Tales From Beyond the Brain

by Jeff Szpirglas

  It was impossible to find the eye in the darkness, but Jane could still see what it saw. It did not have an eyelid to shield itself. It could only stare at the leaves on the ground and the deteriorating tombstones. One tombstone in particular. Jane recognized the weathered letters instantly: HERE LIES SHAWN CRUMB.

  Jane reached the tombstone and saw herself seeing herself from a perspective not too far away. In the moonlight Jane spotted her other eye hovering near a gnarled tree. Jane followed its gaze to the earth in front of the tombstone. She was startled to realize that something was poking through the dirt.

  Ten somethings, to be precise. They wiggled their way through the earth like seedlings in a stop-motion film. Jane got down on her knees to regard them more closely. The somethings were white, all right, although they were too thick to be seedlings. But they were growing all the same. Now they were an inch out of the soil. They wiggled at Jane, pushing dirt out of their way so they could sprout farther. Jane moved away. The somethings had fingernails.

  She was on her feet and backing up now, but she could not look away from the grave.

  Fingernails belonged to fingers. Fingers belonged to hands. They were human hands, but the skin that clung to them had withered and dried into a leathery husk. Some of the skin had torn, revealing yellowing bones underneath. The hands pushed aside the dirt, and then the arms erupted from the earth. Jane put her hand to her mouth and held back the scream.

  She thought about running away. It was the logical thing to do when one was confronted with a corpse digging itself out of a grave. Jane had often stayed up late to watch horror movies, and she’d always thought it was amazing how stupid people could be, walking into haunted houses or going near shadowy corners that had weird noises coming from them. Jane figured she had to be at least as stupid as those people in the movies, because there she was, in the middle of the night, in a cemetery, standing mere feet away from the living dead, and she had not moved a muscle.

  Jane was still standing there when those skeletal arms pushed aside enough mossy earth for the corpse’s head to emerge. Her stomach turned and twisted like a pretzel.

  A few strands of hair still clung to the remains of the corpse’s scalp. Dirt caked much of its face. The nose and eye sockets were empty, their contents, presumably, having been eaten by insects some time ago.

  The corpse’s jaw lowered, and it uttered a guttural sound that was close to “Come!”

  The eye, which had been hovering safely near the tombstone, suddenly picked up momentum, spun around and lodged itself into one of the corpse’s empty eye sockets. It rolled around inside the socket like it was in a slot machine, finally coming to rest with the pupil pointed out at the world. The corpse blinked a flap of putrefying flesh over Jane’s eye. She could still see out of it.

  The corpse took a look at the world around it, stopping when it came to gaze upon Jane. “A pleasure, miss,” it said with a nod and a wink. It smiled a creepy smile. A few centipedes slipped through the gaps between its teeth.

  Jane swallowed her fear and regarded the corpse. It would not do to start screaming and throwing a fit. Jane wanted her eye back, and she was going to have it. “I know what you’re looking at, Mr. Crumb,” she told it.

  “Do you, now?”

  “You’re staring at my eye.”

  “With your eye, I might add.” The corpse struggled to inch itself out of the hole in the ground. “Two eyes gives one... depth perception.” The corpse dug its hands into the earth and tried to heave its upper body farther out. It looked like hard work, this rising-from-the-grave business. The corpse panted for breath. Jane wondered for a moment how that was even possible. Presumably, its lungs had long since disintegrated. Then the corpse extended a withered arm for Jane. “Can you give me a hand?”

  Jane took a step back, and the corpse let out a stomach-churning chuckle. “I kill myself,” the corpse gurgled. “Never mind, you go and run. I have one of your eyes now, so I can see what you see—”

  “Get somebody else’s eye!” Jane screamed.

  The corpse shook its head. “Would you slip your feet into a pair of mismatched socks? Of course not. These things need to be matched perfectly.”

  Jane looked away. Then she saw something that gave her an idea. It was the nearby tree. The tree was beyond dead, a mummified shell. The roots stuck out of the ground. The blowing wind was causing the whole trunk to rock back and forth.

  The tree was angled toward the tombstone. Jane remembered how soft and fragile the tombstone had been when she had gone to do her rubbing. All it needed was one solid push...a push from a tree...and the tombstone would fall like dominoes.

  Like the books perched above Matteo’s bed.

  The corpse’s head was still directly under the tombstone.

  Jane ran.

  “That’s right, you get a good head start,” the corpse yelled as Jane left its field of vision. “But there’s nothing in this world that can stop me from—”

  The corpse did not hear the snapping of branches and roots. Nor did it hear the crackle of timber as the tree toppled into the tombstone. And it certainly didn’t hear the stone crack in two. The stone landed squarely on the back of the corpse’s exposed skull, and then it was buried beneath the dirt once again.

  Jane shut her eye and tried to concentrate on what the other eye was seeing, but all her mind broadcast was blackness.

  But then there was something else—something wriggling in front of her pupil. Jane concentrated hard, trying desperately to focus on what the other eye was seeing.

  Correction. It was wriggling things. Jane could see them up close, as if she were looking through a microscope. She had seen the nature documentaries—she knew a nest of hungry ants when she saw it.

  “Bon appétit,” she said with a sigh. Then she turned around and trudged home. Her optometrist was going to have a field day with this one...

  “So what seems to be the problem, Matteo?”

  “My eye.”

  “What about it?”

  “It hurts.” Matteo couldn’t explain anything beyond a word or two. Both of his eyes were overflowing with hot tears. They could have been acid for all Matteo knew—he had never known such pain.

  “Can you open it up for me?”

  Matteo shook his head. The doctor smiled. “I might give you a lollipop if you do.” But Matteo wasn’t buying into that garbage.

  The doctor shrugged. “How did you hurt it then?”

  “Paper cut.”

  “A paper cut?”

  His eyes still shut, Matteo handed the piece of paper to the doctor. It was a rubbing, the doctor noted, most likely from a tombstone. What else would read HERE LIES SHAWN CRUMB?

  THE PAGE TURNER

  On the first Friday of every month, Mrs. Morley handed out the book-club catalogs that came from some huge publisher.

  Anika’s parents weren’t big fans of the book club. It’s just an excuse for us to spend more money, they would say. There are plenty of books in the library.

  Still, all the other kids in her class ordered books from the monthly catalog. Why shouldn’t she? Maybe she could pick one of the cheaper books.

  As the rest of the class gathered together in small groups and pored over their catalogs, Anika, who had always been a good reader, narrowed her eyes. She was good at spotting details, like whenever a textbook had a spelling mistake.

  The back of the catalog always had an itemized list of all the books and their prices. Anika usually looked at it only if she was going to order something, but today she was bored. She turned the catalog over and studied the long list of numbers.

  Then she blinked.

  For some reason a title right near the bottom of the list jumped out at her. It was called Your Biography, and it was listed at a completely reasonable $2.99.

  Anika narrowed her eyes. What did that even mean, Your Biography? Whose biography? A biography was the story of somebody’s life, so you’d think they would mention the subject of the
book. It was obviously some kind of gimmick. Maybe it was just a blank notebook that you could use as a scrapbook to write your own life story.

  She flipped back to the rest of the catalog and scanned the pictures and descriptions of the books.

  There was no mention anywhere else of any biography.

  She turned back to the order form at the end. She hadn’t imagined it. Your Biography for $2.99.

  Why sell something that wasn’t even advertised? Even though she was sure the book would probably be boring, or a weird joke, Anika was curious. For three dollars she could have her answer.

  Two weeks later it arrived. “Anika Singh,” said Mrs. Morley, a slim volume pinched between her thumb and index finger.

  The cover was red with bold letters in yellow: YOUR BIOGRAPHY.

  There was no image and no author name.

  Anika turned the book over to see if there was any information on the back cover. It was red like the front but with no words or markings.

  Anika looked around to see what kind of books the other kids had ordered. Clusters of students were gathering around the desks of those who had received theirs. There were books about zombies and sharks, books about superheroes, books of world records and books about superhero zombie sharks.

  Nobody had come to visit Anika’s desk, and that suited her fine.

  She opened the book and started to thumb through the pages. There were words printed on them, but as she scanned the volume, she encountered a clump of pages that were stuck together.

  Anika tried pulling them apart with her fingers, but the pages would not yield to the pressure.

  She frowned. Why couldn’t she flip through all the pages? Had something been spilled on the book, making the pages stick together? Or was this some weird misprint? She wanted to ask Mrs. Morley, but the teacher was busy breaking up a fight two boys were having over the zombie book.

  Anika sighed and decided to explore the matter herself.

  She opened up the book again and started to go through the contents more carefully.

  Most books had a page at the beginning listing publication information—author, publisher and some indication of when and where it was printed.

  Not Your Biography.

  The first page had the title.

  Anika turned the page.

  Dear Reader,

  In your hands you are holding a most unique book. This is Your Biography, created especially for you.

  This book is a living, working document. It is a professionally written biography of your own life.

  You are probably wondering how such a feat can be achieved. How is it that we, the publisher, know your life story?

  That is our little secret. While you may not get to know how the publishing miracle you are reading came to be, we are certain that you will enjoy it. Just turn the page and you will encounter a thoroughly detailed narrative of your own life, commencing with your birth and, of course, ending with your death.

  No doubt you are asking how a mere book can know anything beyond the present moment. How can it know what the outcome of your future will be? What you will do after school? What you will do for a living? Will you get married? Are there children in your future? Most important, how could a book possibly know the date and means of your own death?

  This book is, as we have already stated, a living document. It will write itself as you continue to live and grow.

  Please note: it is important that you do not attempt to correlate the physical size of the book with the length of your own life.

  The pages beyond the present moment have not been written yet, and many have been bonded together until the time they are ready to be read. They will be as thin or thick as they need to be, depending on the choices you make and the direction your life takes you.

  It is very important that you do not attempt to separate the unwritten pages. We have gone to great lengths to ensure that they are not tampered with.

  It could be very dangerous to interfere with the way Your Biography is meant to be read.

  With that being said, please enjoy this most unique of books. It is not made available to everyone. You must be truly special and unique to have found it at all. Treat these pages well, and you will be rewarded with a memoir of your life to treasure for generations to come.

  Sincerely,

  The Publisher

  Anika looked up and narrowed her eyes. This was clearly some kind of joke book, and the joke was on her.

  A biography of her own life that wrote itself? Ridiculous.

  Nevertheless, how good was the joke? She looked back down at the book and turned to the next page.

  Anika Singh was born at the Dundurn County Hospital on a stormy Sunday afternoon after twenty-three grueling hours of labor.

  Anika gasped. It was one thing to have a biography that had been preprinted and that had even slotted in her name. She’d ordered the book herself, so it wouldn’t have been hard for the publisher to digitally insert her name into the book in predetermined places and print it on demand.

  But the details! Anika knew exactly how long her mother had been in labor. She talked about it all the time. And the hospital and city in which Anika had been born were accurate. But those details were not common knowledge. How could they be in the book?

  Anika thumbed through the pages and took a closer look at some of the passages. There were many specific details she remembered from her life. One paragraph outlined a trip she took to the amusement park when she was five, and she ate too much waffle cake and got sick on one of the rides. Flipping forward, she encountered the story of her trip to the hospital when she broke her arm.

  The details in the book were so crisp and clear that they reawakened memories she thought she’d lost.

  Reading the biography was like opening a window into those memories. Whenever she wanted to, she could turn to a chapter in her own life and re-experience it as if for the first time.

  Anika wondered how far the biography went.

  She skipped to the back of the book.

  Anika stared at the book and was incredulous. How could such a thing actually exist?

  She flipped through the book and discovered that some pages were fused together, while others contained text.

  Thinking the book was some kind of joke, Anika returned to the first page and read a passage outlining her birth. It contained details that only Anika and her family could know. She wondered how the author of the biography, or even the book publisher, might have accessed such information.

  She began to grow suspicious.

  Anika lowered the book and stared around the room. She wondered if someone was watching her, making notes, somehow, and updating the book.

  Maybe Mrs. Morley was in on the whole thing. She was the one who’d given out the book-club forms in the first place. Maybe she had some sort of weird deal with the publisher. It didn’t all add up, but what other explanation was there?

  Anika looked back down at the book.

  One of the pages had come loose from the clump that had been stuck together. She turned the page and was amazed to discover that new text had been added.

  Anika lowered her book and stared around the room. She wondered if someone was watching her, making notes, somehow, and updating the book.

  Anika gasped and swallowed. The biography had caught up with her real life!

  Anika noticed that one of the pages had come loose from the clump. She turned the page and was amazed to discover that new text had been added.

  Anika gasped and swallowed. The biography had caught up with her real life!

  She stared at the words and noticed how they mimicked her own thoughts. A weird sort of déjà vu crept over her. Usually such a feeling only lasted for a moment, but as Anika read the biography, that feeling of having lived this moment grew more and more intense with each passing sentence. What she was reading was happening to her at that very moment. She wondered what might happen if she looked away from the book, got up from her seat an
d went to sharpen her pencil. When she returned, would the book have documented it?

  As she wondered this, she noticed that the words in the book were following her train of thought. Anika shivered. Was it really her own train of thought, or was she was just thinking what the book was making her think?

  The more she tried to wrap her brain around the enigmatic nature of the biography, the quicker she felt her heartbeat race, the sweatier her palms grew and the shorter each breath became. She was growing fearful. She decided to close the book and sharpen that pencil after all.

  Anika slammed the book shut.

  She took several long, deep breaths.

  “Is everything all right, Anika?” Mrs. Morley asked.

  Anika looked up. She could feel her body shaking and trembling.

  Mrs. Morley was the only one who could possibly have anything to do with this. She was only pretending to look concerned. She knew Anika must be freaking out over the book.

  Anika wasn’t going to give Mrs. Morley the satisfaction. “I…need to sharpen my pencil, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Morley stared at her. “Anika, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Shakily Anika got up from her desk, edged over to the electric sharpener and chiseled the end of her pencil to a fine point.

  She returned to her desk and sat down in front of the book.

  She took a few deep breaths, thinking about her next move.

  Then she opened the book. Sure enough, the words on the latest page read:

  Back from sharpening her pencil, Anika thought about her next move.

  She wasn’t sure if the book knew what she was planning, but Anika was determined to unravel the mysteries of Your Biography.