Here Be Monsters - an Anthology of Monster Tales (10 page)

“You and Teresa were a couple,” she says, squeezing my hands a little too hard. “Teresa didn’t tell me all the grisly details, but a year ago, you killed her. You can’t imagine how much that hurt her feelings. Her spirit screamed at you to repent, but you just ignored her. You erased her. I can’t even find anything that smells like her in your apartment. How could you forget her like that?”

“I…I don’t know,” I say.

“Well,” Teresa says, grinning. “You’re not going to forget her ever again.”

Teresa kisses me, and when she pulls away, her flesh rots and cracks and shrivels. She holds out her skeletal hands, as if she’s going to choke me.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Posing,” she says, without moving her mouth.

I lift my camera with trembling hands, and take her picture. I hear Teresa screaming. All the photographs I’ve deleted over the past year flash in my mind. I see hatred and bigotry and death. I see the dark marks on Teresa’s neck where I choked her. I search Teresa’s corpse and I find the word
whore
eight times.
Bitch,
twelve times. When Teresa opens her mouth, a dead baby bird wriggles on her tongue.

I say, “I’m sorry.”

I can’t take back what I did, so I do the next best thing.

I delete the picture.

But Teresa doesn’t go away. Instead, she knocks me to the ground, and gazes down at me. Her eyes are like post-apocalyptic worlds, full of all the destruction I caused.
 

“I love you,” she wheezes.

Then she holds down my arms, and presses her decomposed face against my chest. The angry maggots tickle my chest hair. I know I should push her off me, but when I think about Joining with Teresa’s corpse, my heart yells her name, and I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to try. Teresa keeps pressing and I keep screaming, and she and I swirl together in a whirlpool of life and death.

Finally, we Join.

After tossing the Nikon into the darkness, we pluck a fig off our white tennis shoe. We sniff the moldy fruit as loud as we can.

We love the smell of rot.

Samantha Anderson

©2011

All rights reserved.

Edited by M.T. Murphy

The wrecking ball came down, the force of it blowing the hair back from my face.
 
A rumble went through the ground as it impacted the building it was aiming for. I didn’t cry for the destruction; it was a bittersweet moment. I held the whiskey bottle in my hands and poured some of the contents to the ground in a silent toast as the bricks started to fall.

“To new beginnings,” I whispered. Capping the bottle, I slipped the whiskey back into my pocket. A month ago my life started over and now was the time to focus on bigger things and get back to the basics of purpose. Loyalty and duty were the only things I was concerned with at the moment. I headed to the darker side of town. Even a village as remote as this had its unmentionable areas.

I opened the door to the jingle of little bells and was bombarded by the smell of incense, tobacco and musty hardwood flooring.

“Be right there,” a gruff voice from the back said. I looked at the artwork on the walls, flipping through the displays until I found what I wanted.

“Are you rebellious or a pain junkie?” a man asked as he walked in from the back. He looked like an Ozzy Osbourne impersonator with long black hair, borderline slurred speech, and tattoos covering him everywhere I could see except his face.

“Neither, being reborn. I would like this,” I said, pointing to one of the sketches. He looked it over and brought me into the backroom. Lifting my shirt off over my head, I leaned my face into the massage-style chair, rolling my shoulders forward. He wiped my back with alcohol and then drew the design with a marker. Lifting a mirror so I could see the reflection of my back, he showed me that the tattoo would cover a large section from shoulders to waist.

“That’s what you want?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly.” I didn’t move as I heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun, and I only winced as I felt the first bit of pain. I lost myself in thoughts of my life and what had led me here to this moment.

* * * * *

If I look at you, you will see, your place is in Hell, right next to me…

I was rocked awake, sweat dampening my skin as I gasped for air, gulping in as much as I could before the sobs choked me. The dragon tattoo on my left leg felt like it had been branded there and my skin was over-heated beyond what it typically was. Images from the dream flashed in my mind as I blinked, wiping the sweat from my face.

The alarm next to my bed sounded, startling me further. I slammed my hand against it, shutting it off.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I kept repeating the mantra in my head. I heard the dogs barking, their snarling growing louder with each passing day and I ignored it as I set about washing my face.

Dressed and no more calm, I pulled my chestnut hair into a knot and zipped up the black sweatshirt. Putting the earphones in, I pulled my hood up over my head and stepped out into the icy rain. This time of year it always rained in this part of town. It was said that it was the heavens’ way of cleaning the wicked. An Old wives tale told to kids so they ate their vegetables and did their homework at night, I was sure. Rain was rain.

Taking off into a jog, I rounded up
Van Siclen Avenue
and crossed through the alleyways to make it to Flatlands. The nicest building on this street was St. Laurence Church. It looked out of place with their rich landscaping and bright colors next to the dull blacks and grays of charred buildings and slum streets. I refused to lift my eyes on the statue of St. Laurence as I went past. His eyes always looked down on me. Judging me.
 
Seeing right through me. Today was not the day for it.

I rounded the corner and stepped into the
Monroe
Building
. My sneakers slid slightly against the grimy floors, but no one paid any attention. This wasn’t like I was in
Manhattan
in one of their marble-floored buildings. Here the air clung to you like a stink you couldn’t clean off. It smelled like 70’s shag carpet, old ashtrays and mildew.

I entered room 66F, head down, not looking at anyone, not getting the complimentary stale cookies or even a cup of coffee to take the chill out of my bones. I took a seat and crossed my ankles. My left foot soon started to tap in impatience.

“Good morning everyone,” Mrs. Chamberlain said, her voice calm, but raspy. The room mumbled hellos back to her. “Who would like to go first today?”

Whitney was always the first. She was a chipper little thing, someone I didn’t readily care for, but didn’t exactly hate either. She didn’t belong in this group, but some would say she was just what it needed.

I tuned her out. Her saccharine voice was extra sweet today, but I focused on a spot of dull yellow on the floor.

“Jani?” I lifted my eyes when my name was called, my face still hidden mostly by my hood.

“Yes?”

“Care to share your story with us today?” Mrs. Chamberlain asked. I pulled my hood off and stood , biting at my lower lip and shoving my hands in my pockets.

“Hello, my name is Rajani, I’ve been sober for nine years, eleven months and five days.” The room erupted as everyone said hello to me like they had been programmed to do so. “I was addicted to cocaine and heroin and just about anything else I could get my hands on.” I told the rest of my story while barely looking up from the floor and sat back down, Mrs. Chamberlain thanking me.

Yes, it was rare that someone went to addiction meetings for as long as I did, but it was the program I was on. I complied, and in twenty-five more days, it would all be over.

I didn’t say anything to anyone as the meeting ended, pretending to not hear Mrs. Chamberlain call my name as I left the room. I made it home and out of my clothes, safely tucked back in my bed before the chill started to subside. Life had been this way for almost ten years now. My probation and required rehabilitation was almost over but then it would continue to be much more of the same.

There was a knock at my door a little after four that afternoon. I tied the threadbare robe around me and went to answer it. Leaving the chain in place, I unlocked the dead-bolt and opened the door only a fraction of an inch before it was kicked in. Four uniformed officers were the first through the door and I was forced to the ground just in time to see a man in plain clothes come in behind them. My tiny room was a mess of activity but I didn’t struggle or argue. Instead, I grinned.

“Miss Rajani Eve Aspara, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one can be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?” the plain-clothed man asked. He stood before me, his lips grinning slightly as he held up his badge.

“Yes.”

We rode in a black sedan down to the 67
^th
precinct and I was put into an interrogation room. My handcuffs were removed and I was left alone. I examined everything around me as questions filled my mind. The arresting detective walked in, breaking my train of thought.

“Miss Aspara, can I call you Rajani?” he asked as he sat with my case file and a cup of coffee in hand.

“Jani,” I said.

“You are quite the interesting little woman,” he said, his eyes still scanning the file. He fished out a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one. “Would you like one?”

I shook my head.

“It says here you haven’t been so much as a hiccup on anyone’s radar in almost ten years. Jani, I have to tell you, that is odd, especially with your track record from before.”

I said nothing, trying to see what he would throw at me.

“We see a lot of addicts come through here, criminals and such. They never shape up, and we didn’t think you would either. We found it strangely odd that you would stick to a narrow path with everything and get your life turned around.”

I shrugged.

“Not that we were unhappy that you got your life in order, but it was rather odd. Now we see why, you were biding your time.” He set the file in front of me and I pulled it closer.

There were the bank statements from international accounts that had transferred money to an account in my name. My eyes widened. The amount was in the high seven figures.

“Now we are assuming you got involved in something you probably didn’t want to be involved in, and we’re also assuming you want the bad men that are trying to get you involved in their illegal drug smuggling behind bars. So if you can agree to help us then we can make this all go away.”

I couldn’t explain my predicament to him. He would never understand.

In the silent confines of the interrogation room, I heard the snarling of the dogs unseen. Felt their breath heating the room around us. It sounded as if they were laughing. They were laughing at me for believing in a figment of the night, the little leprechaun of a man who had promised me things unheard of In return for my soul.

Yes, I’d made the deal. It wasn’t that I’d promised my soul with the intention of handing it over. He tricked me. It was a bait and switch and I’d done exactly what had been asked of me.
 
Only now that the trickster was supposed to protect me when the demon came to collect my soul, he had not held up his end of the deal. The money wasn’t supposed to come until my life was safe, my soul was safe. So why did I still hear the dogs? Still feel them breathing down my neck waiting for my ten years to be up?

The door to the room opened and a man entered, providing temporary relief from the panic raging within me. He was taller than the detective by at least six inches and he had a much warmer demeanor. His hair was the color of hot chocolate, eyes a smoky gray and he had a wide, friendly smile. His face twisted in anger when he looked at the detective and he slid a stack of papers towards him.

“You have no jurisdiction here Baroni. You shouldn’t be interrogating her without legal counsel, not to mention that warrant was forged at best,” he said turning back to me as the detective scrambled through the papers.

“Hello Miss Aspara my name is Tyler Devereaux,” he said as he outstretched his hand to me.
 
“I’m your attorney.” I shook it, immediately yanking my hand back as I felt something like fire burn in the pit of my stomach at his touch. He looked at me closely with his smoky-colored eyes. He shook his head slightly and pulled another few papers out of a leather briefcase, setting them down for the detective.

“These are signed orders for the transfer of my client to a facility in
Louisiana
, to receive mental and physical rehabilitation at the
Jericho
Hills
Memorial
Hospital
. It was signed by Judge Moretti an hour ago. So if there is nothing else you have, she is to be released into my custody for transport.”

The detective stood speechless as
Tyler
took me by the arm and led me from the room. We were in his dark SUV within minutes and on the freeway shortly after that. I strained my ears against the sounds of traffic but to no avail, the dogs had fallen silent. It was the confirmation I needed about
Tyler
and I finally calmed, facing the man next to me.