picture of Pauly.
She could tell he had taken it with his webcam because the blue glow that came from his monitor seemed to be the only thing illuminating him. It was enough. It revealed the pale young man to be slouched back in his chair, his head and shoulders wearing a thick mantle of fully grown mushrooms. His eyes were dark hollows, his face gaunt, and Tamara realized that the carpet of fungi pulled all of its mass from its bearer.
Soon, that would be her.
He must have been alive when he took the photo, but it didn’t appear he had a lot of time left. Even slumped, his ribcage was prominent and his collarbones stood out like sticks against his skin. Even worse, another clump of mushrooms arose in his lap.
After a moment of confused staring, she realized it was a cat…or had once been a cat.
“Oh no! He even got your cat! Oh Pauly, I’m so sorry!” Now the tears began to flow in earnest. “I didn’t mean to get you into this. I don’t know why he came after you, too.”
It made no sense to her. Pauly hadn’t taken the pictures…hell, he didn’t even know where the body was to be found. Why had the Mushroom Man come after him at all?
Ghosts, Monsters and Madmen Page 8
