by Tim Wellman
"Oh, Emmy," he said. "What's happened to ya, girl? You's all dirty and scuffed up." He motioned her over and ushered her into the building. "Were it them girls, again?" He brushed some of the leaves and dirt off her back with his wrinkled and spindly hands.
Emily nodded. "They held me down and made me eat a bug."
"I been eatin' bugs fer years, young'un, ain't nothin' wrong with bugs," he said. He looked down at the child, barely six years old, the new kid in a strange town, the poor kid in a rich kids' school. Her innocent face, framed by her bobbed dark hair and bangs, was smudged with dirt and scratched along her chin. Her dress, already old and well-worn, was torn and dirty. "But I reckon if'n ya ain't keen on 'em, ya shouldn't be made ta eat 'em."
"I want a jar full," she said. Her voice was calm. She had discovered the old man on the first day of school as she was being chased by some other girls. Emily didn't know what kind of man he was, good or bad, but he had helped her so he was a friend. And after a few more visits, he let her into his secret place. It was in a basement room, no windows, only one door, and the room was no bigger than a bathroom, but it was special. The old man, for years, had experimented. He was insane, probably, Emily knew that, but he had a dream. She wasn't interested in it, but his failed attempts to achieve it were perfect for her plan. "I want a jar full of the eaters."
"Jus' whatcha plan on doin' with 'em?" he said. "Ya knows them thangs is only good fer killin'. I told ya I bred 'em all wrong." He motioned her to sit down on an up-turned five gallon pail, and he lit a cigarette and sat down across from her. "I ain't sayin' ya cain't have 'em."
"I thought about it for a long time, old man," she said. "I gave them more chances than they deserved."
He shook his head and took a long puff, then exhaled it through his nose. "Damned kids these days got no respect fer nothin'," he said. "'Cept fer you, ya's different from them little demons 'round here." He stood up, walked to an old rusted cooler and pulled out a can of soda and walked over to Emily. "That's the last root beer." He handed it to her. "It ain't somethang ya can go back on, ya know. It's murder, plain an' simple." He grabbed an old camping lantern, pumped it several times, then lit the mantle with his lighter.
She took a big drink. "Might be, might just be self defense," she said. "It's gotta be done, though, no matter what you call it."
"Ya got a plan fer not gettin' caught?" he said. He motioned her to follow him and they walked toward the metal stairwell leading to the basement floor.
"I got a plan," she said.
He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock on the old rusty door and then pulled it open and they both entered the small space. Along the walls were glass aquariums and large jars, and inside, some filled, some only sparsely populated, were bugs. There were millions, all told, perhaps billions. "I thought these was gonna save the world," he said. "Least make me a million bucks."
"Not many people want to eat bugs, old man, even if they do taste like chicken," Emily said. "Though the ones I've been eating taste like shit."
"You watch that mouth a your'n," he scolded. "Ain't no way fer a sweet little girl ta be a talkin'." He picked up an old canning jar with a lid that had had holes punched in it with a nail, looked inside, and then shuck it a couple of times. "I told ya how mean they is," he said. "Ya's see'd it with yer own eyes. A jar like this, half-full, could take out most a your school b'fore they manage ta squish 'em all. An' once they's out ya ain't gettin' 'em back in."
"The ones I need to take care of will all be in one place together," she said. "I heard them talking about their mothers taking them to a dress shop in town this evening."
He opened the lid of the jar, walked to one of the aquariums and lifted the screen top. He pushed a metal scoop into the mass of deadly insects, filled it, and then emptied it into the jar and quickly screwed the lid down. He held it up and held the lantern closer. "They shoulda fed the world," he said. "But, I reckon they'll do ya a good job fer what you's needin'." He handed the jar to Emily.
She didn't look at them. She'd seen them in action before, devouring rats or pieces of rancid meat, swarming, afraid of nothing. They were active and relentless hunters. The old man called them eaters because he had meant them to be eaten, but something went wrong, fed the wrong drugs, bred the wrong way, something had turned the ordinary beetles into little killing machines, but the name still fit. She started out the door and the old man followed her, carefully locking it again before they both walked back up the steps. "I'll see you later, old man," she said. She walked away without looking back.
"Will ya be comin' 'round anymore?" he said. "I reckon I'd kinda miss ya if'n ya stopped comin'."
"I'll be around," she said. "Go buy some more root beer."
Sister's Condition
She went into the room calmly, quietly humming what Jonathan recognized as an old hymn their father used to sing. She walked to the back wall, and then turned and faced her brothers and smiled. Lacking the ability to decipher her mood, they both quickly backed out of the room and slammed the door. Her smile could be as sharp and deadly as a dagger. There were two deadbolt latches and a large, antique padlock to be fastened. The basement room had been a slave jail cell in a bygone era when the old house was the center of life for hundreds of people... family, employees, slaves. It was none of those things now, just an ancient heap on an overgrown hill with a quickly encroaching suburban army of housing developments and strip malls poised to attack.
"She can't get out of there, right?" Steven whispered. "I think she's over most of the effects, now. Damn it, I wish I could tell for sure."
Jonathan nodded. "I'm no expert on cages, but I'd say that door would hold back a small army."
"But you know how she can deceive us..."
Jonathan put his hand on his brother's shoulder and patted. "We've done all we can," he said. "There's no profit in worrying past that point. You know it's up to us to handle her now that mother is dead. That cell should hold her even when she's at her most violent."
"I know, but..."
"What are we supposed to do?" Jonathan said. His voice raised involuntarily. He didn't mean to yell but the last several days had been hell for the both of them. "Sorry," he said. "Come on, we both need a drink." Both men walked up the old wooden stairway from the basement in silence, both glanced back, and then both shook their heads.
"She crossed the line this time," Steven said as the two walked into the large library. An old maid followed them in and stood by the big double doors. "She's growing stronger with each episode."
"What do you think, Mildred?" Jonathan said.
"Well, if you're asking me, I'll tell you," she said. "When your momma was alive, she controlled Sylvia with a belt, a whip, a metal pipe when needed. It's all her kind understand. Beat her till she can't get up and fight back anymore. But, I think this time she knew she could get away with anything."
Jonathan nodded. "We're weak, the both of us," he said. "I guess it led to what happened. Mother's death has left us all questioning our family bonds. I didn't even know she could die."
"Did it for spite, probably," Steven said. "But Sylvia is our sister, you know, it's not right that we should beat her."
"You two are weak, I'm too old, and your mother is dead," Mildred said.
"There are those who would say the beatings helped turn her into what she is now," Jonathan said. "A new world, you know, psychology and all that rot."
"Weren't never so many people killed before, either," the old woman said. "She was never bad at all when your father was alive. He knew the secret to controlling her properly."
"Look, why don't we just call the police?" Steven said. "Show them the bodies, tell them what happened. They'll take Sylvia away and she can be their problem then."
Jonathan picked up the receiver of the old black telephone on the desk and then held the dial tone buttons down with his fingers. "Simple as that," he said. "I'll tell them to bring several cars so they can take us all to priso
n because, dear brother, you, me, Mildred, and a dozen other servants around here have been burying bodies most of our lives, hiding the facts even though we knew it would lead to more and more deaths."
"No, wait!" Steven said.
Jonathan put the receiver back on the hook. "How many bodies have we buried out there in the woods?" he said. "How many bits and pieces after mother's little feasts? Or since childhood, Sylvia's little creative moments?" Steven was silent. "No answer?"
Mildred strolled over to the desk and made sure the phone wasn't off the hook. "I know of three I had to finish off as mercy killings," she said. "I ain't complaining, just stating the facts. It had to be done to put them out of their misery, but it was still murder as far as the law is concerned."
"I know, Mildred," Jonathan said. "And don't think we don't appreciate you. It's good to have a female around who isn't a... beast." He shuffled a few papers on the desk. "She always gets over it in a few days; we'll wait her out."
"She'll be eatin' on herself down there," the old woman said. "I hate seeing her eatin' on herself."
"But it always grows back, doesn't it?!" Steven said. "That's the punchline! No matter what, she gets it all back... perfect again instantly once she's over the spell. We're the ones who continue to get worse." He walked behind the small bar in the corner and picked up a whiskey bottle from the back shelf and then poured a shotglass full and gulped it down. He filled it again and took it with him as he walked around the large room. "How many books do you think are in here?"
"Thousands," Jonathan said.
"That's as accurate as you can be?"
"I haven't counted them," he said.
"Well, somewhere in these thousands of worm-infested books, dear father left the formula, right? The way he controlled her."
Jonathan nodded. "That's what mother said. And we've all searched for three years to find it," he said. "If it ever existed."
"And even if it did exist, would it still work?" Mildred said. "With all your mother's beatings, how much mind can she have left to control? Even when she gets well she isn't the same person she used to be."
"But she renews herself," Steven said. "It would have to control her, right? She's normal after the disease works its course. The formula father used was always administered just as she starts to turn, when she still has a functioning mind."
"She's never normal, you know that," Jonathan said. "But she's our dear sister." He chuckled and picked up a long, slender letter knife from the desk. "I'd jab this through her temple if I thought it would have any effect, but we all know it wouldn't. There's no effect, nor with a wooden spike through her heart. Just another old wives tale and those don't seem to apply to young sisters... or old wives for that matter." He threw the knife across the room and it stuck in the old dark oak wall panel. "No, I'm afraid father chose the only way out of this nightmare when he put that gun to his head and... messed up the wallpaper in his study."
Steven grabbed a book from a shelf and thumbed through it quickly, then tossed it to the floor and grabbed another. "It's got to be here!"
"If he had wanted us to find it, he would have simply given it to us," Jonathan said. "Unless mother enjoyed torturing her little girl so much she destroyed it on purpose." He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "We are one screwed up family."
"You got that right!" Mildred said. "The females in the bloodline, anyway." She glanced up at the old wall clock and nodded. "The cook will have dinner ready at six. My advice, keep your shotglasses full till then."
Steven had a large pile of books on the floor and was still searching. He fanned through every one, not sure if he was looking for a note or simply a notation on a page. It could simply be a few words on a bookmark. His father never talked about it; all they knew for sure was he would come to the library before confronting Sylvia. "Come on, old man, help me," he said. "Come back from the grave, you coward, and help me!"
"I'm afraid he went to the grave willingly, and can't be coaxed back now simply to lend a hand to his two disappointing sons," Jonathan said. He walked to the bar and poured a glass nearly full of gin and then splashed a little tonic water on top. "No, we're the black sheep, you remember," he said. "The ones who were not monsters." He took a long drink. "Funny, I always thought that was supposed to be a good thing."
Steven tossed another book on the floor. "It's a horrible thing!" he said and pulled another book from the shelf. "Caretakers! That's what we are! Caretakers in this damnable asylum!"
"Well, caretakers only to the one remaining... patient," his brother said with a chuckle. "Come on, lighten up, Steven, this too will pass!" He emptied his glass in a single gulp and refilled it. "I personally plan to stay drunk until Sylvia regains what little humanity she has left in her poor, twisted soul."
"This is useless," Steven said as he dropped a book. "It would take a lifetime to go through all of these."
"Ah, that reminds me," Jonathan said. "We received a package yesterday from the funeral director. Mother's things, clothes she was wearing, jewelry, the visitor's book, I imagine. I'd forgotten with all the excitement."
"Just burn it!" Steven said. "Toss it in the fireplace! What little heat it generates will be more warmth than she ever gave us when she was alive."
"You miss her, don't you Steven," Jonathan said. He tugged on the knife stuck in the wall, and wiggled it back and forth until it came free in his hand.
"How could anyone miss that vile, disgusting serpent?" he murmured.
"Sarcasm," he said with a laugh. "I knew I could get a rise out of you." He sat down on the corner of the desk and pulled the package across and sliced through the packing tape. "The visitor's book... unsigned, I'm sure." He flipped through the pages quickly. "No, one visitor. A Mister Henry Ashberry. Do we know any Ashberry's?"
Steven pulled the book from his hand and took a closer look. "Wasn't there an Ashberry who taught school when we were kids?"
"That's right, history teacher. No one liked him," Jonathan said. "Hold on," he said. There was the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from the book and he nipped it with the tips of his fingers and slid it out. "Well now, the plot thickens."
"What does it say?" Steven said. "A note from Ashberry?"
Jonathan nodded. "He knows everything."
"What?!" Steven yanked the note from his brother's hand and read through it. "But how?" He dropped his hand to his side and started to pace around the room. "He knows about Sylvia, about our blooodline, everything."
"Well, I think it's obvious," Jonathan said. "The old bitch betrayed us. She knew she was dying and would no longer carry the curse, so she figured out a way to make our lives an even hotter hell than we've suffered for the last thirty-odd years." He looked back through the box... a dress, a few pieces of jewelry, a pair of shoes.
Mildred pushed the doors open and stuck her head inside. "Dinner is ready."
"You need to see this," Jonathan said as he motioned the old woman into the room.
"Your mother's stuff?" she said. "Burn it! The sooner that bitch's memory is gone from this house, the better."
"You and Steven have been rehearsing together," he said. "No, I'm afraid it goes a bit deeper than simply blotting out a murderous, cold-hearted fiend. Do you know a Henry Ashberry?"
Mildred thought for a moment. "School teacher?"
They both nodded. "That's him."
"He was fired several years ago," she said. "Rumored he molested some young girls or something. They fired him instead of filing charges."
"Oh, we must hook him up with Sylvia, then," Jonathan said and smiled. He handed the note to Mildred.
"But how?" she said. "I know none of the servants would have talked. It would be suicide; they know that. I'd kill them myself."
"We figure dear old mom ratted us out," he said.
"The filthy bitch!" Steven said. "The damned filthy bitch!"
"Well, this can't mean anything good," she said. "No good at all!"
Jonathan picked up the ph
one again and quickly dialed the number on the note. "Mister Ashberry? Jonathan Smithers here. Yes. We do need to talk. How soon can you get here? Fine. Be expecting you. Goodbye."
"Was that wise?" Mildred said. "He may believe he knows about us, but inviting him here will give him proof."
Jonathan nodded. "There was no choice." He stood up and walked toward the door. "Come on, dinner is getting cold." He ushered the others through the library door and closed it behind him. "No, our only option is to show Mister Ashberry our little demon locked in the basement. I'm sure she can reason with him."
"But she'll rip him to shreds!" Steven said. "Even if she's well, she'll smell the sin on him."
Jonathan nodded. "That's the hope."
***
"Ah, Mister Ashberry, welcome to our little chunk of hell on earth," Jonathan said as he stood up and walked toward the old man. "Good of you to come."
"Well, as I mentioned in my note..."
"What are you drinking," Jonathan said and stepped behind the library bar.
"Oh, I'm not picky," he said. "As long as it's twelve year old scotch."
"Straight or rocks?" he said and grabbed the bottle from the back shelf.
"Straight," Ashberry said.
"So, you've done some research on our family, have you?" He walked the glass over to the teacher and then sat down on the corner of the big desk. "That must have kept you up nights, huh?"
"Quite an unusual family," he said. "I must confess, I really didn't understand most of what I found out. Still don't." He sipped the scotch and nodded his approval. "I mean, I know enough, but there is so much more I'd like to understand. Every female in your family has something different about them... werewolf, vampire..."
"Those are movie monsters," Jonathan said. He chuckled. "Real life is never that simple, is it? What is Sylvia? Vampire? Demon? Vicious beast? All of those, I suppose, and more."
