The Collected Horrors of Tim Wellman (24 page)

"But she heard us all the time, didn't she?"
Victoria sat down on the sofa and looked up at Becky. Her eyes were
wide open, her breath was more like a tired dog panting. "Is she
really
dead?"

Becky narrowed her eyes. "Of course! No one
could take a hit like that," she said. "Part of her brain is coming
out." She tossed the pillow on the floor and then dropped down to
her knees and grabbed the old woman's wrist. "See, there's no
pul...."

But before she could finish the word, the old
woman jerked her hand upward, thrusting the knife through Becky's
neck. She backed up and as the knife slid out, blood literally shot
out like a water fountain, spraying the old woman and Victoria, and
indeed, most of the room. She tried to get to her feet, but it was
futile. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed on top
of the old woman. She didn't move again. There was no sound, not
even from Victoria.

The young girl remained seated, staring at
nothing. She seemed to have simply been switched off. And that's
how her mother found her.

The police had concluded that somehow the old
woman had snapped out of her paralysis and gone mad, perhaps not
even knowing the girls in her house were supposed to be there.
Becky was a hero, attempting to fight off the insane attacker. And
Victoria, it was decided, was very lucky to have survived at all,
even though she probably didn't realize it. But her mother felt, on
warm days when she pushed her wheel chair in front of the big
window and surrounded her with the old dolls, that she must, behind
the blank staring eyes, realize she was alive. She must feel
something
.

Eaters

It had been another rotten day and Emily took
the long way home through the old abandoned saw mill to avoid
running into anyone else. Forced to eat a bug, again, but those
three girls who held her down would pay this time. Emily had had
enough. All she needed was a plan and one had been forming in her
mind for weeks and today came the final blow, it was time to put it
into action. She looked behind her but no one was following and
even if the bullies had seen her go into the mill yard they
wouldn't have followed. She was the only kid in the neighborhood
unafraid of the stories and myths about the place.

"Hey, old man!" she yelled. She looked into the
darkness of the large metal building, dilapidated, rusting to
pieces, but somehow still there after fifty years of disuse and
neglect.

"Go away ya stinkin' little brats!" a voice came
back.

She watched the large opening as a scrawny,
dirty old man appeared. His hair and long beard were gray except
the places where nicotine had stained them brown, and his clothes
were ragged and ill-fitting. He was skinny, too skinny to be alive,
and yet he was, somehow, even thriving. "It's me, old man," she
said as he stepped out into the light.

"Oh, Emmy," he said. "What's happened to ya,
girl? You's all dirty and scuffed up." He motioned her over and
ushered her into the building. "Were it them girls, again?" He
brushed some of the leaves and dirt off her back with his wrinkled
and spindly hands.

Emily nodded. "They held me down and made me eat
a bug."

"I been eatin' bugs fer years, young'un, ain't
nothin' wrong with bugs," he said. He looked down at the child,
barely six years old, the new kid in a strange town, the poor kid
in a rich kids' school. Her innocent face, framed by her bobbed
dark hair and bangs, was smudged with dirt and scratched along her
chin. Her dress, already old and well-worn, was torn and dirty.
"But I reckon if'n ya ain't keen on 'em, ya shouldn't be made ta
eat 'em."

"I want a jar full," she said. Her voice was
calm. She had discovered the old man on the first day of school as
she was being chased by some other girls. Emily didn't know what
kind of man he was, good or bad, but he had helped her so he was a
friend. And after a few more visits, he let her into his secret
place. It was in a basement room, no windows, only one door, and
the room was no bigger than a bathroom, but it was special. The old
man, for years, had experimented. He was insane, probably, Emily
knew that, but he had a dream. She wasn't interested in it, but his
failed attempts to
achieve
it were perfect for her plan. "I
want a jar full of the
eaters
."

"Jus' whatcha plan on doin' with 'em?" he said.
"Ya knows them thangs is only good fer killin'. I told ya I bred
'em all wrong." He motioned her to sit down on an up-turned five
gallon pail, and he lit a cigarette and sat down across from her.
"I ain't sayin' ya cain't have 'em."

"I thought about it for a long time, old man,"
she said. "I gave them more chances than they deserved."

He shook his head and took a long puff, then
exhaled it through his nose. "Damned kids these days got no respect
fer nothin'," he said. "'Cept fer you, ya's different from them
little demons 'round here." He stood up, walked to an old rusted
cooler and pulled out a can of soda and walked over to Emily.
"That's the last root beer." He handed it to her. "It ain't
somethang ya can go back on, ya know. It's murder, plain an'
simple." He grabbed an old camping lantern, pumped it several
times, then lit the mantle with his lighter.

She took a big drink. "Might be, might just be
self defense," she said. "It's gotta be done, though, no matter
what you call it."

"Ya got a plan fer not gettin' caught?" he said.
He motioned her to follow him and they walked toward the metal
stairwell leading to the basement floor.

"I got a plan," she said.

He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the
padlock on the old rusty door and then pulled it open and they both
entered the small space. Along the walls were glass aquariums and
large jars, and inside, some filled, some only sparsely populated,
were bugs. There were millions, all told, perhaps billions. "I
thought these was gonna save the world," he said. "Least make me a
million bucks."

"Not many people want to eat bugs, old man, even
if they
do
taste like chicken," Emily said. "Though the ones
I've been eating taste like shit."

"You watch that mouth a your'n," he scolded.
"Ain't no way fer a sweet little girl ta be a talkin'." He picked
up an old canning jar with a lid that had had holes punched in it
with a nail, looked inside, and then shuck it a couple of times. "I
told ya how mean they is," he said. "Ya's see'd it with yer own
eyes. A jar like this, half-full, could take out most a your school
b'fore they manage ta squish 'em all. An' once they's out ya ain't
gettin' 'em back in."

"The ones I need to take care of will all be in
one place together," she said. "I heard them talking about their
mothers taking them to a dress shop in town this evening."

He opened the lid of the jar, walked to one of
the aquariums and lifted the screen top. He pushed a metal scoop
into the mass of deadly insects, filled it, and then emptied it
into the jar and quickly screwed the lid down. He held it up and
held the lantern closer. "They shoulda fed the world," he said.
"But, I reckon they'll do ya a good job fer what you's needin'." He
handed the jar to Emily.

She didn't look at them. She'd seen them in
action before, devouring rats or pieces of rancid meat, swarming,
afraid of nothing. They were active and relentless hunters. The old
man called them
eaters
because he had meant them to be
eaten
, but something went wrong, fed the wrong drugs, bred
the wrong way, something had turned the ordinary beetles into
little killing machines, but the name still fit. She started out
the door and the old man followed her, carefully locking it again
before they both walked back up the steps. "I'll see you later, old
man," she said. She walked away without looking back.

"Will ya be comin' 'round anymore?" he said. "I
reckon I'd kinda miss ya if'n ya stopped comin'."

"I'll be around," she said. "Go buy some more
root beer."

Sister's
Condition

She went into the room calmly, quietly humming
what Jonathan recognized as an old hymn their father used to sing.
She walked to the back wall, and then turned and faced her brothers
and smiled. Lacking the ability to decipher her mood, they both
quickly backed out of the room and slammed the door. Her smile
could be as sharp and deadly as a dagger. There were two deadbolt
latches and a large, antique padlock to be fastened. The basement
room had been a slave jail cell in a bygone era when the old house
was the center of life for hundreds of people... family, employees,
slaves. It was none of those things now, just an ancient heap on an
overgrown hill with a quickly encroaching suburban army of housing
developments and strip malls poised to attack.

"She can't get out of there, right?" Steven
whispered. "I think she's over most of the effects, now. Damn it, I
wish I could tell for sure."

Jonathan nodded. "I'm no expert on cages, but
I'd say that door would hold back a small army."

"But you know how she can deceive us..."

Jonathan put his hand on his brother's shoulder
and patted. "We've done all we can," he said. "There's no profit in
worrying past that point. You know it's up to us to handle her now
that mother is dead. That cell should hold her even when she's at
her most violent."

"I know, but..."

"What are we supposed to do?" Jonathan said. His
voice raised involuntarily. He didn't mean to yell but the last
several days had been hell for the both of them. "Sorry," he said.
"Come on, we both need a drink." Both men walked up the old wooden
stairway from the basement in silence, both glanced back, and then
both shook their heads.

"She crossed the line this time," Steven said as
the two walked into the large library. An old maid followed them in
and stood by the big double doors. "She's growing stronger with
each episode."

"What do you think, Mildred?" Jonathan said.

"Well, if you're asking me, I'll tell you," she
said. "When your momma was alive, she controlled Sylvia with a
belt, a whip, a metal pipe when needed. It's all
her
kind
understand. Beat her till she can't get up and fight back anymore.
But, I think this time she knew she could get away with
anything."

Jonathan nodded. "We're weak, the both of us,"
he said. "I guess it led to what happened. Mother's death has left
us all questioning our family bonds. I didn't even know she
could
die."

"Did it for spite, probably," Steven said. "But
Sylvia is our
sister
, you know, it's not right that we
should beat her."

"You two are weak, I'm too old, and your mother
is dead," Mildred said.

"There are those who would say the beatings
helped turn her into what she is now," Jonathan said. "A new world,
you know, psychology and all that rot."

"Weren't never so many people killed before,
either," the old woman said. "She was never bad at all when your
father was alive. He knew the secret to controlling her
properly."

"Look, why don't we just call the police?"
Steven said. "Show them the bodies, tell them what happened.
They'll take Sylvia away and she can be their problem then."

Jonathan picked up the receiver of the old black
telephone on the desk and then held the dial tone buttons down with
his fingers. "Simple as that," he said. "I'll tell them to bring
several cars so they can take us all to prison because, dear
brother, you, me, Mildred, and a dozen other servants around here
have been burying bodies most of our lives, hiding the facts even
though we knew it would lead to more and more deaths."

"No, wait!" Steven said.

Jonathan put the receiver back on the hook. "How
many bodies have we buried out there in the woods?" he said. "How
many bits and pieces after mother's little feasts? Or since
childhood, Sylvia's little creative moments?" Steven was silent.
"No answer?"

Mildred strolled over to the desk and made sure
the phone wasn't off the hook. "I know of three I had to finish off
as mercy killings," she said. "I ain't complaining, just stating
the facts. It had to be done to put them out of their misery, but
it was still murder as far as the law is concerned."

"I know, Mildred," Jonathan said. "And don't
think we don't appreciate you. It's good to have a female around
who isn't a...
beast
." He shuffled a few papers on the desk.
"She always gets over it in a few days; we'll wait her out."

"She'll be eatin' on herself down there," the
old woman said. "I hate seeing her eatin' on herself."

"But it always grows back, doesn't it?!" Steven
said. "That's the punchline! No matter what, she gets it all
back... perfect again instantly once she's over the spell. We're
the ones who continue to get worse." He walked behind the small bar
in the corner and picked up a whiskey bottle from the back shelf
and then poured a shotglass full and gulped it down. He filled it
again and took it with him as he walked around the large room. "How
many books do you think are in here?"

"Thousands," Jonathan said.

"That's as accurate as you can be?"

"I haven't counted them," he said.

"Well, somewhere in these
thousands
of
worm-infested books, dear father left the formula, right? The way
he controlled her."

Jonathan nodded. "That's what mother said. And
we've all searched for three years to find it," he said. "If it
ever existed."

"And even if it did exist, would it still work?"
Mildred said. "With all your mother's beatings, how much mind can
she have left to control? Even when she gets well she isn't the
same person she used to be."