I tell myself my initial hesitation already made my decision. Too late.
Heart pounding, I back out of the room and close the door yet again.
* * *
Two days later, I stand outside it with my ear pressed to the wood door. From inside I hear shuffling and rustling, like the shifting of large, limp leaves. I picture cilantro, can almost taste our picante, now gone.
The sounds are so soft—a susurrus of feathers. The noise of wet things drying. A large, gentle, subtle, quiet hefting of wings.
* * *
I wait until nightfall to open the bedroom window from the outside. I slide it up with shaking arms. Then I part the thick curtains with a jerk, stacked pillows falling noiselessly inward. The bedroom gapes dark and silent, but as soon as the opening is cleared I run away. The night is overcast and thick with heat. Nothing comes.
In the open part of our backyard, I stack twigs. I think of how I used to love Jason for how different he was, and how he used to love me too—or at least how I thought so. Around the twigs I prop three larger logs in a triangular frame. I think of how my dad hated him for his ungrounded ideals, and how Jason secretly never thought I was good enough, coming from such stock, until he bent me to his cause as well. On top of the twigs I cross small sticks. I think of how cilantro tastes the same organic or protected by pesticides, and how the only way to ruin it is to use too much. Above the small sticks I add a layer of larger ones and finally some thick enough that I can’t quite break them over my knee. I’ve begun to sweat.
My eyes travel to the open window and the waiting darkness.
I pull a packet of matches from my pocket and light the pile with one strike.
The growing flame draws my eyes. It’s bright enough to reach inside. I think of my home farm, my family, and how I never quite believed that insects deserve to be saved.
VOICES LIKE BARBED WIRE
TIM WAGGONER
From Tales from the Lake 5
Editor: Kenneth W. Cain
Crystal Lake Publishing
I’ve lived in Ash Creek most of my adult life, so when I pull into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant that doesn’t exist, I am—as you might imagine—more than a little surprised. I’m scared, too, but at the same time hopeful. Maybe I’ll finally find what I’ve been searching for here—some small measure of peace.
I park my Prius between two vehicles that I can’t identify. One is a monstrously large sedan that looks like it belongs in the 1950’s, its body shimmering in the sunlight as if it’s made from mother of pearl. The other vehicle has seven wheels and looks like it’s been constructed from odds and ends of silvery wire soldered together. The other cars in the lot are equally strange, but I find them comforting rather than upsetting. They’re an indication that I’ve come to the right place.
When I get out of my car and take a breath, I find the air has a chemical tang to it, as if an industrial factory is close by. There isn’t one to my knowledge, but up until a few moments ago, I didn’t believe there was a restaurant here, so what do I know? The asphalt of the parking lot is dry and cracked, and there are no lines painted on it to indicate parking spaces. Vegetation grows upward from the cracks, some of it ordinary grass, but there are also weeds of a kind I can’t identify. Sickly yellow-green things that are covered with thistles and which terminate in round crimson bulbs that glisten wetly. These bulbs sway slowly back and forth despite the absence of a breeze. I ran over several of these plants while driving into the lot, and I flattened them, the bulbs bursting open like tumors, squirting reddish-brown goo. The substance reminds me of how my daughters used to mix paints when they were little, adding more and more colors until they created a muddy brown soup.
It hits me then as it often does, so strong and unexpected that I’m unable to prepare myself.
An image of two girls sitting on a couch, one twelve, one seven. My daughters, Nancy and Lauren. Nancy’s eyes are wet, but she’s smiling, desperately trying to hold back her tears. Lauren is crying openly, tears streaming down her cheeks like tiny waterfalls. The girls are holding hands, fingers interlaced, gripping tightly. It’s this detail that hurts my heart the most, I think.
I wish this wasn’t happening! Lauren wails. I wish this was a dream!
Nancy’s response to what her father and I have just told them is more restrained, and all the more awful for it.
That’s okay, she says, lips trembling with the effort of maintaining her smile. It’s okay.
The memory of their voices—of their shock and pain—nearly drives me to my knees. I can’t breathe, and I wonder if the grief and guilt will finally kill me, and I’ll fall dead in the parking lot of a place that shouldn’t be real. But the memory retreats and I begin breathing once more. My heart is racing, but I don’t think it’s going to give out on me this time. I feel as much disappointment as relief from this knowledge.
Pandora’s is the name of the restaurant, and it’s spelled out in large red plastic letters on the front of the building, which—despite the oddities of the parking lot and the vehicles within it—looks pretty much like any fast food joint. Beneath the name is a cartoonish depiction of a wooden box, the lid partway open, inside black shadows which almost seem to be swirling, like eddies of dark water.
How appetizing, I think, and although I’m still unsteady on my feet, I feel a little better. False bravado is better than none, right?
I go inside.
The weird chemical tang is stronger in here, as if the restaurant itself is producing it. My throat starts to hurt immediately and my eyes sting. I try not to think about what that odor is or what it might be doing to my body. At first glance, the interior looks the same as any other fast food place: tiled floor, counter staffed by dull-eyed uniformed workers, menu above them displaying options and prices, along with photos of what’s meant to be tempting food selections. Sandwiches, fries, and shakes, but not the normal offerings. The sandwich meat is greenish and covered with what looks like scales, and the seeds on the bun aren’t seeds at all, but rather tiny eyes. The fries look more like small sections of bone sprinkled with salt, and the shake cups are filled with a purple-gray substance that looks like something that’s been squeezed out of an infected wound. My stomach lurches, and I almost turn around and get the hell out of there, but the girls’ voices come to me again.
I wish this wasn’t happening! I wish this was a dream!
That’s okay, It’s okay.
I take a deep breath through my mouth so I don’t have to smell the chemical stink, and then I approach the counter. The woman at the register is in her twenties, bald with a tattoo of a large purple eye on her forehead. Her left eye remains closed while her right blinks rapidly and continuously. Her short-sleeved uniform is blue, and she wears a square brown hat shaped like a wooden box. Her nametag reads OND. When she speaks, her voice is bright and chipper, but she doesn’t smile.
“Welcome to Pandora’s, where you won’t believe what’s in the box. Will this be cash, credit, or etheric transfer?”
I try to speak, but my throat’s so raw—thanks to the chemicals in the air—that it takes me a couple tries to produce sound.
“I’m, uh, actually here to meet someone. Mr. Lim?”
Ond’s right eye stops fluttering, just for a couple seconds, before starting back up again. She doesn’t answer with words but instead raises her arm and point toward the dining area. Her hands are twisted and lumpy, as if she suffers from severe arthritis, but her face doesn’t change expression as she points.
I turn my head to look where she’s pointing, and I see a dozen people scattered around the dining area, some sitting alone, some with companions. They all look like the sort of people that would drive the strange vehicles outside, but only one captures my full attention. An older man sitting alone and eating a sandwich, a pile of fast food wrappers on the table before him.
Mr. Lim, I presume.
I thank Ond, who gives no indication that she hears me—or may
be she simply doesn’t care—and I walk over to Mr. Lim’s table. The man’s body odor hits me when I’m within five feet of him, a feral smell, like the scent of big cats in a zoo enclosure. His stink leavens the chemical odor and actually comes as something of a relief. He’s a thin man in his fifties—about a decade older than me—and he’s wearing an army jacket, jeans, and sneakers. His clothes are worn, colors faded, but overall clean enough. He’s several days overdue for a shave, and his bristles are as white as the tangled thatch of hair on his head. There’s a TV screen hanging from a ceiling mount. The sound is muted, but instead of news, it’s playing a series of black-and-white images that look like clips from snuff films. Mr. Lim keeps his gaze focused on the screen as he eats. Although eating is too nice a word for what he’s doing. He’s devouring his sandwiches, tearing into them with the speed and ferocity of a starving dog. He has three other sandwiches waiting for him on the table, all wrapped in yellow paper. I do a quick count of the crumpled wrappers piled in front of him, and I get ten. Assuming he hasn’t been sitting here all day and pacing himself, he’s evidently ordered fourteen of Pandora’s sandwiches for his meal, and while he’s eaten the majority of them, it appears his appetite is nowhere near satisfied. I wonder if he’s eating the sandwiches with the green-scaled patties, but I decide I don’t want to know.
He doesn’t look away from the TV to acknowledge my presence, so I stand there, unsure what to do. On the screen, a naked fat man holding an electric drill approaches an equally naked teenage girl duct-taped to a wooden chair. The terror in her eyes is so strong it’s almost a living thing in and of itself, and I cast my gaze downward, unable to bear witness to what happens next. I try to tell myself that it’s not real, just some slasher flick, but I know better.
I almost leave then, but I hear my daughters’ voices once more—maybe because the woman in the video is so young—and my gut cramps with pain. As bizarre and frightening as this place is, it’s nothing compared to what that memory does to me and I stay right where I am.
“Sit down,” Mr. Lim says through a mouthful of food. He still doesn’t look at me.
I hesitate for a moment, then I sit down opposite him, my back is to the TV. He continues eating, one sandwich after the other, until he’s finished. It doesn’t take long. When he’s done, he wipes a bit of ketchup from the corner of his mouth and licks it off his fingers. At least, I hope it’s ketchup. He lowers his gaze to mine then, and I see he has the most beautiful pair of sky-blue eyes that I’ve ever seen. The eyes of an angel.
I’m about to introduce myself when he asks, “Who referred you?”
His voice sounds normal, but my ears hurt when he speaks, as if his vocal cords transmit an ultrasonic signal that I can’t consciously detect. I find my voice faster than I did with Ord.
“Marsha McLean. A friend from high school. She said you helped her and could help me. Maybe.”
“Said?”
“Uh, yeah. I posted about my problem on social media—just venting, you know?—and she sent me a private message about what you did for her and how I could find you.”
Marsha gave me Pandora’s address, but no result came up when I entered it into my GPS app on my phone. I figured it was just a glitch of some kind, and I set out searching for the restaurant. I drove up and down the street five times before I finally found it. A gas station was on this corner the first four times I drove by, but on the fifth, Pandora’s sat where the station had been.
Mr. Lim raises and lowers his chin, as if to indicate my answer is satisfactory.
“I remember her.”
He turns halfway in his chair and waves to get Ond’s attention. She looks at him blankly, then she nods and shuffles toward the kitchen. He then turns back to me.
“What’s your problem?”
I tell him about the memory that plagues me, the night Jacob and I told our girls that we were divorcing.
“I’m their mother. I’m supposed to protect them from hurt, not be the cause of it.”
When I finish, I feel exposed, as if I’ve revealed too much. But I have to tell him my story, don’t I? How can he help me otherwise?
Marsha’s problem was similar to mine. She lost her husband to cancer, and she was holding his hand in the hospital room when he died. She didn’t regret being there for him, but every night she dreamed of that last moment with him. When it became too much for her to bear any longer, she told a friend, and this friend told her about a man she’d heard of who could solve any problem. A man named Mr. Lim. It took Marsha some time to track him down, but she did, and when she finally met him in person, he was indeed able to help her. Somehow, he removed the memory of her husband’s death from her mind, and she’s slept fine ever since. I pray he can do the same for me.
“What do you want me to do?” Mr. Lim asks.
“You took away a painful memory from my friend. I’d like you to do the same for me.”
He looks at me for a moment with those unearthly blue eyes, and then says, “I can do that.”
The relief that fills me is so overwhelming that it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.
“But I’ll need you to get something for me first.”
Before I can ask what it is, Ond approaches the table carrying a tray of fresh sandwiches wrapped in yellow paper. Fourteen of them. Despite her arthritic-looking hands, she carries the tray without difficulty and sets it in front of Mr. Lim. Without looking at either of us or speaking a word, before she turns and shuffles back toward the counter. Given the way he was eating before, I expect Mr. Lim to tear the paper off one of the sandwiches and cram it into his mouth. But instead he calmly tells me what he wants me to do.
When he’s finished, he asks if I understand. I don’t really, but I’ll do whatever it takes to be free of the voices.
Satisfied, he picks up one of the sandwiches, unwraps it slowly, almost lovingly, and then falls upon it with an animalistic snarl.
* * *
As I wrote earlier, I’ve lived in Ash Creek for a long time, but I grew up on a farm outside a small town called Waldron. It wasn’t a very successful farm. My dad inherited it from his father, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t like the work and had no head for business. He grew soybeans mostly, and he didn’t do a good job of it. By the time I was married and Nancy was born, he’d sold the farm, moved with my mother to a smaller house in town, and started doing odd jobs as a handyman.
One summer when I was six, I was playing in a field that Dad never planted nor maintained. I was running through the field, laughing as I chased butterflies, when my foot snagged on something. Fiery pain shot through my ankle, and I cried out as whatever had hold of me drew taught, sending me falling to the ground face first. I put out my hands to break my fall, and the impact hurt my wrists, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony in my ankle. Crying, teeth, gritted, I rolled onto my back and sat up. I bent over to examine my foot and saw my sock and shoe were both covered in blood. There was so much of it, and it was so red, that the sight of it almost made me pass out. I sat there whimpering for several moments until I worked up enough courage to examine my wound more closely.
Rusty barbed wire was wrapped tight around my ankle, the points caught so deep in my flesh that I imagine they touched the bone. I had no idea where the wire had come from, but later Dad told me there used to be a fence around that field when he was a kid, and the length of wire that caught me must’ve been left over from that time, lying in the field all those years like the world’s most patient serpent, waiting for someone to come along so it could strike.
I needed stitches and a tetanus shot, of course, and I walked with a crutch for a couple weeks while the wound healed. Luckily, no tendons were damaged, as least not badly, and I was back to running again before summer’s end. But not in that field. Never again.
The pain of that rusty wire biting through my skin and muscle down to the bone was the worst I’d ever experienced in my life—including labor with both of my girls.
Until the night Jacob and I gave them the news we’d both hoped never to have to tell them. Until I saw their faces. Until I heard their voices.
* * *
It’s worse in my dreams. There the memory plays and replays with vivid colors and crisp sound, like an expensive Hollywood production. I don’t sleep much. Hell, who am I trying to fool? I hardly sleep at all. You’d think that the memory, painful as it is, would’ve faded over the years, especially since the girls are grown and in college, Lauren at Northern Kentucky University for her undergrad, Nancy at Wichita State for her graduate degree. But the memory has only become sharper with the passage of time. My brother once told me that’s because I have a sick need to punish myself. Maybe so, but knowing that doesn’t make the memory go away.
I’m careful about what I watch on TV. Commercials are the worst. You never know when kids will be in one. And I’m cautious about the movies I see in theaters. I only go to shows that start after 9 pm in the hope I won’t run into any parents taking their little ones to see the latest animated extravaganza. But for all my precautions, I still hear my girls’ voices throughout the day, so many times that I no longer bother counting.
* * *
I’m back at Pandora’s less than an hour later. I’m carrying a white cardboard box with the logo for Pets and More printed on the side. Mr. Lim is finishing the last of what I assume to be another set of fourteen sandwiches. The mound of crumpled wrappers on the table is so large now that there isn’t room for them all, and several have fallen to the floor. I wait for him to finish his sandwich—I know it won’t take long—but I don’t look up at the TV. I don’t what to see what it’s showing. As before, Mr. Lim pays no attention to me until he’s finished. He then glances over at me, then his gaze flicks to the box and he grins. His teeth are overlarge and so white they gleam. He sweeps the wrappers off the table to make room, and I gently set the box down before him. My heart pounds, and my stomach roils with nausea.
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 4 Page 7
