Body of Immorality (35 page)

“Korbett has just won the World Series!” he cried. “Drinks on the house!” (Even as a boy, he was faithful to Oblivion.) Why
shouldn’t
he smile? Creatures weren’t coming to life in the shower then. The woman was only the product of his imagination. He’d learned how to ignore her.

He was still celebrating when he came home. His mother—when he walked through the door—put her hands on her hips and frowned. “What the
hell
have you been doing?” she asked.

He forgot about game 7. Instantly, he felt like a wounded puppy.

His mother didn’t wait for a reply. All she did was point in the direction of the shower. “You get in there right now, young man! I can’t
believe
my eyes! You think your wardrobe comes from the Tooth Fairy?”

Richard skulked to the bathroom and shut the door. Blue rugs lay on the floor. Blue curtains with white flowers in vertical rows covered the window. Even the shower curtain was blue.

He peeled off his clothes and turned the shower on, trying to recapture the moment when he’d made contact with the ball, sending it over Dodger’s Stadium and into
The Twilight Zone,
but it was useless.

Richard put his hand under the powerful streams, making sure the water was warm. He stepped over the tub and pulled the curtain closed. He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and squeezed an absurd amount of glistening gel into his palm. He rubbed it into his hair, building up the lather.

Something odd about the moment, he thought, a voice whispering from the blackness, asking him why he wasn’t…
afraid?

Richard opened his eyes, and there she was, standing in the shower with him, a naked, fetid thing, a wet ghoul with long black hair. The light dimmed, the gloomy stage. His eyes opened wide in terror.

Why do I keep coming back to this same horror?
he thought.

He’d never felt more vulnerable. Here she was, not a product of his imagination, but real. Very real. If he reached out, he could touch her…

Richard took a step backwards, shaking his head. His heart leapt into his throat. The water valves gouged his thighs.

Knife-like shadows etched her face. Her hair was wet from the shower; pale blue breasts sagging sickeningly to her belly. She was roughly the same height as Richard, but aged and hag-like.

Bile squirmed in the pit of his stomach. He thought he was going to throw up.

Despite the terror, Richard closed his eyes, trying to will the image away.

Please, dear God, this isn’t real! She isn’t there! It’s just my imagination!

When he opened his eyes, the woman was still there, only now she was holding a butcher knife.

Her thighs were cottage cheese, eyes like agates. The woman took a step toward him. Rot wafted into Richard’s nose. A thick black substance oozed over her lips, splashed to the floor, and splattered his legs.

This wasn’t
Psycho!
This had nothing to do with
Psycho!
Norman Bates looked
nothing
like this!

His brain reeled with panic and terror! He took another step back, but he’d gone as far as he could. The water valves only gouged deeper into his thighs.

An inky murk surrounded him. Yes, the dimming of the lights. It gave the woman the hue of a vampire.

She took another step and raised the knife.

Richard screamed and clutched the shower curtain, not thinking, just wanting to bolt, to escape! Soap stung his eyes. During his flight, he got tangled in the curtain and fell over the tub and onto the floor. The shower curtain ripped away from the rod.

He was doing more harm than good! The curtain grew arms, suffocating him! He couldn’t breathe because of the plastic. Was
she
doing that? Had
she
brought the shower curtain to life?

He couldn’t find his way out! He screamed for his mother, but the curtain was an entity, wrapping around him.

Where was the woman in the shower? Was she still there, knife in hand, waiting to bury it into his flesh?

Richard wailed at the top of his lungs! He tore and clawed at the curtain, but he wasn’t strong enough! He couldn’t find an opening! He couldn’t
breathe!

His mother wouldn’t hear his muffled screams anyway. She wouldn’t save him. He was doomed to die in the blue plastic, stabbed to death by the woman in the shower. Wasn’t that why the curtain had arms?

Rolling around on the floor, Richard bit into the plastic. If he could bite a hole in it, he could breathe.

Somehow, he found the edge of the curtain, peeled it off, and gulped for air. He scrambled to his feet. He ran naked and wet—soap in his face and hair—to the bathroom door, not daring to look behind him. He grabbed the knob, twisting it, but it wouldn’t open.

“
Mommy mommy mommy!”
Richard wailed, tugging at the bathroom door. A futile,
click-click
between turns was all he could manage. Why did he lock the stupid door?

“
Mommy mommy mommy!”

Still, the door wouldn’t open. Where was the lock? How come the lock had disappeared?

Richard glanced over his shoulder. He had to see where she was…

She was larger than he remembered, maybe because she was right behind him. Her face took up the entire scope of his vision. Burn patches—bleeding at the edges—spotted her flesh in the shape of foreign countries. Spiders crawled over her hair and face, dropping to the floor. Her skin was pale, wet clay. She was melting, it seemed. The knife was only inches away!

Richard continued to scream, turned to the door, and tugged at the knob, blubbering. Why couldn’t he open the goddamn door?

Something rotten and corpse-like moved over him…

He looked behind him again…

Her tongue was spotted black and green, a mouth splotched in ink. She chuckled, the sound grating over dirt. She stepped closer. Spiders swarmed over Richard’s feet, around his ankles, and up his legs. He wailed in terror and tugged desperately at the knob.

Suddenly, the door came to life. The knob turned with a volition of its own. The door pushed him violently backwards and onto the floor.

Where was the lady in the shower? What had happened to the door? Was it, too, coming to life?

Richard looked everywhere, but she was nowhere is sight. The woman had disappeared.

His mother, however, stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. She wore a thin, floral-patterned dress. Her eyebrows were thick and black, angled toward a patrician nose.

“
What the
hell
is going on in here?”
she screamed.

He brought his knees up under his chin, shamed by his nakedness. Steam from the shower fogged the room.

He was breathing heavily, hyperventilating, his chest heaving up and down. He cried hysterically. He sat on the floor and tried to catch his breath, eying the bathroom like a wild animal.

What could he say? She’d think him mad if she didn’t already. How would he explain his terrified yelps?

“You mind telling me what the
hell
is going on in here?” his mother demanded. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Richard looked around the bathroom. It didn’t make sense. Had he imagined the woman in the shower?

“Well?” his mother asked. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Through his ceaseless sobbing, he tried to speak:

“Mmm ...ma ...ma ...
mom?”

“That’s what I’m
asking
you,” his mother said, taking her hands off her hips. She crossed her arms. “You
know
I’m standing here. You don’t have to
address
me.”

“Uhh…” he said. His teeth went off on a clicking tangent. “A ...
lady.”

His mother frowned, eyebrows angled. “A lady?”

Richard nodded vigorously. “Uh ...huh.”

“
What
lady?” she said.

She didn’t
act
as if she believed him, but he couldn’t stop now. He
had
to tell her, had to tell her everything because if he didn’t, she’d thrash him. The woman in the shower was nothing compared to the terror his mother instilled.

“In ...the...
shower,”
he said. It took all his effort
not
to scream.

“A lady in the shower?” his mother said.

“She ...she ...had a
knife,
ma, and…”

She cocked her head, widened her eyes, obviously amused. “A knife, huh?”

She reached out—supposedly to help him off the floor—then drew back. She noticed the curtain on the floor.

“
Damn
you, boy!” she said, yanking him up off the floor. “
Look
what you’ve done!” She whirled him around, facing the shower. Richard trembled, wet and cold, teeth chattering. “You think your father and me make lots of
money!
You think I want to go into town and buy
another
shower curtain! What in God’s name is the matter with you? Stupid, senseless brat!”

She yanked his arm with each emphatic word. It felt like rubber.

“You go to your room and don’t come out ’til I tell you,” she said. “I’ll take care of you later.”

Richard was happy to go.

He put on some clothes after drying off and sat on his bed. He hugged himself, rocking gently, sobbing, the woman in the shower still vivid in his mind.

*

His mother went to the store to buy another shower curtain. When she got back, she asked her husband, Herbert, what they—as parents—should do about Richard? Wasn’t his behavior a trifle lunatic? What was the
matter
with him? Why don’t you spend some quality time with your son, Herb?

Herbert ignored her. He didn’t even glance in her direction. He held a beer on the arm of the recliner, eyes glued to the television. The Dodgers were on.

“Herbert, are you
listening
to me?”

*

Richard lost contact with Wendall as the years went by. Other friends he’d acquired also slipped away. What could he tell them, his mother and father, the friends he had? That a woman materialized out of thin air and threatened to stab him when he took a shower?

At twenty-one, trying to piece his life together, the woman showed up on his doorstep (He noticed as the years went by that she enjoyed surprising him). Even then, she was dripping wet, as if still in the shower with him. Black ink pooled over her lips and onto the floor.

She never did anything. She never said anything. She didn’t have to. Richard could hear her clearly:

“Look Richard. Here I am. Time to go back to your old self.”

He obeyed. The sight of her transformed him in seconds.

At twenty-one, Richard grabbed the keys to the car, his checkbook, and drove to the nearest liquor store…

I’m your little master.

He wondered why she didn’t kill him, why she chose to traumatize him instead.

She likes watching you suffer.

It was part of her plan, driving him further from priority, responsibility, and care.

Wash me away with drink,
she told him.
Wash me away, and I’ll come back more vivid and powerful than you can imagine.

When her presence no longer affected him, he regained a sense of normality. He looked for a job, found another place, and tried to live like everyone else.

Going back and forth from the old to the new was a vicious cycle. He’d been doing it for thirty-eight years.

*

In his apartment, he sat on the carpet still, his back against the entertainment center. The carpet was a living sea of swirling thoughts and intoxication. The lamp beside the couch separated, becoming two.

Richard grabbed the bottle and tipped it back, chugging it down. He loved the feel of the alcohol
swooshing
through him, sending him deeper into oblivion. The drink was a weapon against her, and surprisingly, it had worked. He knew it was only a matter of time before alcohol killed her.

“Yeah,” he said. “Take
that,
you bitch!”

He took another drink. Seeing her on the morning of April 17
^th
had paralyzed him.

But he was home now, safe. As long as he stayed away from the shower, he was okay. As long as he stayed with his back against the entertainment center, nothing could harm him.

*

Because he was fortunate to find a good paying job at Axes Company, Richard was able to afford a more respectable apartment in downtown Denver. The Coachman didn’t have an elevator, but it did have an indoor pool, on-sight laundry and a weight-room. Pets were allowed, and cable came with rent.

The tenants were noticeably quiet and kept to themselves. In the eight months Richard had been here, he’d said hello to three neighbors (including Miss Dall). He’d never used the swimming pool.

Water is all water, no matter how you look at it. A bath and a shower aren’t all that different.

Was she tormenting others, Richard wondered, or was he her only victim? She had authority. It was miraculous he hadn’t been institutionalized yet. Yes, Richard thought, maybe she worked upon the masses. He was simply one of the many.

She goes from one crazy life to another,
he thought.
Or is that you?

Multitudes…

She dances. She sings as she murders them, carving them into little bits and pieces, a carnival of dead things, singing songs of joy.

He imagined it easily, a dead thing licking its lips, pushing carrion waste aside.

Dead things made him, too, she’d told him. He’d been bred for slaughter since he’d been a boy. He was a little lamb himself, singing songs of joy.

With enough alcohol in him, she was—at times—attractive, even beautiful, he thought. Through every grotesquerie, he wondered at times if he wasn’t falling in love.

As the years went by, he no longer saw her as repellant, a sickly thing in the shower. She was stately. Shadows brightened her face. They came from glittering disco balls. He was dancing
with
her. The horrors were only illusions.

My little lamb, so black and uncared for. You make me want to cry.