13 Drops of Blood (9 page)

Kate watched her sister endure two quick spasms before a mist of blood sprayed from her mouth. It ran a line down her chin and dripped onto an exposed breast. There was blood between her legs, a dark red puddle. It was growing larger. Kate didn’t understand what was happening and she didn’t understand why, but she knew one thing for sure: her sister was dying, being ripped apart from the inside.

Yes. They had to abort the child.

She looked across the room and her eyes locked on the closet door. In no time at all the door was open and she was standing in the doorway, pushing bags out of the way with her left hand while pulling shirts off hangers with her right. But there was a problem: all the hangers were made with plastic. She couldn’t see any of the old-fashion metal kind. She grabbed a jacket and a vest and threw them to the ground in a pile.

Jennifer screamed.

Richard growled.

And Kate, cursing under her breath, saw what she was looking for: a rusty old hanger, nastier than a snake. She snagged it from the rack and stepped towards her sister, trying desperately to keep her eyes away from the huge thing that was laying on the bed, covered in fur, snapping its jaws, eying her like a fresh meal after a long day.

She said, “We need to get out of here!”

“No,” Jennifer whispered. “Just hurry, Kate. Hurry!”

There was no time to argue so Kate bent the hanger this way and that, playing it like an accordion, trying to snap it. She didn’t think she’d be able to unravel it fast enough, and time was so important now. Oh yes it was. She thought about running for the second time that evening, but Jennifer was in no position to follow her lead, and she couldn’t leave her sister behind.

Richard growled, sounding like a grizzly bear.

Jennifer screamed again. And Kate screamed too, frustrated with the time she was spending. Her hands were working as fast as they could but it wasn’t fast enough. She didn’t think the hanger would ever break but suddenly it did. It broke right where she wanted. It almost seemed like a miracle.

Straightening the wire, she turned it into a long, narrow spear. Then she dropped to the floor, positioning herself between her sister’s legs.

Jennifer’s eyes widened. She looked desperate now––desperate and in serious pain. She lifted her knees, stretched her legs apart, and grabbed a hold of her blood-soaked underwear. She pulled the dripping cloth to one side, exposing her vagina. Gasping and begging, she said, “Do it, Kate. Kill it.
Kill
it!”

Kate caught a frightful glimpse of her sister’s belly before pushing her labia apart with her fingers and plunging the wire in. But one glimpse of Jennifer’s stomach getting ripped open was enough: skin splitting, muscles tearing, blood pouring to the floor in generous amounts. There was a coil of flesh that appeared to be growing and when Kate saw it her stomach clenched and she thought she might pass out. It was too late to perform a back-alley abortion. It
had
to be too late.

Looking Jennifer in the eye, Kate forced the wire deep inside.

And Jennifer, gasping her final breaths, writhing in agony, looked up. Not at Kate. Oh no. There was a monster in the room now, standing high above, gazing down at the girls with its terrible green eyes, teeth like daggers, bloodlust boiling inside its brain.

Richard was gone.

And although Jennifer knew that her husband had become something entirely different––something bred without love or affection––memory of the man she married seeped into her heart and she managed to say, “I love you with all my heart, Richard Beach. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m unconditionally yours.”

* * *

A GHOST IN MY ROOM

Last night I saw a ghost in my room, the ghost of my wife Luisa. I was lying in bed when it happened. The light was on––not the bright one, just the little one that sits on the table beside the bed. One moment I was rehashing my day and reading a magazine and the next moment she was there. I didn’t notice her at first; I didn’t see her appear. But I felt that something was different, something had changed. So I looked up, not expecting to see anything out of the ordinary, and there she was, looking in my direction.

Her skin was pale and wrinkled, her dress was sopping wet. She had long runners of seaweed tangled within her hair, which for the most part was clinging to her face and skull. Her nose had begun to rot around her nostrils. Her eyes were glossy; her white orbs and the skin around them was so incredibly dark and dreary that I wasn’t sure it was her––but it was. Oh God, of course it was her. A man knows his own wife when he sees her, even when she looks so bad.

I sat up quickly, placing my weight on my elbows and resting my back on the headboard. Then I pulled my knees towards my chest and away from her, careful not to make a sound as I did so. I briefly considered jumping up from the bed and running for the door, but my fear had me paralyzed. I wasn’t going anywhere.

Besides, is it possible to run from a ghost?

Somehow I doubted it.

She was in the far corner, hiding in the darkest place, where the wallpaper peeled from the wall. I always hated that empty corner. Somehow it always seemed like the coldest spot in the house.

Try as I might, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her face, her terrible, terrible face. She looked like she’d been underwater for a year or more. Her lips were blue and her teeth were black with soot. I could smell the ocean salt on her body, polluting the air around me. She was all craggy and… sour. That’s what she was: sour. She smelled like a river. Lord above help me, my wife smelled like a truckload of rotten fish. And she didn’t move, not a goddamn muscle. She didn’t breathe either. For the longest time she just stood there, looking at me with white-button eyes while tiny crabs scurried across her skin. Doing nothing, saying nothing, like I should say something to her! And I could hear the drops of water falling from her dress. They hit the floor one at a time, slowly, almost keeping rhythm.

Drip, drip.
Drip
.
Drip, drip.
Drip
.

It was the only sound in the room; the only sound I could hear. It creeped me out immensely. The minor splashes against the hardwood made things all too real.

Drip, drip.
Drip
.

She opened her purse.

Yes, she had a purse. It was covered in patches of green and brown moss. Strange huh? A dead woman with a purse… wonders never cease.

She opened her purse, slid her bony fingers inside and pulled something free. Her fingernails were dirty, cracked and broken; the bright red paint had washed away long ago. Her knuckles looked to be nothing more than lumps of bone. Her feet started moving slowly, one after another, making squishing sounds on the floor. She was coming towards me, dragging her feet and holding a wet plane ticket where I could see it. When she reached the bed a crab fell from her open mouth to the sheets. It scuttled over my knees and onto the floor. Then another crab fell, and another. Each crab was smaller than a coin. Just babies, really. Just babies.

I wondered if there was a nest somewhere on her body.

With a gurgle in her voice, the ghost said:
“You won’t let me go, will you? Tell me you’ll keep me safe.”
Her lungs were filled with seawater, which dribbled from her chin.

I opened my mouth but I didn’t say a word. My lips started to quiver and my knees began to shake.

“
Tell me.”

“No,” I said. The word seemed to pop out of my mouth on its own. “I won’t let you go.”

“
Promise me?”

“Of course,” I said, almost babbling. “I promise not to let you go, honest I do. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

She put the ticket in my hand. One of the crabs started running towards me and I screamed; I couldn’t help it. The ticket was cold and wet and I just couldn’t take it. I screamed loud and squeezed my eyes shut and held my fists against my ears. The ticket crumpled into the shape of my hand and knowing it was still there I screamed again.

When I opened my eyes Luisa was holding me in her arms nervously, saying, “What’s wrong, dear? What happened?”

I pulled away from her. I must have looked insane. “I don’t want you to go away, babe,” I said. “Oh please, don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

“But why, honey? Why?”

I looked across the room with my stomach in a knot and my teeth clenched tight.

The ghost was gone. The crumpled plane ticket and the crabs were gone too. The two of us were alone now; the house was empty once again.

Things had returned to normal.

* * *

That was last night.

Today Luisa’s plane crashed into the ocean, like I knew it would.

It went down somewhere off the coast of California around 4pm. Two-hundred and fourteen lives are expected to be lost. They’re still looking for survivors, but I have no hope twisting in the winds of my imagination. I know in my heart she’s lost.

When I heard the news I didn’t cry; I didn’t say a word. And tonight I’m here, lying alone in my bed for the first time in years. I can’t sleep; I can’t think straight. I keep waiting for her to visit me again.

I need to apologize; I know I do. I should’ve tried harder to keep my promise.

I should have tried harder to make her stay home.

* * *

JONATHAN VS. THE PERFECT TEN

Jonathan Weakley stood at the edge of the Pit like a proud father, looking down at his latest monstrosity. This time it was a wolf spider. The time before that it was a scorpion. Guessing the spider’s weight, he put the number in the ballpark of 750 pounds. The scorpion he presumed to be half that.

Ninety percent of the town came to watch the event, same the time before. But everyone knew today’s experience was going to be different, very different.

Scary different.

Some were excited, some nervous, and many had a hard time grasping the realities of what they were about to witness. These people––and there was more than a few of them––were juggling terror and disgust with equal portions of shame and wonder.

The other ten percent––
the missing ten
––were God’s People.

God’s People were the town’s Bible pounding naturalists, easily appalled by Jon’s labors. They had been storming Monk Town hall two or three times a week, saying Jon was a wicked sinner, a madman; the devil’s henchman.

On the other side of the fence, Jon thought God’s People were oppressing technology, the future, science, and everything evolution had to offer. This sightless religion-monger minority didn’t offer new ideas or add to society. They just told people what they did wrong, while acting like progression was a sin and inventiveness was against the law.

With the town’s population being 730 people, knowing who had your back and who didn’t was easy.

Jonathan knew.

He knew who was trying to supersede his genius: God’s People.

* * *

Jon charged a flat rate of one dollar a head to patrons, and the fee came with weeklong viewing rights. It was expensive; no one could argue that. But Jonathan knew what he was doing and what hands to grease.

$650.00. That’s what came through the door, same as last time and the time before. $650.00 meant six-hundred-and-fifty people paid and seven didn’t. The seven included himself, his brother Ted (who sold tickets), Mayor Monk, Sheriff Wellston, Deputy Gorman, Bernie Gorman (who published the Monk Town press), and old Bill Watt who had been hired to work the cages.

That left seventy-three people boycotting the event. Seventy-three in a town of seven-hundred-and-thirty––that was ten percent.

A perfect ten.

It was almost funny.

* * *

One man alone ran Monk Town: August Monk.

August was the mayor and the muscle. He could shake hands in the morning, murder in the afternoon, and kiss babies in the evening. Not to suggest that he was a tyrant. No, that would be misleading.

Mayor Monk was a family man before his wife and son past away. He had kind eyes, a nice smile, and wasn’t afraid to laugh. But he kept a mental detachment from his work––his
peacekeeping
––as he liked to call it. He had a simple philosophy: cause trouble in my town and you’ll swing from the gallows pole. If you don’t like it, live somewhere else.

He didn’t care about explanations. Screw around; meet your maker.

The people in town respected August for that.

He thought it was funny what people found admiration in.

Months before Jon’s first creature unveiling (the first was a two-hundred-and-ninety pound rat with pink bubble eyes that were the size of a fist and thirty-inch whiskers) Jonathan made a point of having a sit-down with Monk. He shared his thoughts with the man, hoping to gain the town’s support.

He said, “Well sir, I’m going to charge fifty cents a head and I expect to pull in sixty townspeople. That’s $30.00. Now listen here while I tell you something, and feel free to look me in the eye while I’m tellin’. This shindig is costing a lot more than thirty bucks. Chemicals alone are three times that, food is at two bucks a month now and I’ve been investing money for years. But I see a future in this zoo of mine, and soon folks will take notice.”


Monk did something with his throat that sounded like a wet grunt. He said, “Fifty cents? That’s a lot of money, Jon. People in town don’t have fifty cents to look at a big rodent. You know that. Where’s your head?”

Jon nodded. “I want to agree with you, Monk, I really do. But I’ve given this more than a little thought. I figure I’ll pull in sixty people, maybe sixty-five.”


“Sixty-five? Boy, you are dreaming.”